Page 57 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

EM

I don’t know why people think “shooting pool” is fun. It’s basically just geometry with sticks, and the dress code is worse.

But here I am at O’Neil’s on a Saturday night, perched on a high-top stool, watching Linc utterly dominate the pool table. I’d spent twenty minutes agonizing over whether to come at all, until Lea had practically dragged me out of the room.

She’d, quite rightly, played the ‘You’ve been telling me for weeks that you want to hang out and now is your chance…’ card.

So I’d put on some jeans and a cute top, plastered on a smile and agreed to head out.

But I hadn’t told her the real reason for my hesitation—the prospect of running into Lincoln Garcia, statistics class acquaintance, hockey star, notorious campus hookup guy, and the subject of at least forty-seven highly inappropriate dreams.

But what started as a low-key crush is now a raging infatuation.

That’s because, since deciding to start dating, I’ve had no luck.

I’m not sure if I’m being too picky, but few people have sparked my interest to the point where I swipe yes, and the few I did find were vetoed by Louis for various reasons.

And, deep down, I know there’s a really good reason for my tepid enthusiasm.

None of those guys look as good as Linc does right now.

Even though he barely knows I exist.

I try desperately hard not to stare as Linc leans over the table to line up a shot, at least until his shirt rides up just enough to reveal taut abs. They draw my gaze in like a black hole, the sight making my mouth go dry, and at that precise moment I realize coming tonight was a big mistake.

Oh, boy.

I take a large swig of my cider, nearly choking when Linc makes eye contact with me mid-drink. His right eyebrow arches up as he sinks the ball without even looking. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile that shouldn’t affect me this much, but my body apparently didn’t get the memo.

“Show-off,” I mutter, but the music’s too loud for him to hear me.

“What was that?” Lea shouts over the music, leaning in from my left.

“Nothing!” I yell back. “Just admiring the, uh, decor.”

Lea gives me a look that says she’s not buying it, but thankfully doesn’t press.

I return to what I do best when nervous: observing details. Like how Linc’s throat moves when he takes a swig of beer after he’s finished his shot. The way his Adam’s apple bobs. The light sheen of sweat on his neck that makes me wonder how the skin there would taste if I?—

“Em? You with us?”

I blink rapidly, heat rushing up my neck as I realize Declan is looking at me.

And so are Maine, Linc—oh God —and Lea.

“Sorry, what?” My voice comes out higher than intended.

“I asked if you’re taking another math class this semester,” Dec repeats.

Linc nods. “You mentioned you liked them, right?”

He remembered that?

I made that comment once—ONCE—when we were packing up after our final exam last semester. A throwaway line about how I found math soothing because there are clear right answers, unlike my elementary education courses where almost everything is subjective.

“Oh, um, yeah.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Mathematical Concepts and Structures. It’s for my ed requirement, since I’ll be teaching elementary.”

“With Professor Chen?” Linc asks, picking up his beer.

I nod, still surprised a hockey player is pursuing this conversation. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Took it sophomore year.” He leans against the pool table, and I’m reminded of just how tall he is. “The pre-reading for that class is killer.”

I frown. I’m religious bordering on obsessive about checking my Pine Barren email—a necessity when juggling two majors. Suddenly, my head starts spinning when I realize I might have missed the pre-reading for a whole subject, with classes starting tomorrow.

“Reading list? For math?” I pull out my phone. “I checked this morning and didn’t see anything.”

“Maybe it went to spam.” Linc drains his beer and sets the empty bottle on a nearby table. “I need another drink. Come to the bar, and I’ll dig up my old one.”

My brain short-circuits.

Is he…?

No… right?

He probably just wants to help me get to the bottom of the reading.

“Sure,” I say, trying for casual as I slide off my stool.

Lea catches my eye. Her expression morphs from surprise to concern to something resembling panic telepathy. She mouths “are you OK?” with wide eyes. Lea knows my dating history—or rather, my lack thereof—and she’s never seen me go anywhere with a guy.

I respond with what I hope is a reassuring shrug, then turn to Linc, who’s gesturing for me to lead the way. I do so, hyper-aware of how close he is behind me. The bar is crowded, forcing us to squeeze through clusters of people. Someone jostles me, and I stumble slightly.

Then Linc’s hand catches my elbow, steadying me. “Easy there,” he says, his mouth close to my ear. “Wouldn’t want you falling for me.”

Five alarm fire at O’Neil’s , my mind screams at me. HE. TOTALLY. IS.

I turn to face him, and he’s grinning. “That was awful,” I say, but I’m smiling, even as my mind is racing a million miles an hour.

“Made you smile though,” he shrugs, then flags down the bartender with remarkable ease. “Another beer and…” He looks at me questioningly.

“Cider, please.”

The bartender nods and moves away to fill our order.

“So, this reading list,” I prompt, pulling out my phone again, and double-triple-quadruple checking I have no email from Professor Chen. “I can’t find it…”

“Let me see.” Linc leans closer, his shoulder brushing against mine. He smells incredible—like cedar and something spicy. “Here’s the thing… there isn’t one.”

I blink. “What?”

“There’s no reading list.” His smile turns mischievous. “I just wanted to get you alone for a minute.”

As my heart performs an acrobatic routine worthy of Olympic qualification, and my brain makes a sound resembling SQUEEEEEE, all I can say is, “Oh.”

The bartender returns with our drinks, saving me from having to respond further.

I take a generous sip of cider, hoping the alcohol might jump-start my brain, or shut it up, I’m not quite sure.

Linc clearly seems a little disappointed by my reaction, because he gives me a half-smile then turns to head back.

“Why?” I finally ask, my whole body aching for him to stay here. “Why did you want to be alone with me, I mean?”

Linc’s green eyes study my face intently. “Because I’ve been wanting to talk to you since I saw you walk in tonight, and I couldn’t think of a better excuse.”

“You could have just said ‘Hey Em, wanna chat?’” I point out.

“Would you have said yes?”

Good question. Would I have? Probably not. Self-preservation and all that.

“Maybe,” I hedge.

“See? This way was more effective.” He takes a swig of his beer. “You’re gorgeous, smart, and you have the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen. It’s the total package, really, even if I’m not sure that the amount of math you’re studying is totally healthy…”

My brain erupts like a science fair volcano—thoughts fizzing and overflowing everywhere. Did Lincoln Garcia—Pine Barren hockey star, campus heartbreaker—just tell me I have kissable lips? Wait, did he just call me gorgeous and said I had kissable lips?

“You know,” I start, words tumbling out faster than my brain can filter them, “that’s actually two appearance-based compliments if we’re counting the lips thing separately, which we probably should since that’s more of a specialized subcategory of facial features rather than a general attractiveness assessment?—”

As I ramble on, I’m vaguely aware of his smile growing wider, but I can’t stop.

“—which is nice, obviously, but feels slightly imbalanced considering all my many non-physical assets that are equally if not more worthy of attention. For example, did you know I can fold a fitted sheet perfectly, or that I’m one of the few?—”

And then he’s kissing me.

His lips press against mine, warm and firm, and my entire nervous system short-circuits. I freeze, my brain struggling to process the fact that Lincoln Garcia is kissing me. In O’Neil’s. In full view of a table filled with our closest friends and in full view of everyone .

Oh-my-God-what-is-happening-this-is-not-the-plan…

But when his tongue slides across my lower lip, gentle but insistent, something inside me melts.

Suddenly, all thoughts of dating apps are gone, and I unfreeze, my hands reaching up to his shoulders as I lean into him, into the kiss, into whatever madness this is because holy crap this is wonderful.

The kiss deepens, and I’m lost in it, floating away on a sea of sensation. He tastes like beer and mint and something uniquely him that makes me want to conduct extensive taste-testing experiments. The whole maelstrom makes me forget we’re in a crowded bar until someone whoops loudly behind me.

“YEAHHHHH! Way to go, Linc!”

My eyes fly open to see one of the hockey players—a tall guy with buzzed light brown hair—clapping way too enthusiastically. He winks at me, and I have no idea how to respond to that. Do I wink back at him? Say thanks? Pretend I didn’t see him?

“Damn, Rook,” Linc mutters under his breath.

Ah. So that’s Rook. The goalie with volume control issues Lea mentioned.

Linc pulls back, looking sheepish as he scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry about that.”

“About kissing me or about Rook?” I ask, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds considering my heart is performing an interpretive dance.

“Rook,” he says quickly. “Definitely Rook. The, uh, kissing part was…” He trails off, then grins. “Yeah, I’m not sorry about that at all.”

I laugh, feeling dizzy and light-headed and utterly terrified in the best possible way. My lips are still tingling, and I can feel my pulse in places I didn’t know had pulses. A quick glance at the table tells me Lea, Declan, and Maine are pretending very hard not to stare at us (and failing).

“Do you want to head back to the table?” he asks.