Page 21 of Detective for the Debutante (SAFE Haven Security #3)

I shake my head. “I’m not that good at it.”

It’s a partial truth. Breaking is not my strong suit.

He nods and moves back to the table, lining the cue ball up and taking his shot. There’s a satisfying clack of balls as they bounce and spin against each other, scattering across the table, but none drop into the pockets.

Excellent.

I study the table, finding a shot and leaning down to line my stick up.

Glancing up, my gaze finds his, and Kenneth is forgotten for the moment.

Instead, I focus on Murphy’s face as I drive the stick forward, tapping the cue and forcing it toward the solid orange near the edge of one of the corner pockets. It sinks in and I can’t hide my smile.

“A time or two, huh?” he asks, leaning against the stool near our table.

I lift a shoulder and let it drop as I walk around to line up my next shot.

“Would you believe beginner’s luck?” I suck my lips against my teeth but know I’m failing to hide what I’m thinking entirely when he wags his finger at me.

“You need to work on your poker face, Stóirín.”

My brain stumbles over the word and my brows furrow. “Starry?”

“You said you didn’t like ‘Little Bit.’ Would you prefer pool shark?”

Laughter bubbles out. “I’m not that good.”

“We’ll see.” The look he has creates heat traveling up my chest. “Don’t think I’m going to take it easy on you.”

Reaching over, I grab another bottle from the bucket on the table, holding it against my cheek before opening it and taking a drink. Setting the open bottle on our table, I brush past him, enjoying the swift intake of breath echoing in my ear from the brief contact.

“I never asked you to,” I murmur before leaning over and taking my next shot that wins me the game.

We trade off games after that. He wins the second, and the third when I give him the eight ball after scratching. I win the fourth game and we decide to call it the best of five. The bucket of beers is long gone, our flirty banter growing the longer we play and the more beers we drink.

With the last game lined up and waiting, we switch to water. The attractive waitress continues to come and go, making eyes at Murphy every single time, but he ignores her, his attention staying focused on me.

It’s heady having his golden eyes fixed on me every time our gazes connect.

It’s confusing. Because I know nothing can come of the attraction, but it doesn’t stop it from overwhelming me.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod and line up my shot, wiggling my ass as I get into position.

“You’re not fighting fair,” he groans, closing his eyes.

“All’s fair in winning at pool.” I sink two stripes in succession, taking pleasure in the fact I’m already winning.

“Maybe we should call the game now,” he teases.

I don’t fight the smile stretching across my face.

“We could. Or we could make our tournament more interesting. We never did decide on a prize for the winner,” I tell him.

“I thought bragging rights were the prize.”

His voice comes just to the left of me, his breath whispering along my arm, and I miss my next shot, unfortunately lining up an amazing shot for Murphy who sinks three balls one right after another, shooting me a smirk as the third one glides in.

Fuck.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks as he lines up his next shot.

Leaning down across from him, I brace my arms on the table, knowing he can now see more of my cleavage and the lacy top of my bra. He closes his eyes, his lips moving, but no sound comes out.

A kiss.

The words almost come out, but I stop myself before they do, finding a safe, more friendly option that won’t get me in any deeper than I already am.

“Loser provides the winner with dinner next weekend, and we have a Searching for Love marathon.” I walk around the table as I speak, waiting for his reaction.

He doesn’t disappoint.

Opening his eyes, he releases a breath, his gaze focused on the ball in front of him. His arm retracts slowly, gliding forward to tap the next ball into the pocket in one smooth motion.

“Deal. But why wait? I’m free tomorrow.”

I wait until he’s lined up for his next shot, dragging my nails along his nape just as he pulls back his cue.

“Deal.”

His stick misses the white ball completely and he curses.

I make sure to line up next to him, my arm brushing his as I lean over the table and push my ass out. His fingers tighten on his cue, and the corners of my lips twitch with a smile.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

The vibrations have my nipples pebbling against my bra.

“Just taking my next shot.” But the innocent words are belied by the breathy quality of my voice.

Play with fire, you’re bound to get burned too.

“Not what I meant.”

The way the words are more sensation than sound is firing up the attraction to an almost crazy level.

“Didn’t I tell you?” I ask, running my fingers down my cue as I try to play it cool while my body feels like it’s baking in a Phoenix summer. “I’m super competitive. I hate to lose.”

“You know if we were dating, I’d have no problem smacking your ass where you have it sticking out now and then kissing the fuck out of you.”

His hand lands on the wooden rail of the pool table, his fingertips brushing my hip. I miss the shot—precisely what he means for me to do—and turn my gaze back on him.

“Hey! That’s not fair!”

Lifting his hand, his index finger taps my nose.

“Sweetheart, everything is fair when food is on the line.”

“Is that so?” I ask, an idea coming to mind.

He lines up his next shot and I allow my body to lean against his, my front to his back.

He scratches and lifts up, eyes narrowing where they glare at me over his shoulder.

“You did that on purpose,” he accuses.

“Did what?” I grab my cup and take a drink.

With the ability to line up my next shot, I finish off the balls on the table before taking aim for the eight ball.

“You really are a fucking shark. I’m glad we didn’t bet money,” he tells me, amusement lacing his voice as he shakes his head.

“No one will play with me anymore. Eight ball, side pocket.” I gesture with the stick before following through.

“I can understand why,” he mutters.

“I win. And I’ll settle for pizza.”

“Congratulations.” He reaches his hand out, and I try to ignore the electricity that sparks as my hand slides against his. “And no pizza is needed. I can cook.”

“We’ll see about that, O’Connell.”