Page 15 of His Last Shot

“Your stance is all wrong. If you hit the cue ball standing like that, you’ll send it flying across the room.

” With hesitation, I step toward her. “Line up the shot again.” She smirks at me and bends over the pool table, as Teddy Swims crooning voice fills the void.

And, hopefully, masks my pounding heart.

I squeeze my eyes shut. A feeble attempt at trying to center myself.

Stepping behind her, I hover my hands over her hips.

With hope skating up my chest, I ask permission.

“May I?” She nods. Nerves explode straight to my fingertips as I rest my hands on her hips.

God, how do they fit so perfectly in my hands? I swallow hard.

A piece of dark hair curls at the nape of her neck as she glances over her shoulder, silent desire passing between us.

We don’t smile.

We don’t blink.

We only stare.

Slowly, she lets out a long, low breath and turns back around.

Man, did I feel that.

I shake my head, trying to get my mind under control, then shift her hips so that they are square to the table. “Now, bring your feet closer together. They are too far apart.” She does as instructed. “Okay, now bend your knee that’s closest to the table.”

“Like this?” she asks, but the question comes out squeaky.

I glimpse her feet, trying hard to avert my gaze from landing on her backside in those jeans.

Who am I kidding? I looked .

“Okay, great. Now, lower your back arm.” My fingers brush lightly against her skin as I place my hand on her upper arm. I give myself permission to let it linger there for a moment and then carefully lower it, lightly dragging my thumb along her smooth flesh. “You’re holding the cue too high.”

I study her bridge hand, and it’s good, but then she switches it. “How about my bridge? Does it need work?”

What a little sneaky thing she is. I smirk because her bridge was perfectly fine. Which means she wants me closer. A wave of happiness at the fact she isn’t pushing me away explodes in my chest. Instead, she's initiating this whole thing.

Leaning over the table, I press my chest against her back as I trail my hand slowly down her arm. My body pressed close, my arm brushing hers, fingers tracing the delicate curve of her arm.

I’m in heaven.

Goosebumps erupt all over her skin at my nearness, the air catching in her throat, her skin tingling under my touch. Her face is right there. The scent of her, a light and airy coconut fragrance, washes over me as I lean. It’s making me unsteady on my feet.

She’s close. So close.

I whisper in her ear. “Your bridge was perfect the first time.” The fine hairs on the back of her neck rise.

“Was it?” she teases while changing her bridge back. I release my hand from her hip and tickle her waist. She wiggles away as she squeals.

We readjust our stance, hand on hip, chest to back, arm brushing against arm, cheek to cheek, you know. All the good stuff. “Now, line up the shot,” I instruct, redirecting our attention to the task at hand. Learning to play pool.

Sure. Let’s call it that.

“You want your tip to hit the cue”—I point to the center of the cue ball—“right there.”

“Got it.”

“Now, don’t hit it too hard. Just gentle enough to contact the seven ball.”

“No pressure, huh?” She grins .

“You got this,” I whisper back, my breath warm on her skin.

Her eyes flutter close. Then I watch them zap open with intensity, focused, determined.

She pulls back her arm and hits the cue ball dead center.

It rolls down the table and connects with the seven ball.

As my hand tightens around her hip, we both watch as the maroon ball rolls along the green felt and lands in the pocket.

Clank.

She squeals and jumps with excitement. “I did it!!” I scoop her up, twirling her above the floor as our joyful shrieks fill the quiet space of the bar.

With both of us panting and with hearts pounding, I gently sit her on the table. Our eyes lock once again in an intense, silent stare. All playful laughing now replaced with yearning. Longing.

Her legs dangle off the edge as I swipe a piece of hair off her forehead.

I inch forward, tossing my cue on the table, standing between her legs, and resting both of my hands on either side of her hips against the rails.

Her gaze trails down my face, stopping at my lips; a spark ignites in those chocolate browns.

I remain still, not even a muscle twitching as the seconds pass. I white knuckle the rail to stop my hands from shooting up and grabbing that tiny waist again and pulling her to me. Teddy isn’t singing, and the silence is heavy, thick, and unsettling, broken only by our steady breaths.

A soft sigh passes her lips as she arches her back, angles her chin, and closes her eyes.

Her lips part slightly and graze mine. Feather-light and perfect.

I don’t move, letting her take the lead.

She hesitates, contemplating, pulling back just an inch, then her lips brush mine again. A whisper of a kiss.

A frantic rhythm thuds in my chest, and instantly, one hand lets go and finds its way to her waist, pulling her into my embrace.

Her hesitancy vanishes at my touch. She tilts her head, and our lips meet in an all-consuming kiss as I suck in a breath.

Saying what we are both feeling, yet saying nothing at all.

Yes! She’s surrendering to this.

Releasing my other hand from the rail, I rest it on her hip, where it fits like a glove. Our lips stay locked, moving with ease yet overwhelming every single one of my senses .

She scoots closer to me, which only spurs me on further, and I’m happy to oblige. My grip tightens around her waist, tucking her closer as she sinks into my touch, and my other hand squeezes her hip. Then —

“AH!” With a sharp cry, her head snaps back, her stick flying from her grasp and clattering onto the floor. Her hand instinctively shoots to her hip, her face contorting in a mask of pain.

Oh, my God. I hurt her .

A wave of guilt settles in my gut. Our connection shatters, leaving a ringing lull in my ears. And it’s all my fault.

She quickly glances off to the side as her fingers skim her lips.

Her other hand leaves her hip and rests on the table, leaning back, trying to get as far away from me as possible.

With a soft thud, she slides off the table, and I quickly step out of her way.

The room is silent, and the air between us that was full of explosive electricity is now thick with tension.

I have to do something. Say … something.

“You should leave.” But she beats me to it. Her words hit me hard, like a punch that takes the air out of your lungs. I choke on the emptiness.

“Rachel, please. Is it me?” I plead as I bend and pick up the cue, handing it to her.

This hurts. So much.

With a frustrated shake of her head and a sigh, she walks over and carefully places her pool cue back in its rack. “No. It’s not you.”

“Then what? Is it Drew?” Because Lord help me if so.

An amused chuckle rumbles from her chest. “God, no. It’s definitely not Drew.”

As I approach, my hands settle on her waist, gently. She flinches, probably afraid I’ll hurt her again.

The fever of her skin through her shirt is a welcome sensation against mine.

Her hands rest on my chest, our bodies close.

Yet so far away. “Then tell me, Rachel. Tell me what I need to do to make you comfortable. Because I will do it. Anything you need.” The quiet is suffocating as she gazes at the floor, avoiding my pleading stare; the thick tension coiling between us.

Without saying the actual words, I’m begging her to open up to me.

She raises her head, and we connect. For a millisecond, there’s a glimmer of hope in her stare. She may say yes.

She might give us a chance.

Give me a chance.

But then, her shoulders sag, and her hands push back against my shirt.

I step back, giving her the space she is asking for without words.

A tear, slow and silent, tracks a path down her tan cheek. She whisks it away. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Johnny.”

With a silent nod, I make my way to the pool table, the click of my shoes on the floor echoing softly, to retrieve the brush and ball box.

We finish closing, neither of us saying a word.

And as we lock the door and stand face to face at the entrance, the world spins and blurs, a dizzying rush of emotions overwhelming me.

All I want to do is hold her close and whisper assurances I’ll carry whatever weight she’s bearing, freeing her from all the burdens she has.

But it’s all just a fantasy. One that will never come to fruition.

The more time I spend with Rachel, the more she feels unattainable, like a rare, amazing dream you don’t want to wake up from.

One that’s so real and colorful when you’re in the thick of it.

But as soon as you wake, the beauty of it is over.

The sooner I realize how make-believe this is, the less it will hurt each time I’m with her.

I reach out and tilt her chin upward, our eyes locking with unspoken words. My hand lingers on her chin, holding onto the dream just a little longer. I don’t want to wake up. “Please text me and let me know you made it home safe, okay?” I implore her.

She only nods and steps away. As she climbs into her car, hesitation stalls her for a moment; she pivots and grins.

“You should do it. Teach pool. You’re really good at it.

” The car door clicks shut, and she pulls away from the curb, ready to leave me behind.

But not before pausing, peering at me one last time, a silent farewell heavy in the air.

A grimace contorts her features, a landscape of pain, sorrow, and regret. I give her a slight wave goodbye .

Twenty minutes later, as I careen along the highway, my phone dings. As soon as I stop at a red light, I pull it out.

Rachel: I’m home.

Rachel: Please forgive me.

I don’t reply. I can’t.

But also, there is nothing to forgive.