Page 2 of His Last Shot

One of his motivations for the remodel, besides that it desperately needed it, was that Dexter is also the president of the local pool league. The Billiards and Pool Association, or the BPA. Naturally, he wants to have tournaments here.

My first meeting with him was brief. Immediately, I got a vibe that he didn’t like me. Spend just five minutes with the guy, and you get a sense that he likes to appear intimidating. And fails at it.

Me? With my height and overall jolly don’t-give-a-crap attitude, I’ve been told I can come across as cocky. Whatever. With Scott being the professional one of our little duo, it makes sense that I would rub Dexter the wrong way. After our initial meeting, Scott even picked up on it.

“Good grief, Johnny. What did you do to piss him off?” he asked once we were back in his truck after leaving Dexter’s the day we walked through the place with him.

“Nothing! He’s a know-it-all blowhole. You can tell,” I retorted. “I hate people like that. You know me.”

“Yeah, maybe, but he’s a client now, so try to not turn your nose down at him all the time. I mean, seriously, everything he said, you bounced back, correcting him in some way.”

“Well, he was wrong. About everything. That man hasn’t used a hammer his whole life, I guarantee it. Yet, he was talking down to me about the trade I love. I wasn’t having it.”

“You’re right, but just do me a favor and avoid him while on the job. I don’t need any issues with this.”

So that’s what I did. Dexter hovered while the work was being completed, but I kept my distance. Not sure I would have been able to compose myself if he tried to school me on something I was working on.

But now that the job is done, Dexter’s no longer our concern.

As Scott texts Laura that he’s on his way home, something catches my eye through the bar commotion.

A man stumbles out of a back hallway, looking a little worse for the wear.

The shiner on his eye is huge, and he’s holding a bloody rag over his lip.

Two other men follow behind, shoving him out the side door.

And then Dexter trails behind all three, looking over his shoulder.

He scans the crowd, probably hoping no one saw the scene that just played out. Briefly, our eyes lock. Then he turns and disappears out the door.

Great.

Ever since the day I met him, I got a bad vibe about this man. Immediately, my gaze roves over the bar, looking for the tall brunette. She’s occupied with customers and doesn’t see the men leave.

“Anyway, I’m glad the reno is over.” Scott’s words snap my attention back to him. I nod as he slips on his worn leather coat to leave. I glance at the side door, waiting for any movement, but it remains closed. Oh well, whatever happened is none of my concern, anyway.

Scott smiles. “We should do this again soon. This felt like old times.”

And by ‘old times’ he means us partying, being young and crazy. Not sure, at my age, I want that version of ‘old times,’ but yeah, he and I could use more of this, so I agree, hoping we can make it happen. “It was fun.”

“You sticking around?” We both head toward the entrance, passing the packed dance floor.

My attention roves to the bar; she’s still there, the murmur of conversations surrounding her as she flashes fake smiles to people who probably don’t deserve them.

As I watch her, a jolt of electricity pierces through me.

I’ve reacted to a beautiful woman before, don’t get me wrong.

But with her, there is just … something.

She is stunning.

Scott follows my line of sight. “Ah. I get it.” He grins. “Good luck. See you in the morning, and I expect a full report.”

My lips curve into an evil grin. “Do I ever strike out?” I don’t normally, and when I do, it doesn’t matter. But this woman? Well, striking out feels like heartbreak waiting to happen.

He grabs the handle of the door to leave. “Rarely.” His light chuckle follows him out into the night .

Nerves erupt in my stomach at the thought of talking to her, and I do not know why.

Talking to women, flirting with them, dating them—it’s pretty much my specialty.

The excitement of the chase is thrilling.

Right now, though, I am anything but excited.

I am a big goofball, full of nerves. Every time I look at her, and with every step I take, butterflies swarm in my stomach.

Wait … strike that. Not butterflies. It’s more like falcons are flying in there, clawing at my insides with their sharp talons.

With my case in hand, I weave through the remaining crowd toward the bar, my focus only on the tall, statuesque brunette serving up drinks.

She’s mesmerizing.

Resting my stick and jacket on the empty seat next to me, and with the scent of alcohol and regret hanging in the air, I settle in.

Sitting, waiting, watching, and drooling.

She slides what appears to be a glass of water over to one of the three older gentlemen, five stools away from me. She leans forward on her elbows. “So Slick, did your grandson graduate school?” she asks him with an ease and familiarity that suggests she knows these guys well.

“He did! Last week, actually. Well on his way to becoming a pilot,” Slick answers as he grabs the glass and raises it to his mouth. The man is older than my forty-five years. He’s probably pushing seventy and looks weathered with experience. The way life does to a person.

“That’s awesome! He will have to take me on a flight sometime.” The gorgeous bartender beams.

“Oh, he would love that more than you know,” Slick answers with amusement.

Another of the older men, whose leathered face is etched with wrinkles and eyes crinkled at the corners, turns and sees me sitting and waiting. “You better stop talking to us old geezers and wait on your customers, Rachel.”

Ah! Rachel. I like it. The name fits.

Rachel flicks her eyes in my direction as I give her a slight nod and wave. But it’s the slight double take she gives me, followed by a subtle uptick on her lips, that makes me smile .

Not missing a beat, she retorts, “You telling me how to do my job again, Tiny?” Tiny (who is just that) only grunts. He must be the crabby one of the group.

She taps the slick lacquered bar. “I’ll be right back, fellas.” She turns, glimpses at me, then reaches for a napkin on the back counter. Her chest rises and falls as if she is preparing herself. I do the same because I know I will not be meeting just another woman.

With bated breath, I observe her approach as her slim waist begs for my hands. She slaps one of her fake smiles, but one thing stands out. A slight gate in her walk. It’s not a limp. But she’s compensating for something in her strides. Is it pain? Or was it an accident?

Suddenly, I want to know everything about this woman I haven’t even met yet.

With a sigh, I push aside all distractions, focusing all my attention on the single piece of information I crave. Her eyes. They are big, round, and—YES!—brown. They lock onto me, bright and swimming with the same attraction coursing through my veins.

I quickly try to regain my composure because now only a shiny new bar separates us.

“What can I get you?” Rachel asks as she sits down the white square napkin. Her fake smile may be bright, but the question came out shaky. She’s nervous.

Yeah, me too.

I flash her my warmest smile. “I’ll just have a club soda with some lime.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Not much of a drinker, huh? Most pool players love their beer.”

Interesting. She was watching me.

“I’m not most pool players. My vice is coffee.”

“Well, we don’t offer coffee,” she volleys back.

“That’s unfortunate.” I lean my elbows on the bar, staring her down.

Her cheeks turn pink under my intense stare with a slight upturn of her lips.

Her lips .

The subtle curve of her top lip, shaped like a perfect little bow, makes them utterly flawless. Her bottom lip is full as they both shine with a pale pink gloss. Gloss that I want to kiss right off.

Geez. Get a hold of yourself, man.

She reaches for a glass and rests it on the napkin.

As before, everything happens in slow motion.

It’s almost as if my brain is searing this meeting into my memory for all eternity, and all she’s doing is serving me a drink.

I gawk as her slender fingers wrap around the soda gun, and clear carbonated liquid rises to the top.

Her eyes, wide and bright, flick to meet mine for a fleeting moment.

Then, using some tongs, she plucks a lime wedge and plops it in.

She peers around the bar, checking on the other customers, but stays right in front of me. I marinate in the stillness. She redirects her gaze and, in no rush at all, pans slowly up my torso. Arms, chest, shoulders … in that order.

If a single look could do me in, this is it.

She coughs while turning her attention to replacing bottles of liquor on the back wall. “I’m usually pretty good at guessing what my customers drink. I never would have pegged you for a coffee or soda water kinda guy.”

“Oh, yeah.” I raise the glass and take a sip, my gaze locked on her and unwavering.

“Give him your best shot, Rachel!” the third older gentleman hollers out. The outburst jolts me toward the older men, breaking the spine-tingling charged conversation. Each of them is ogling us as if we are their sole means of entertainment for the night. We probably are.

“Cut it out, Randy.” Rachel taps back as she plucks a rag hanging from her back pocket and wipes down the bar that’s obviously already clean.

“You do it with all the other newbies. Why not him?” Randy smirks.

Huh … interesting. Now I’m curious.

I drum my fingers on the bar. “What is it you do with the newbies, Rachel?” I ask with a smile, hoping my dimples are popping out.

They must be because she blushes almost immediately.