Page 4 of His Last Shot

Closing Time

Rachel

W ith rapt attention, I watch as this newbie, who is the tallest drink of water I have ever seen, leans over the pool table to take his shot. His shirt stretches across his broad back, his triceps flex with the sway of his arm. His butt is just … right there.

I have never had a thing for pool players. Maybe if they all looked like him, I would. Most players here are young guys trying to impress girls or older men with beer guts who are super serious about the game. There is no in-between.

Until now.

Okay, I need to stop staring .

Averting my gaze, I glance around, trying to remember what I was doing. Was I drying glasses? Or, wait. I’m so confused. Was I cleaning the ice bin?

I have no clue. My mind has been all over the place since I saw him playing earlier.

Dexter’s has cleared out for the night since it’s one a.m. Slick took off about an hour ago, and I haven’t seen my Uncle Dexter in a few hours. No clue where he disappeared to.

But this dude is still here, glancing my way every so often, flashing me a grin that causes his dimples to appear and makes my already weak legs feel like jelly.

Micah emerges from the kitchen, slinging a rag over his shoulder. “I need to take off. Shelby is waiting for me.” He glances over at the pool player. As soon as Micah leaves, it’s only going to be me and him. “You gonna be okay here?” His brows furrow, deep in concern.

“I’ll be fine. You know me.”

“Mm-hmm. That I do.” He chuckles, throwing the rag into the dirty laundry bin. “You’re going to break that no-customers rule again, aren’t you? Is it even a thing at this point?”

Ignoring my brother, I steal a look at the handsome man again. He’s tall, very tall. I would put him at six five, I decide right here and now.

I’m embracing this because, as a woman of almost six feet, finding men my height or taller is rare and challenging.

So yeah, he is Travis Kelce’s level of tall.

Dirty blonde hair cut shorter on the sides and slightly longer on top with a natural wave perfectly complements his smooth face.

His eyes appeared hazel when we talked earlier.

He’s dressed casually: jeans and a very fitted T-shirt showcasing his arms and broad shoulders nicely.

It’s a whole cool guy vibe. And I like it.

But I can’t pinpoint his age. Late thirties, maybe. Which would make him older than my thirty.

The Oldies but Goodies were right. Normally, I’m good at reading people.

It’s a gift that comes from the countless hours of people-watching I did growing up here with my Uncle Dexter and his dad.

I can guess a person’s age, job, and background accurately.

It is a great icebreaker with the customers.

But for some reason, I can’t get a read on this guy. Or maybe I don’t want to. Knowing I will like what I see.

Taking his time, he unscrews his pool cue and slips it into his case. He sits on the barstool that rests along the wall next to the tables, finishing his club soda, looking at his phone. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, followed by—

“Um … earth to Rachel.” Micah snaps his fingers in front of my face.

I shake my head, returning my attention to—what exactly? Who am I kidding?

I can’t remember my name at this point.

Nope, not gonna happen. I cannot, and will not, get wrapped up in a customer again. The last time I did, it ended in heartbreak and betrayal .

“You have a little drool right there.” Micah points to the corner of his mouth with a smirk.

“Stop.” I smack his hand away. He laughs, removing his apron and hanging it on the hook next to the kitchen door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” My big brother rounds the bar, gives one last glimpse at this perfect stranger, and leaves out the main door. But not before looking back and making kissing noises like the child he is.

“Closing time!” I holler over the empty bar, hoping he doesn’t leave, even though I need him to.

He drains his drink, the ice clinking softly in the glass, then grabs his pool cue and coat and saunters over with a confident swagger. He sits on the same stool he was in earlier. “I never got my read, Rachel.”

Refusing to look at him, I continue to stock the beer for tomorrow’s shift. “Well,”—I peek at the enormous clock that hangs above the liquor—“we close in five minutes. Not sure there is enough time.”

“Do I look that complicated?” he asks, the words smooth as he leans forward. His T-shirt stretches thin across his chest, catching my eye.

Focus, Rachel!

“Considering that your only drink vice is coffee, I would say yes.” My grin falters, and I look hurriedly away, overwhelmed by his handsome features.

Suddenly, James Taylor sings out of the stereo, and a soft uptick in his smile appears. “You a James Taylor fan?” I ask, interested, even though I shouldn’t be.

His eyes glaze over, a distant stare settling on his face as if the song’s words instantly transport him to another time and place.

“He’s the best. I grew up listening to him and other bands from the sixties and seventies.

” He leans back in the chair. Easy and carefree.

“It’s all my dad would listen to when I was younger.

James Taylor, Led Zeppelin, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Who.

You name it, it was blaring from the radio in our garage.

” He leaves the memory as he runs a hand over his smooth jaw.

“What about you? What’s your music genre of choice, Rachel? ”

I lean my elbows against the bar, closer to him, listening to his silky voice. As he talks, it’s like velvet courses through my veins, filling me with warmth. He’s pulling me in slowly. “Joni Mitchell and, wait. Are you trying to read me now? What’s your name, anyway?”

“Johnny.”

“Is that short for Jonathan?”

“Nope,” he replies, popping the P.

“Really? What’s it short for then?”

“I think I need to take you to dinner first before we get that personal.”

Phew. Dear Lord.

I am way out of my league with this guy. This conversation is veering into uncomfortable flirty territory, so I need to remove myself before things escalate. Attraction laced with tension builds with every suggestive word. “Nice try. But it’s not happening.”

Unfortunately for me and him, I ignore my advice and, out of habit, I read this guy. He’s confident, that’s for sure, but doesn’t come across as cocky. Self-assured and a flirt. Plus, he’s funny.

My eyes briefly flick at his ring finger. It’s bare. Which means nothing in bars like this. Anyone can slip a ring off and tuck it away in a pocket in seconds. Poof! Single for the night.

Some men are pigs. And not only men. Women are just as guilty. And it’s disgusting.

But that’s not the vibe I’m getting from him. He seems genuine. A family man, perhaps.

He catches me staring at his left hand, then cocks the cockiest of smirks. “Are you reading me, Rachel?”

God, my name rolling off his tongue is doing crazy things to me. And for that reason, I need to get myself in check.

No dating customers, Rachel!

Got it.

Clenching my fists, I push off the bar, rounding my shoulders, needing to steady myself. A swift subject change is in order.

My smile fades, but that zippy current flowing through me refuses to leave.

It’s sizzling like hot lava, crawling up my throat, ready to burst. “Are you ready to cash out? I need to close down for the night.” I can’t look at him when I ask this.

There is for sure a spark there with this man.

But sparks can turn into raging infernos that will blow up your life and cause you unseen misery and pain.

Trust me, I know. And I will never travel that road again.

The bar stool scrapes against the floor. A signal that he’s leaving. With my back to him, I work at closing out the register for the night.

“Can I at least get your number?”

I flick the bills in my hand, counting. “Nope.”

Way to go, me!

He stands and taps his fingers on the bar.

“Well, okay then.” I peer over my shoulder and watch as he takes a step, then stops, hesitation gripping him.

He runs his palm along his smooth face, then through his hair.

Locking eyes with me, he grins as he throws down a twenty. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

With all the casual, I-don’t-care-attitude that I can muster, I grab the money and return to the register. “See ya.”

Watching out of the corner of my eye, I see him pick up his pool cue and slip on his coat, heading for the front door. Now that his back is to me, he has my full attention. Naturally, my gaze wanders downward. Good God , his butt is phenomenal in those jeans. “ Wow ,” I mouth silently.

His whole aura, the way he moves and speaks, has already stolen my heart. He’s sharp yet also rugged, seasoned in a way that tells me he has stories to share. Good ones, I’m sure. And I want to know them all.

Plus, he appears older. So that’s two rules of mine that he’s breaking. Age and being a customer.

The door clicks shut behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence, and I exhale, tension leaving my body.

Thoughts and rationalities swirl in my head as I finish behind the bar. I mean, technically, he’s leaving, so that means he isn’t a customer anymore.

My no-dating-customers rule is in place for a very good reason.

Drew.

My ex-fiance and one huge mistake. Our relationship started off amazingly. As time went on, he was waving red flags back and forth, but I ignored them .

Then there is my RA and my high school boyfriend, Sean.

He dumped me on prom night because I was having a flare-up and couldn’t dance with him because of the pain.

So what did he do? He danced the night away with Brittany Wilson, then told me he was taking her to the after party since I was, and I quote, “too sick to have fun.” It was the first time I lost something because of my RA.

Ever since, I have kept my diagnosis close to my chest.