Page 17

AIDEN

M y wife is a liar, a pool shark, and a walking wet dream.

How do I know? The little glint in her eye when she asked me to play, the way she’s holding a pool cue like she’s never seen a stick before, much less a game of pool, and the way my body won’t stop reacting every time she brushes against me.

Last one’s free. There’s a low-grade hum in my blood that’s been there since she responded to my kiss.

Or since the day she moved in. Whatever.

I’m weak, she’s hot. Facts are facts. I’ll fight it tomorrow. Right now, when she tells me to teach her how to play, I can’t move fast enough.

“You want me to do the thing?” I ask her.

If she’s smart, she’ll see the predatory glint in my eye. I want her to want me. I want her to make that sound again, like she discovered desire for the first time and it’s my kiss that got her there. The thing is, I’m pretty sure she does want me. She just doesn’t want to admit it.

And now, getting her to admit it is all I want.

“What thing?” She tilts her head, golden hair spilling over one round shoulder.

“The movie thing.” I gesture at where she’s bent over the table.

“Yeah.” She gives me a catlike smile. “The movie thing. Pretty please.”

“Your funeral.” I move toward her, my sneakers— fuck —sticking to the floor— double fuck . I control my wince, but not fast enough, because she giggles.

“How much do you hate it here?”

I bracket my arms around her and rest my hands on the table. “Enough,” I say in her ear. “This floor hasn’t been cleaned in months.”

“Wrong, golden boy,” she says merrily. “It’s never been cleaned. It came like this.” Her amusement makes the air between us vibrate.

“Didn’t know you could get pretreated wood like that. I’ll have to consider it for the stillhouse.”

She laughs. “Yes, it comes in shades barely legal shot deal and making your husband regret his life choices. ”

“I don’t regret all of them,” I say, low and close to her ear. “Just one very specific one.”

She chokes another laugh and arches her back. “Surprised you’re willing to get this close to me.” She wriggles back against me, her ass grazing my groin and shooting fire through me. I can’t help my exhale.

“We need to fake it, right?” I graze my thumb up her neck.

“Your brothers are watching.” My gaze flicks up.

“Your other option is watching.” I scowl at Malcolm, with his pretty-boy scar and his artfully tousled hair.

Between Malcolm and her asshole brothers, I want to fake it better than an A-list actor with a drug problem and something to prove.

They’re watching us too, those smug pricks.

I glare at them before I look back down at Emory.

She tips her head back against my shoulder. Her mouth is close, so close. So pretty and pink and soft. “So let’s fake it, golden boy. Have fun with me. Teach me how to play. Tell me what to do.” Her voice goes straight to my groin, coiling through me. Like she intends it to.

“I’m not into that,” I tell her.

She freezes.

“But I’ll make an exception.” My lips are nearly brushing her ear. I swear I see goose bumps rise on her skin. “Grab the cue. Right hand. Yeah, like that. Now bend. Keep your arm loose. Use your left hand to steady the tip. Take a practice shot. Smooth.”

Her movements are weak and wobbly, and I don’t know if it’s her ruse or because I’m getting to her, but I’ll take it. I let my lips graze her ear and ignore the way I want to pin her to the table. “Good girl, Emory.”

She jolts before she swings her arm back and breaks smoothly. Two solids go in. I barely manage to avoid being hit in the dick.

I jump back. She whirls, fire in her eyes.

“So you can play.”

“I can play,” she agrees. “Want to make a bet?”

I nod, expecting her to demand something salacious. Instead, her gaze goes to the bar.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Loser has to go up to that grumpy-looking guy over there and say howdy partner, can I buy you a drink? with thumbs in the belt loops, like so.” She mimes jutting out her hips and walking like a very drunk cowboy before she gives me a challenging look.

“You’re on,” I tell her.

“Your funeral,” she says before she turns and sinks three solids in a row. When she turns back to me, she’s grinning.

“Why are you so good?” I bend over the table, lining up my shot. Whit taught me to play five years ago. I’m not very good, but it’s something to do that isn’t drinking, which I like.

“Math major, remember?”

“I do.” I sink a striped ball and move to the side of the table, looking for another shot. I remember a lot of things about her, including how she used to trounce me on math exams and the self-satisfied smile she would wear every time she got a question right.

“Bounce it off that one.” She points at a ball on the far side.

“That’s an improbable shot.”

She shrugs.

“Are you going to do the movie thing to me?”

Her mouth lifts in another smile. “Not a chance in hell. You’re on your own, golden boy.”

I miss the shot, and she sinks two more with ease.

I can barely tear my gaze from her as she bends over the table.

Most men would stare at her breasts, and the shadow between them, but I can’t keep my eyes off the strip of skin at her waist. I curl my fingers into my palms as she rises up with a self-satisfied smile.

“Ready to give up?”

“No way.” I lean against the table while she sips the beer her brother handed her earlier. “I think I’m having fun. Or something. Even though this place is a—” I glance around. “I believe the technical term is hellhole.”

She snorts a laugh before she sinks her remaining balls in rapid succession and blinks innocently at me. “You’re going to have to get me drunk if you want to win, golden boy. Or you can forfeit.” She cocks her head. “In exchange, I’ll take your car.”

I drop my cue on the table. “No thanks. I’d rather give you my dignity.” I hook my thumbs into my belt loops, and her eyes bug out.

“Do it,” she whispers.

“I will.”

“I’m waiting.” She wags her brows.

I saunter across the bar, feeling like an utter fucking fool and also like there’s a balloon inside my chest. The man’s name is Paul, and he barely spares me a glance before he turns back to his phone.

Emory mimics playing the world’s smallest violin when I get back to the table.

“So sad for you,” she says. “Thought you might make a new friend.”

I roll my eyes. “Another.” I snatch up the cue and set a bucket of beers on the table.

“Thirsty?” she asks.

“I don’t drink.” The words pop out, a precursor to a truth I don’t particularly want to share with my wife. Her eyes narrow, but she mercifully doesn’t ask. I smile at her, slow and challenging. “These are for you.”

One beer makes her better, not worse.

“Loser does a pickleback,” she announces right before she sinks the last two balls. She sails to the bar on a cloud of victory and comes back with three glasses.

“Just pickle juice for you,” she says.

“And what’s that?” I point at the other glasses.

She knocks back the whiskey and coughs. “Holy shit. That’s terrible. I’m doing yours for you,” she wheezes. “Come on.” She holds out the glass and we clink, then I drain the pickle juice.

“Want to keep playing?” she asks. “I might be tipsy enough for you to win.” She grins at me, and something warm unfurls in my chest. No one grins at me. Not outside my family, at least. And never a Hunter. I don’t inspire that feeling in people.

“Okay,” I find myself saying, even though I told Tristan I’d be here for twenty minutes and then I’d be home and back to my book.

“What’s their deal?” I ask, once I’ve made two balls and I’m lining up for a third. “Your brothers.” I tip my head to where they’re watching us in the back.

“Oh. Them.” She huffs a breath and leans against the table. I rise up to watch her respond. She nibbles at her full bottom lip, and my eyes track the movement. “They’re overprotective,” she finally says. “They think you’re going to break my heart.” Her eye roll tells me what she thinks of that.

“Thought you said you didn’t have a heart,” I say neutrally.

Her eyes flick to mine before she looks away. “I don’t.” She straightens. “I mean, I’m not soft like they think I am. They’re just older , and they’ve always been like this.” She shrugs, like it all makes sense, but my brain keeps snagging on her words from earlier.

She doesn’t have a heart.

I don’t think that’s true, but I don’t know why she believes it.

“And yet you’re the one doing what it takes to get the land,” I say idly. I chance another look at her brothers, my own stare unyielding. They’re cowards. She’s the brave one. She’s an asset, with her quick mind and her ruthlessness. Just like Tristan said.

“I’m doing what needs to be done,” she says.

“They don’t support it?”

Her tongue taps her lip, as if she’s deciding how much truth to give me.

“My father and I differ regarding the direction of the company. We always have. My brothers always side with him. It’s why I want the land.

I need to prove I’m right.” Her shoulders are stiff and she doesn’t look at me while she talks, instead gazing down at her beer. “Anyway, one more?”

I know there are things she’s not telling me, but it’s not my place to press her. “Sure. I’m feeling lucky this time.”

“We’ll see about that.” She gives me a cocky smile.

“Another bet?”

She narrows her eyes on me. “Okay. Loser has to”—she glances around—“give that hot blond bartender their number.”

“Sure.” I don’t give women my number, but I plan to win this time around. Somehow, miraculously, after ten minutes, we’re down to an equal number of balls. Two each, and Emory’s face is pinched with frustration.

Her expression makes me want to smile, and I must not be hiding my glee, because she slides me an annoyed look. “The alcohol may be catching up to me,” she says ruefully. “Any chance of a forfeit?”

I snort and fold my arms over my stomach. “Keep dreaming.”