He scatters the balls with his power shot, sinking a solid and a stripe.
“I’ll take solids.”
Four shots later, it’s my turn.
I sashay around the table, looking for just the right shot, but nothing is working in my favor.
I miss, and he laughs.
“You gotta line it up,” he tells me. “Like this. Come here.”
He pulls me close until I’m stuck to him like glue. He bends us both down, my butt fitting perfectly against his crotch, and lines us up for the shot.
This continues until we’re tied with just two balls each and the eight ball.
“Think you got this one on your own?” he asks.
“I…I hope so. Guess we’ll see.”
Within one minute, I sink both balls, call my corner, and win the game.
With a smirk, I rest my stick against the table and take a seat on the stool.
He stands there, gawking for a good minute before finally looking up at me.
“I cannot believe you.” His voice is full of incredulity.
“What?” I ask with innocence.
“You know damn well what.”
“I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about.”
“You hustled me.” He lifts a finger my way. “You”—he turns his finger his way again—“hustled me.”
I bat my lashes innocently. “Did I? Is that what that’s called?”
He stalks my way, not stopping until his nose is nearly touching mine.
“I could kiss the shit outta you right now.”
I lift a shoulder. “You owe me some anyway.”
“Nah. You’d like that too much, and after the stunt you just pulled, I’m not giving you the satisfaction.”
I grin up at him. “Want to play again?”
“Dammit, Monty,” he mutters before sealing his mouth over mine.
His lips press against mine firmly and it’s only a moment before I’m completely lost, wanting to wrap my legs around his waist and put that pool table to good use.
“Get a room!” Not Pam yells from behind the bar.
He laughs, pulling away reluctantly.
Stick in hand, he heads back around the table, racking the balls again. “How’d you get so good at pool?”
“We had a table in our garage. I spent many hours out there playing with my dad.”
“Explains that wicked bank shot you have.” He lifts the rack. “You won, so it’s your break.”
I get into position and whack them apart as hard as I can.
“Nice,” he murmurs.
When I peer over my shoulder, I realize he’s not talking about the balls.
It’s my butt.
Again.
“Your perviness knows no bounds.”
“You’re not wrong. I knew pool would be a great idea.”
“You brought me here to stare at my bum?”
He leans over the table, lining up a shot, then grinning up at me. “Yes, Monty, I brought you just to stare at your bum.”
“Quit mocking me.”
“Say ass.” He shoots and misses. “Your turn.”
“No!” I pocket the first two balls of the game. “Stripes or solids?”
“How about strips and”—he glances down at his junk—“this solid.”
I roll my eyes and try my hardest to fight my grin. “Just shoot, Robbie.”
“How about this: I win this game, you strip and get my solid, and if you win, I’ll quit being pervy and actually play.”
“Hmm…tough call, because I do adore your solid.” He tries to cover his laugh with a cough but it’s no use. I know he’s getting a kick out of me calling his erection a solid. The jerk. “But I also haven’t played a game of pool in ages and was looking forward to playing.”
“You’re scared I’ll actually win.”
“You think falling into bed with you scares me?”
“Oh, Monty, I know it does.”
You’d think after the many nights we’ve spent together it wouldn’t scare me anymore, but every time we strip each other down to nothing, I get nervous.
It’s not because Robbie himself scares me, but because I’m terrified of what he’s making me feel so quickly.
We’re supposed to be light and fluffy. I shouldn’t get butterflies every time I’m around him, shouldn’t feel like I have this heavy weight on my shoulders when I’m not.
Yet, I do, and it’s frightening.
Thrilling.
And I can’t say no.
“You have a deal.”
He takes his next shot.
I throw the game.
19
Monty
Python: I know it’s early, but I just wanted to wish you luck on your first day. You’re going to rock this. I just know it. Text or call when you get the chance.
Python: Oh, and thanks for last night. That new position is what dreams are made of.
Me: Thank you, and you’re welcome.
Me: I’ll try to sneak a text sometime today.
Me: I miss you.
Python: I know you do.
Me: *eye roll*
Me: Please tell me you didn’t.
Python: Fine, I didn’t.
Me: I needed this. BAD.
Me: Thank you for the flowers, Robbie. They’re gorgeous.
Python: Gorgeous flowers for a gorgeous gal.
Python: That was so corny.
Me: But I loved it.
Python: How’d the first day go?
Me: Holy cats. Today was EXHAUSTING! I broke up a fight and spilled my coffee all over myself during lunch. I’m pretty sure three kids already think I’m the worst teacher ever too.
Me: Other than that, let’s just say if I were a big drinker, I’d be half a bottle of wine deep right now.
Python: Only half a bottle? Weak.
Python: But you’re still cute, so I’ll allow it.
Python: Sorry it was a crappy first day.
Me: I wouldn’t say that, not entirely. It could have been a lot worse.
Python: But a lot better too. I know you’re a bit of a perfectionist, so I’m certain today was slowly killing you inside.
Me: Totally.
Me: As much as I hate to cut this short…
Python: No, no. You’re a working woman now. I get it. Go rest. Sweet dreams, Monts.
Python: *sexy not sweet
Python: Sorry, my bad.
Me: I don’t know who’s more exhausting, the kids or you.
Python: We’ll just call it a tie.
Me: Good night, Robert.
Me: SERIOUSLY?
Python: Yep.
Me: You DID NOT have to do that!
Python: Right, but I WANTED to do that.
Me: How’d you know I even like pizza?
Python: Excuse me? EVERYONE likes pizza. It’s blasphemous not to.
Python: I’m appalled you’d even suggest it.
Python: Wait, you DO like pizza, right? Now I’m a little worried about my taste in women…
Me: Yes. I love it.
Me: Thank you, but stop sending me stuff. You’re going to make me think you like me.
Python: Oh, but I do.
Python: How was day two?
Me: I didn’t spill coffee on myself until AFTER lunch today, so there’s that.
Python: Oh good gravy, woman.
Python: I wish I could hug you right now.
Me: A naked hug, right?
Python: I’m sorry, did YOU just suggest a naked hug? My, oh my.
Me: I told you, it’s been a day.
Python: It’ll get better—first week jitters and all that. You’ll be a pro in no time.
Me: I hope so. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, help kids, and make a difference, ya know. I just didn’t think it would be this hard.
Python: It’ll get easier, babe. I know it.
Python: Now go rest. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Me: My feet are killing me.
Me: Oh crud! Sorry! I didn’t even think about that. You’re just always the first person I text nowadays.
Python: I really love that, but I also really love sleep.
Me: Did I wake you?
Python: Nah. I’ve been up for hours.
Python: Also, if this was a cry for a foot rub, it’s not happening. Feet are disgusting, even your adorably pedicured ones.
Me: Well that’s just rude.
Python: So, I had a thought.
Me: This is scary already.
Python: Wow. WOW. Really, Monty? REALLY?
Python: I see how you get when you don’t get the D for a few days. You get hangry.
Me: Hangry? I don’t think you’re using that word right.
Python: Sure I am. Horny + Angry = Hangry
Me: Ughh.
Python:
Texting (The Complete Series Page 58
