by Meghan Quinn
It’s almost impossible not to notice him.
Not because he’s tall, broad, and handsome as ever with his fitted jeans and the navy-blue Henley that’s stretched over his thick arms and proud chest.
But because with every step, he commands attention, and not in a showboat way, or the way his friend Stryder does with his gorgeous crystal-blue eyes and outgoing personality.
Colby is different. He’s commanding with the strength in his step, the stiffness of his broad shoulders, the mysterious searching of his cautious eyes, and the strong set in his carved jaw. There is an air about him that sucks you in the moment you make eye contact, taking you on a stomach-dropping, heart-stopping journey.
There is no doubt about it; he’s the most eye-catching man I’ve ever met.
Feeling at a loss for oxygen, I take a deep breath and wait intently to hear his voice, to see if it matches his dark and secretive vibe.
Taking a second, Colby looks between Ryan and me, an arch in his carved eyebrows, framing those mysterious eyes, the type of eyes that make you nervous and intrigued all at once.
“Nice to meet you,” he finally says, his voice blanketing me with its deep timbre, rough and jagged.
Lifting his cup to his fine lips, his large hand wrapped around the white rim, he tilts the amber liquid into his mouth. In fascination, my attention glued to his corded neck, I watch as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, the muscles in his neck working the liquid down.
“What are you two doing?” Ryan asks, snapping me from my blatant staring.
“Nothing.” Stryder nods at Ryan. “What did you have in mind?”
“Care to play a little pool with the champs?”
Eyeing the pool table, Stryder casually nudges Colby. “What do you think, man? Should we show these girls how it’s done?”
Keeping his eyes anywhere but mine, Colby tilts his head to the side and scratches his jaw, a light five o’clock shadow starting to appear, barely scraping against his short fingernails. “Sure.”
Sure. One word.
One word of commitment to a few more minutes of interaction with this quiet and reserved man. It sends a thrill of excitement up my spine.
Before we walked over here, when Ryan pulled me into a hug after the game we finished up, she whispered into my ear that her sights were set on Stryder, and the brooding one was all mine. I couldn’t have said it better myself. I couldn’t be happier about the claim Ryan laid down.
There is no doubt that Stryder is someone I could see myself with. He’s exciting and the life of the party. Surrounding myself with people like Stryder has been my life goal, never taking for granted what I have, and living my life to its fullest. But for some inexplicable reason, I can’t shift my focus from Colby. I think it has to be his guarded expression, the don’t mess with me look that has me itching to probe into every last little nuance of what made him the man he is today.
“Great.” Ryan hands me her pool stick. “I’m going to go get some drinks before we get started. “You boys good?”
“I could use a refill.” Stryder pushes off the rail. “Need another?”
Casually glancing at the cup pinched between his fingers resting on the deck rail, Colby shakes his head. “I’m good.”
Stryder gives Colby a pat on the shoulder as he walks away with Ryan. “Chalk up my stick for me, man.”
Colby quietly shakes his head, eyes cast down. He takes another sip from his cup, and I immediately feel a little awkward. It almost seems like he doesn’t want to be here, like coming to this party was the last thing he wanted to do. It’s evident from his terse responses, and uninterested attitude.
Too bad for him, I’m great at awkward.
Pushing off the rail, he walks toward the pool table, brushing by me while saying in that deep voice, “You coming?”
Lips pursed, gaze fixed toward the woods, I mumble, “I guess I am.”
Spinning on my heel, I follow behind Colby, taking in his backside, the way his ass and thighs fill out his jeans, high and tight, his brown belt snug against his low-hanging pants. The Henley wrapped around his broad shoulders tents in the back from his well-defined shoulder blades, and the hem of the shirt tapers at his waist, kissing the waistband of his jeans. Sexy, athletic, and so fit.
“Do you play pool often?” I ask, watching him chalk up one of the pool sticks, the flex of his forearms rippling through the pushed-up sleeves of his shirt.
“No.”
Ooookay.
This is going to be harder than I thought. Pressing my hip against the pool table, I eye him up and down. I know the answer already, but figure I can ask to strike up some kind of conversation.
“Are you studying at the Air Force Academy with Stryder?”
Keeping his eyes cast down, therefore avoiding any eye contact with me, he acts like if he spares me one glance, I might dangerously blind him.
“Yeah,” he answers. Reaching to where he put his cup of beer, he takes a sip and then leans against the wall of the house, looking toward the sky, shutting me off completely.
Well, this has been fun. Can I get another specimen to talk to? Preferably the same hotness level but without a brick wall erected around him.
“Are you always this talkative, Colby? I can’t imagine all the work you must get done at the academy if you’re gabbing like this all the time with Stryder.” Sarcasm drips from my lips as I take a seat on the edge of the pool table, leaning back on my hands, swinging my legs, trying to get a reaction from him.
In slow motion, he tilts his head down, taking me in, his eyes lingering on the swing of my legging-covered legs. “Gabbing?” he asks, a light pinch in his brow, a small tug on the corner of his lips, so small that if I hadn’t been paying attention I might have missed it.
But I was paying attention. I caught it, that tiny lift, the humor in his question. It’s the cue I was waiting for. He’s not entirely closed off to me; he’s just going to be a tough one to crack open.
Before I can answer him, Stryder strolls up with Ryan next to him, huge smiles on their faces. Well at least those two are getting along well. Thank God I have a healthy self-esteem. This level of brush-off could crush a girl. But I’m determined to find out who this enigmatic man is. Why is he so . . . reticent?
“Are we all set?” Stryder looks at the table. “Dude, you didn’t even rack up? What the hell have you been doing?”
Leg propped up on the wall now, Colby tosses the spare pool stick at Stryder and says, “Chalked up.”
“Did you make the chalk beforehand? Damn, man.” Turning toward me, Stryder asks, “Has he been harassing you?”
With a knowing smile, I give Colby a once-over and say, “More like ignoring me.”
Eyes snapping up, Stryder turns toward Colby and pokes him with his pool stick, right in the rib. Colby swats him away but not before Stryder says, “Show some personality, man.” Turning to Ryan and me, he says, “You’ll have to excuse Colby. He’s very serious most of the time, and it takes him a bit to warm up, but he will. Won’t you?”
Sighing, Colby pushes off the wall and finishes his beer, setting the empty cup on the rail. Leaning over the table, he says, “I’ll break.”
Not putting up a fight, we stand back from the table, giving Colby all the space he needs. I take that moment to truly study him.
Despite this being a friendly game of pool, Colby’s focus is intense, his dark eyes fixated on the white cue ball a few inches from the head of his pool stick. Such heavy concentration makes me think this must be how he is with everything. Precise and calculated, each move well thought out, never acting on something unless every variable has been considered. Not impulsive.
Bent over the table, his shirt lifts with the movement of his arm, showing a patch of skin just above his ass. My eyes linger before I’m rudely startled by the crash of the cue ball into the triangle formation of pool balls on the table. They scatter every which way, and I’m impressed with the power behind
his strike.
He moves around the table unapologetically after sinking two stripes with his first hit, setting up his next shot. When he misses, he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t acknowledge our turn. Instead, he fades into the shadows of the deck, pool stick gripped powerfully between his hands and propped on the deck, waiting for his next turn.
“We might actually have a competitive team to play against this go around, huh, Rory?”
“We just might, Ryan.” Stepping up, I eye the position of each ball on the table trying to determine my best shot. There’s a lay up in the corner pocket, but I don’t choose that one. I go for the ball right across from Colby, a more difficult shot, but one I want to take.
Hunkering down, pressing my hand to the green felt of the table, stick resting on the bridge of my thumb, I glance at Colby, catching him in the act of checking me out, and instead of diverting his gaze right away, his eyes linger on mine. But what shocks me is what I perceive in his expression. He looks . . . wounded, which on Colby seems almost devastating. Why? Why so wounded? Somehow I feel his pain is calling out to me.
What’s behind those dark pupils? A bruised and battered soul?
I know one thing: I want to figure it out.
Focusing on the ball in front of me, I send my stick forward, smacking the cue ball into the solid green ball, bouncing it off the pocket, missing.
Oops.
Rounding the table, Ryan slaps me on the ass as I walk by, telling me I’ll get the next one, while Stryder starts searching for his shot. From the looks of it, I might have some time before my next turn so I make my way to Colby where he’s standing at attention, like he’s about to be dressed down by a superior.
I bump him with my shoulder, the solid rock of his side not giving an inch. “I thought you said you don’t play pool much.”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, could have fooled me.” Even though he doesn’t give me a response, I press on. “You finished your beer, do you want another one?”
“I’m good.” Can I get more than two words out of this man? I can freakin’ try.
“How do you know rich Tom?”
Not even glancing in my direction, he says, “I don’t.”
Hmm, okay, thought that response was going to be a little longer.
Think of something he’s interested in, something that could get him to talk a little bit more. The only thing I know about him is that he goes to the Air Force Academy. I know nothing about the Air Force besides . . .
“Basic training must have been a real bitch your first year, huh? Did you throw up?”
I take that moment to look up at him and once again, I catch a small tug at the corner of his lips when he answers. “No.”
One word, but I earned a smirk. I’m going to call it a victory.
I hate to admit it, but we were massacred. Once Colby got his turn back, he sunk the rest of the balls, drained the eight ball, and then tossed his pool stick at Stryder, only to retreat into the house, leaving the game abruptly.
Sighing, Stryder scratches the back of his head, apology written all over his face. “I’m sorry, ladies. Colby is in a different headspace than the rest of us.”
“Is he okay?” Ryan asks, looking toward the house, Colby’s retreating back disappearing into a sea of partygoers.
“Yeah, just has a hard time loosening up. He’s a good guy, even though he seems like a total dick. I swear, he’s just not great in social settings.”
I get that more than anyone.
“Think he would curl up and die if I go talk to him?” I ask Stryder.
Chuckling, he shrugs his shoulders. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did at this point.”
“Do you mind?” I ask Ryan, who eagerly shakes her head, probably wanting some time alone with Stryder. Giving her a hug, I whisper in her ear, “Be good,” and then take off toward the house.
Stopping off in the kitchen, I snag a bag of pretzel sticks and two water bottles, and work my way around the grand room, searching for Colby. When I don’t see him at first, I panic that maybe he left the party.
Expecting to see his taillights fading in the distance, I walk out the front of the house and run right into him, sitting on the front steps, head bowed forward, hands clasped in front of him.
Either he didn’t hear me or decides not to acknowledge me, but he doesn’t bother to turn around, so I take the initiative to sit next to him.
“Water?” I ask, holding it in front of him.
When he takes it, our hands brush against each other, his fingers lingering briefly across my knuckles, shooting a bolt of electricity straight up my arm. This man.
Not saying anything, I direct the open bag of pretzels to him. He eyes it, pausing before pulling a pretzel stick out of the bag. He doesn’t eat it immediately. Instead, he twists and flips it between his fingers.
Sitting in silence, we both stare into the black abyss of the mountains in front of us, my eyes playing tricks on me as I think I see things running back and forth between the trees. The chill of the night starts to set in, my exposed shoulders feeling the cold, but I stay put, not moving, not eating, not saying one single word, letting the silence hang between us.
The quiet dangles in the air, the faint noise of the party behind us providing a dull beat to the night. And just when I think we might be silent for the whole night, Colby surprises me when he says, “Why are you out here?”
Feeling comfortable, I take a bite of my pretzel and say, “You intrigue me.”
“There’s nothing intriguing about me, you’re wasting your time.”
“You think so?” I shake my head. Either he has no idea how appealing he is, or he truly doesn’t give a shit what other people think of him. He must attract female attention wherever he goes, so I doubt he’s self-conscious. The man is gorgeous. But is he broken? Wounded? I can’t let it go. I should. I should move on to the other guy who seemed interested earlier, but my heart won’t allow me to. I want to reach this man. So I go with brutal honesty. “I happen to disagree. Because despite how hard you’re trying to ignore me, don’t think I didn’t catch you staring at my ass when I bent over the pool table. Don’t think I didn’t catch your eyes lingering on the way my hair draped over my shoulder when I stood next to you, and don’t for one second think I didn’t catch the small smirks you couldn’t hold back when you were talking to me.
“There’s a guy I’m interested in talking to behind this closed-off veneer of yours, and if I have to sit out here in the cold waiting to meet him, then I will.
“Ryan’s my ride, and from the look of it back there, she won’t be leaving anytime soon. Face it, cadet, you’re stuck with me.”
Chapter Five
COLBY
Shit.
Shit, shit, SHIT.
This is exactly why I wanted to stay home. I wanted to avoid any kind of distraction, and despite my best efforts, I can’t seem to keep myself in check around Rory.
She caught me in the act, checking her out, observing her every movement from the way she bent at the waist to find her shot, to the way her hair caressed the green felt of the pool table, and the way her slender and delicate hands held such a powerful punch with the pool stick.
And then there’s the way she tilts her head back slightly when she laughs. The way she licks her lips right before she’s about to shoot. The way she tucks her long brown hair behind her ear when she’s nervous and doesn’t know what to say.
Instead of observing the small intricacies of a complete stranger, a fucking gorgeous stranger, I should be back home, head buried in my book with one goal in mind: making it out of here, out of Colorado Springs, and starting a new life, the life I’ve always dreamed of.
But she’s persistent, and with every little question she asks in that calming, smooth voice, I feel my guarded walls breaking down.
“Can I ask you a question?”
My immediate response is to say no, but since I don’t have the heart to be a total d
ick, I keep my mouth shut. She’ll take that as a yes.
I’m proven right when she asks me, “When did you know you wanted to be in the Air Force?”
Taking a sip from my water, I cap the bottle off and set it to the side, freeing my hands so I can lean back on the porch, my hands pressing into the solid wood behind me.
“I can’t remember a time I didn’t want to be in the Air Force,” I answer honestly.
“What are you majoring in?”
“Aeronautical Engineering.”
“What does that mean? Do you want to become a pilot?”
“Yes.” That one word means so much more than what it stands for. Yes, I want to be a pilot. I dream of being a pilot. I want nothing more than to spend my life piloting the highest-performing, highly maneuverable, stealth fighting machine, the F-22 Raptor, while the world passes by me at Mach speed. I’ve had the smallest of tastes of what it could be like at the academy, and it’s only fed my addiction.
“Have you always wanted to be a pilot, or is that something you found out about yourself while studying there?”
“Always.” From the very beginning.
She’s silent for a moment, playing with her pretzel stick between her fingers. “You’re living to achieve your dreams. That’s . . . that’s incredible. I’m sort of jealous.” When I don’t say anything, she presses on. “Ever since I can remember, I wanted to be a ballet dancer. I wanted to be center stage, all eyes on me, the spotlight highlighting my arabesque. I worked my ass off, paid for lessons by cleaning the studio after hours, and when I was accepted into The School of American Ballet”—she shakes her head—“I thought I’d truly made it, that I was one step closer to achieving my dreams.”
Her voice trails off, hurt and anger lacing her words.
“What happened?” I ask, wanting to know why this determined girl next to me couldn’t be the ballet dancer she set out to be.
“Sometimes life throws you a curveball and you have to find a way to deal with it. So now I’m a group fitness instructor and a massage therapist part-time. I enjoy massage therapy and hope to have my own business at some point, but it wasn’t my first choice, you know?” Turning toward me, she continues, “You’re lucky, being able to pursue what holds such a heavy influence on your heart. There aren’t many people like you, Colby.”
