“I'm not a princess who expects the guy to pay for everything.”
“And I'm not the pauper I appear to be.” He grinned. “Princess, pauper, nice symmetry, eh?”
Shaking my head, I walked over to pay for the second hour, using Sawyer's money.
The man at the counter didn't say a word to me, either. He barely took his eyes off the TV sitting at the side of the counter.
When I got back to our pool table, Sawyer was using the Lady Helper to make a shot.
“No way,” I said. “You're using the Lady Helper? I wanted to use that five shots ago, but I thought you'd make fun of me.”
He tapped the cue ball gracefully, sending it arcing around one ball and gently into another, which ricocheted into the pocket as if programmed.
He said, “No shame in using the tools you have, or taking assistance.”
“How zen.”
“And this isn't a Lady Helper.” The stick had a metal waving bit at the end, and Sawyer held it up proudly, like a trident.
“What do you call it?”
He grinned. “I call it The Fucking Thing. As in, hand me The Fucking Thing already, so I don't bend over and give all you perverts a good view of my ass.”
I laughed into my hand.
“So that's what it takes to get you to laugh. A couple of swear words, and the mental image of my ass on display.”
“Gimme the stick. I paid for an hour and I want my money's worth.”
As I reached for the cue, he jerked his hand back. “Gimme?”
“Please and thank you.”
“That's better.” He turned around and pointed to the purple ball. “Now sink that in the corner pocket.”
“I'm still solids? Because I see at least three shots that are easier.”
“I know. But you won't get any better taking the easy shots. You may as well be at home baking cookies for your daughter.”
I inhaled sharply. My daughter. My lies sounded so much worse on someone else's lips.
Getting in position for the shot, I realized I had to bank the ball, so I moved around the table. As I shifted past Sawyer, the back of my legs brushed against his. We'd only touched when riding the motorcycle, and the brief contact made me keenly aware of his body. His energy. The mass of him, tall and masculine, inches away from me.
His voice low and husky, he said, “I know I promised not to do this, but I have to. Do I have your permission to get in here and help you.”
“Yes.”
Slowly, he positioned himself just behind me and reached his arms around me. I wasn't scared or upset, because it was Sawyer, and I trusted him. His hot hands looped over mine on the cue, and his heat radiated into my side. His breath hot on my ear, he murmured, “Easy.”
I swallowed and tried to focus on the shot, and not the feelings bubbling up inside me.
“Easy,” he repeated.
“Easy peasy,” I said.
“More like easy does it.” He moved the cue back and forth with authority. He was so good, it made me appreciate the frustration Bell had when I helped with her hand-lettering. Of course writing letters came easily to me; I'd had years of practice and muscle memory.
“Okay, I got it,” I said. “You can let go.”
He gripped my hand tighter. “No, I can't.”
I turned to look at him, our faces so close, our noses were nearly touching. I lost myself in those green eyes, unable to breathe. My pulse thrummed in my ears.
He said, “I can't let go, because I'm going to help you make the shot. Focus on the feeling, and I'll set it up again for you to make on your own.”
“Okay, do it.”
He chuckled. “You have to open your eyes.”
“Right.” My eyes flew open. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Easy.” He leaned in closer, his legs on either side of my bent leg, his body contacting my bu**ocks lightly, and he made the shot with my hands inside his. The ball banked and sunk obediently, and I saw why he'd chosen that shot. The leave was attractive, with a series of easy shots all lined up.
He pulled away and I straightened up quickly, my head light and woozy.
With the ball put back on the table, I tried the shot again on my own.
It took me seven tries to sink the ball, but when I did, it seemed like the weight on my shoulders got a little lighter.
“You did it!” Sawyer cheered, and he grabbed me in a hug.
I grunted as he squeezed me, my arms limp at my sides.
The next part happened both slowly and quickly. I looked up and he looked down. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and he moved in to kiss me.
Chapter Nine
As Sawyer leaned in to kiss me, I turned my head to the side, and he connected with my cheek, his lips sliding across to my ear as I continued to turn.
“No,” I said, backing away.
He winced. “I'm sorry, Aubrey. I got carried away. I was caught in the moment, and it was the most beautiful moment, where you had faith in yourself, and I had you, and you weren't married.”
“We should go home.” I looked over at the door. I would have left on my own, if I'd had any clue where in the city we were. Everything still looked the same to me.
He gathered up the balls, even though we still had fifteen minutes left on our second hour.
We were both quiet as we walked outside and put on our helmets. It was still bright out, an hour from sunset, but the air had cooled off.
Gruffly, without making eye contact, Sawyer said, “Did you happen to remember what street you live on?”
I gave him the address and street number, and he nodded. Surrey had a very logical address system, because both the streets and avenues were numbered, and the house address told you the cross-street.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of my apartment building.
Sawyer said goodbye, but coolly. Like I'd disappointed him. He kept the bike running.
“I'm sorry,” I said as I stood on the sidewalk.
“Don't be.” He nodded and drove away, the sound of the engine drowning out my thoughts.
After a moment staring after him, I came to my senses and let myself into the building. I took the stairs up to the third floor, because the stairs were faster and smelled better than the elevator. The apartment itself was in great shape, but the common areas weren't always in the best state. It was cheap, though, and the owner had been desperate enough to take my uncle's letter in lieu of rental references.
As I put my key in the door of the apartment, I paused, hearing an unfamiliar woman's voice inside my place. Was I at the wrong apartment? All the floors looked similar. Blue carpet. Dingy white walls and a blue door. Number 3F. My apartment. I pressed my ear against the door.