Page 35 of Wild & Worthy

He straightens up slowly, that half-smile still on his face, but there's something more intense underneath it now. "Careful, Sunshine." He steps in as I continue to try and line up my shot, close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my back. "Keep talking like that, and I'm going to have to prove you wrong."

"Prove away." I don't look at him. I can't look at him right now, not with my heart doing something traitorous and loud in my chest, but I won’t be the one to back down. "Talk's cheap, Walker."

Shoving him backward, I take my shot. Knocking it in the pocket. I spin and say, "Ha! Game's getting closer now, Cowboy!"

I expect the grin. The wink. Some smart-mouthed comeback about how he's just getting warmed up. Instead, he’s gone quiet. His jaw tightens, then releases before he clears his throat and steps back like the two feet of space between us suddenly isn't enough. He moves around to the other side of the table without a word, studying his next shot with so much focus I’d swear he was trying to avoid making eye contact with me.

What the hell? That's twice tonight I've given him a dose of his own medicine, and he's completely ignored it. Who knew sticking my ass in his face was all it took to disarm him? I should have done it years ago. Except it's not giving me the same satisfaction it would've a week ago. I don't underst—

Motherfucker!

He just missed his shot. The ball doesn't even come near the pocket. Not even close. It skims off at an angle that should've been impossible. Chace doesn't miss shots like that. I've been watching him play pool for years, and I know exactly how he plays. I straighten up slowly, cue in hand, and study him. "You okay?"

"Fine." He doesn't look up. "Your shot. Just getting tired, I guess.”

I look between the table and him. Something's changed in the last two minutes, and I don't fully understand why. All I know is whatever charge was running between us before has gone cold.

And I'm not sure I like it.

I shove that thought aside as I line up my next shot. Only one stripe left, and then the eight ball. I take a deep breath, shoot, and hit it. I slide him a sweet smile as I get into position to pocket the eight ball.

I miss.

And, unfortunately, Chace's final solid is perfectly aligned with the eight ball. He should be able to sink both in one easy shot.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK

I gesture at the table with a sweep of my hand, keeping my voice light even though nothing about this feels light anymore. "Take your winning shot, Cowboy."

He lines up.

He misses.

He deliberately fucking missed his shot. He’s letting me win. Hell no, I don’t need pity wins.

"Looks like it's your game," he says, straightening up. "You win."

He threw it. He threw the fucking game. Something hot rises up in me from absolutely nowhere. How dare he let me win. I’m fully capable of winning — or losing — on my own. I don't need him giving me some kind of pity win. "Bullshit, Chace!"

I toss my cue down harder than I mean to, and head towards the stairs, straight for the exit. I’m pisssed. Irrationaly pissed. I’ve never once known Chace to back down from anything in his life. The one time he does is over a bar room bet? I’m furious in a way that doesn't even make sense to me.

Maybe it’s the fact that I already lost once today, suddenly remembering the five-second penalty looming over me. Or maybe it’s because I was actually having fun. Maybe a small part of me was really enjoying the game we were playing. I don’t really know. I just know that I’m angry and need to walk away. Everything feels like it’s crashing down on me at once. The rodeo, losing my ranking, whatever the fuck has been going on with Chace. It’s all too much, and I need air.

I push through the heavy oak door and into the thick summer air, not slowing as my boots crunch across the gravel. I don't know exactly where I'm going, but it’s definitely away from that pool table. And away from Chace Walker.

I don’t get the space I need, because behind me, the door swings open, the muffled chaos of the bar spilling out into the quiet night, but I don’t look back or stop walking.

"Addie." Chace’s voice calls out behind me. “What the hell is going on?”

His voice is firm, landing somewhere deep in my gut. I don't stop. I can't. "Go back inside, Chace."

"You’re pissed."

"I’m fine."

"You’re walking away, which is exactly what you do when you’re pissed." His footsteps are heavy and gaining on me. "Addie, stop."

I spin around. He stops a few feet back, hands shoved into his jeans pockets, the yellow light from the bar catching the edges of his face. He looks far too calm for a man who just pissed me off. His usual fun-loving smirk is nowhere to be found, which, for some reason, only irritates me more. "I’m not pissed that I won," I say, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I want to be very clear about that." I don’t know why that feels necessary to point out, but it does.