Page 147 of Rising Heat

Every time I move, I feel him watching me, sending heat up my spine.

I miss twice in a row and blame it on the lighting and not at all on the fact that he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.

I sink the next shot and immediately straighten, pointing at the table.

“That,” I say, “was intentional.”

Mack looks at the table, then back at me.

“That was lucky.”

“That was skill!”

“It wasn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I was watching.”

“Don’t diminish my natural talent,” I say, already circling the table like I absolutely have a strategy.

I lean over to line up the next shot and immediately feel it.

I glance up, which, in hindsight, is a mistake, because he isn’t just watching me anymore. His gaze lingers a beat too long, patient in a way that makes my stomach flip before my brain catches up, and suddenly my grip shifts on the cue as heat curls low in my stomach, every coherent thought dissolving into the deeply inconvenient realization that I’d much rather be holding his stick and getting poked by his cue instead.

I take the shot anyway, missing my intended target completely and scratching the ball instead.

“See,” Mack says. “Luck.”

“That’s not fair,” I protest. “I was distracted.”

“Mm.”

He steps in behind me easily, like the space beside me has always belonged to him.

“You’re gripping it too tight,” he says.

We both let the innuendo sit for a moment.

“I’m not⁠—”

His hand glides over mine anyway, adjusting my grip like we’re doing something significantly more personal than playing pool.

“You are,” his deep voice rumbles against the shell of my ear.

He steps in closer and his chest brushes my back, warm and solid against me, close enough that my entire train of thought quietly leaves the station without me.

His other hand settles at my hip to steady me, and every remaining thought files out right behind it until all that’s left is the awareness of him. His chest against my back. His arm brushing mine every time I breathe. His mouth is close enough to my ear that I become embarrassingly aware of the fact that I’m supposed to be playing pool and have absolutely no recollection of how to accomplish that.

Somewhere in front of me there’s technically still a pool table. There’s probably even a shot I’m supposed to be taking.

That feels optimistic.

“Relax,” he says quietly.

Which is an insane thing to say to someone while standing this close to them.

I try anyway…I really do.