Bring Down the Stars

Connor pointed at me and deadpanned, “She’s on my team.”

Decker whistled low in his teeth. “A ringer.”

“Got that right.” Connor turned to me, moved close. His voice was low and deep, and his cologne—clean, masculine, and expensive—wafted over me, making my nerve endings tingle. Somehow, he made the entire bar disappear until it was just he and I.

“You’ve played a few times, huh?”

“I’m from a small town in Nebraska,” I said. “My dad used to take my brother and me into town every weekend to shoot pool.”

“So you’re a shark,” Connor said. “I like it. Unexpected. Makes me want to find out more about you.”

It was probably a cheesy line to someone less inebriated, but I was tipsy from chugging two pints. Having Connor Drake’s full attention was another kind of buzz. He was beautiful up close, with large green eyes under heavy, dark brows, and a broad mouth that looked like it might be as good at kissing as it was at smiling.

“There’s a lot to know about me,” I said, screwing chalk onto the end of my cue.

“Is that so?” Connor’s smile softened. He raised his hand, and for a second I thought he was going to touch my face, but he hesitated. “You have an eyelash stuck to your cheek.”

I brushed my face where he was indicating, my skin warm under my fingers. That he’d wanted to touch me but didn’t, was more of a turn-on than if he had touched me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem,” he said, and then his mega-watt smile was back, and I was basking in it. “Autumn Caldwell from Nebraska,” he said, “let’s shoot some pool.”

Weston

I watched Autumn bend her petite frame over the pool table and break like a pro. Connor moved close to her and they shared a few quiet words. It looked as if he was going to touch her cheek but didn’t. A classic Connor Drake move. Matt Decker, the only other guy in all of Amherst I considered a friend, noticed too.

He leaned in to me, using his pool cue as a mic, and spoke in a low voice, like a golf commentator.

“Connor’s got all the right moves tonight, don’t you think, Wes?”

“Indeed he does, Matt,” I whispered back. “He’s on fire. The signature Drake-Fake-Eyelash-Take. Perfectly executed. Let’s go to the instant replay.”

“Flawless, Wes. What technique. And the red-headed judge awards a perfect ten.”

Decker chuckled, while I averted my eyes and took a long pull off my beer.

I talked to her first.

Pathetic. She wasn’t a territory. I hadn’t planted my flag in her.

Judging by the way things are going with her and Connor, you aren’t going to plant anything in her anytime soon.

The crude thought was a flimsy cover for the truth: I hadn’t stopped thinking about Autumn Caldwell all week. I liked talking to her, and if I’d been better at it, I’d be the one sharing a pool stick with her. Standing over her while she looked up at me with those incredible hazel eyes. Instead, I’d mentally surrendered her to Connor without a fight.

“Wes,” Connor said. “You and Decker done whispering sweet nothings to each other?” He swung a casual arm around Autumn’s delicate shoulders. “My secret weapon and I are going to clean your clocks.”

“We’ll see, Drake.” Decker turned to me. “You in?”

The last fucking thing I wanted was to play pool with Autumn and Connor. But my competitive streak, born on the streets of southside Boston and honed on the track, revved up like it did before a race.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Matt Decker was a decent pool player, and I could always hold my own against Connor. But Autumn turned out to be a true phenom. Every ball she or Connor sunk was another opportunity for him to high-five her, give her a hug, or say something that made her smile.

Soon enough, they were down to the eight ball, while Matt and I had three left on the green. I lined up my shot, while at the other end of the table, Connor stood close to Autumn. Closer than I thought necessary for a non-date, date. I forced my gaze to the table, but just as I took my shot, Autumn laughed. My stick scraped felt and glanced off the side of the cue ball, sending the ball into the side pocket.

“Duuuude,” Decker groaned.