To Catch A Player

“Mostly. But don’t just be here, be present.”

“What in the hell does that mean?” Even though her back was to me, I could almost see the incredulous look on Reese’s face.

“It means you say yes to the next guy who offers to buy you a drink.” Ginger’s smug tone was guaranteed to rub Reese the wrong way, and I had just the solution to that problem.

Or… something.Reese“The next guy? Absolutely not!” The next guy could be anyone. Some married sleazeball. Some frat boy barely on the right side of legal. Someone else unsavory. “That’s a little too adventurous for my blood.”

Ginger growled at me like a little bear. “Seriously? It’s Tulip, do you think Wyatt Earp is gonna waltz in and steal your virtue?”

“Virtue? Get real.”

“Then what are you so afraid of?”

“Nothing.” Everything.

“Do it.”

“No.” There was no way I would say yes to this, especially when I’d seen Jackson around earlier looking gorgeous and brooding. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes!”

A shadow crossed the table, and I felt the temperature change in the room. I was pretty sure the felt on the pool tables had started to singe. “Evenin’, ladies.”

“Good evening, Detective.” I flashed my best professional smile, the one I wore when the town was bombarded with hungry, entitled tourists. “Having a good night?”

“Better now that I’m looking at two of Tulip’s prettiest women. Mind if I buy you ladies a refill?”

I looked down at my icy gin martini, half empty, and turned back to Jackson. “My drink isn’t empty yet.”

He flashed a predatory grin and I knew I was in trouble. But then the irksome man went and claimed the extra seat at our table. “That’s all right. You can tell me how the sauce tests are going while you finish this one.”

I was genuinely surprised, and I turned to Ginger who only shrugged, barely containing her delighted glee. “What’s going on here?”

He leaned in with a gleam in his eyes. “It’s called conversation, Reese. So?”

I didn’t trust it and I didn’t trust him. He was up to something and I didn’t know what, not yet. But I would. Soon. A middle-aged foursome gathered up the balls and the rack and I stood to claim the table. “You can buy the next round while we beat you at a game of pool.”

“You’re on.” He followed us to the pool table without another word and I realized he was waiting for me to answer his original question.

“The sauces are coming along fine. I’m not completely happy with either, but the cherry beer inspired another sauce that’s simmering in the slow cooker as we speak.” Cherry and cola flavored barbecue sauce would pair well with pork, I just had to figure out when to introduce it.

“I’m happy to taste anything you need, just say the word.” He laughed when I glared at him, working hard to look something he hadn’t been in ages. Innocent.

The thought of him tasting anything I needed was tempting. The memories were strong enough that it didn’t take a lot of booze or much imagination to take me right back there, to his head buried between my legs teasing, coaxing and demanding pleasure out of me with a sexy, lazy grin.

“I’ll keep that in mind. You want to break ’em?”

He blinked and looked down at the table with a confused nod. “Sure.” He looked up and spotted whoever he was looking for with a grin as he waved him over. “You sure?”

“Completely,” I assured him, keeping a close eye on his ass when he bent over the table to make a shot. The way his thighs bunched beneath his jeans the moment the pool stick struck the cue ball was mesmerizing.

“What do you think?” I heard the amusement in his voice and I was pretty sure he’d caught me staring at his butt so I kept on looking.

Glancing at the table, I saw two striped balls missing from the lineup. “Sufficient, I suppose. I’m next.”

“If you think you can do better, give it a try.” I ignored his patronizing tone and all attempts by his masculine scent to worm its way into my brain. My memory.

“I think I will.” I found a stick I was happy with, chalked it up a bit, and nailed my first shot. And my second.

“Lucky,” he whistled, more than a little impressed.

The third shot quieted him completely.

“Holy shit, Reese. You’re a pool shark.”

“Not really, but I used to play with my uncle growing up.” I had almost no playmates, but Uncle Cameron loved bar games and he loved teaching them to me.

“I’ve been hustled,” Jackson accused, and his put-out tone tore a laugh from me.

“Hustled? We didn’t bet on anything.”

“Still.”

I shook my head. “Don’t be a sore loser, Detective.” I found my next shot—the solid purple ball would go into the center right pocket. The shot was lined up and I was ready to strike it.