I hesitantly pulled up the leg of my jeans to reveal the dime-sized circular scar on my kneecap. I was relieved that I had shaved my legs this morning.
“I don’t remember if I was six or seven, but I got this the day my dad took the training wheels off my bike,” I admitted. “I think there’s a cinder or two still stuck in there.” My finger pushed on the spot.
“Ha! It’s a good story, but that’s not a very good scar. It’s barely noticeable,” he added after rubbing his finger over my faint mark.
“Sorry, it’s all I have. I usually go right for breaking bones instead of getting simple scars.”
“How many?” he asked while taking his next shot on the table.
“What? Broken bones? Two - left wrist and right ankle.”
“And are there good stories that go along with the broken bones?” he asked, sounding hopeful.
“Right ankle isn’t that exciting. I slipped and fell on some icy steps at college.” I took a sip from my beer glass. “Left wrist, however, has a better punch line. Let’s just say that’s the day I learned that tequila and rollerblading should never be used in the same sentence.”
Ryan started laughing. “That’s something I would have liked to see!”
“What about you? Did you ever break any bones?”
He looked at me and nodded. “Quite a few actually. Mostly fingers and toes, but I had my left arm broken once in high school. I was playing baseball and got taken out by the third baseman.”
While he was telling me his story, I missed my shot; it was his turn.
“Thanks! Thanks a lot!” he quipped. “You’re killing me here! Do you think you could have at least left me a shot?”
I could tell he was just teasing me. He walked around the table looking for an angle as I had tucked the cue ball behind the eightball.
I noticed that I was able to look at him now for more than two seconds at a time. I watched as the fingers of his left hand formed into a bridge while he was lining up to take his next shot. He had really long fingers. The muscles on his forearm flexed when he stroked the pool stick in his hand.
From my current angle, I took in the visions of his long legs and how the back pockets of his jeans curved on his shape. And when he leaned over the table, my blue T-shirt separated from his body, exposing some tight flesh on his stomach. I could see what the big draw was for his fans… and it wasn’t his pool-playing skills.
“Eightball in the corner pocket,” I stated as I drew my stick back to make the shot that he had missed. With one precise movement, I tapped the cue ball and pocketed the eight.
“Good job!” Ryan held his hand up and gave me a gentle high-five hand slap. I started to put my pool stick back on the wall when he interrupted me.
“Oh, no! You have to play me again!” He handed the pool stick back to me. “I’m just warming up.”
“Okay, one more,” I agreed. “You can break this time.”
When it was my turn again, I noticed that he stood right behind the pocket that I was aiming for. I was lining up for my shot but it was difficult as he was shifting his weight back and forth from foot to foot.
“Um, can you move?” I asked, motioning with my hand.
“What? Am I bothering you?” He snickered.
“No. Well yeah, it’s kind of annoying actually.” I lined back up for my shot, concentrating on the game. He moved a few feet away and then started twirling his pool stick back and forth. His movements were such a distraction that I missed an easy shot.
“Oh, good try,” he complimented, although I could tell by his tone that he really wanted me to miss it.
Ryan was trying to make a long shot, so I moved to stand behind the pocket he was aiming for. I got into a comfortable stance, casually tugging my jeans down a bit further on my hips, and slipped my fingers under my shirt to softly scratch my stomach.
His eyes toggled between trying to play pool and watching me scratch my fake itch. He let out a big breath and missed his shot.
“Oh, good try,” I patronizingly complimented.
“I see!” He laughed. “You don’t play fair either!”
I grinned and shrugged slightly; we both were busted trying to distract each other. He wrinkled his nose at me and made a funny face. It was actually quite adorable.
When I leaned down to make my next shot he stood directly behind the pocket again. This time he lifted the front of his T-shirt enough to fake a stomach scratch. I could see the hair on his stomach, which was visible above the top button of his jeans. One naughty little thought ran through my head, but despite that I made the shot anyway.
“Nice try. But the twirling of the pool stick was more of a distraction than that was!”
I had to walk past him, and when I did he stuck the bottom of his pool stick between my feet, causing me to trip. He caught me with his free arm to keep me from falling.
“Ass!” I snickered.
“Sorry, I can’t help it if you’re falling for me,” he said confidently.
“Pff, hardly,” I muttered. I leaned my pool stick up on the wall.
“Come on. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Don’t walk away,” he pleaded.
“I’m just going to the ladies room,” I stated over my shoulder. Ryan trotted up behind me.
“What, are you following me now?” I kidded.
“Hardly.” He smiled a cocky grin at me and gave me an innocent little shove towards the ladies room door.
A few moments later, we resumed game two and it was his turn to shoot.
“So Taryn, tell me. Are you a fan of Seaside, too?” he asked, monitoring my reaction.
“No. I haven’t seen it,” I said calmly. It was the truth. I took a sip of my beer and contemplated refilling my glass.
“You haven’t seen the movie? For real?” He was frozen in his spot, gaping at me like I had two heads growing out of my shoulders.
“No, I haven’t.” I shook my head. I guess he was amazed at that revelation; his open mouth turned up into a smile.
“Yeah right!” he snorted and took a sip of his drink.
“What, do you think I’m lying to you?” I couldn’t help but look him directly in the eyes.
“What about the Seaside books? Did you read any of them?”
“No, I haven’t. Everyone I know has though. I suppose that’s why you’re so popular these days?” I shrugged and finished my beer.
He twitched his lips into a smirk. “Yeah… I think you’re lying to me.” He scratched his forehead again.