Betting on Bailey

Nerd guy - whose name is Michael - tries to aim for a striped yellow ball at the far end of the table and misses, and it’s me again. Luckily, he’s left me with an incredibly easy shot - the ball I’m aiming for is only inches away from the pocket. It rolls in.

Three balls. I’ve managed to sink three balls. This is beyond awesome. This is stupendous.

My streak continues. Nothing dramatic - I still miss far more balls than I make, but I realize something. When I was playing with Trevor, if I missed a shot, he’d take advantage by clearing the table. Today, since I’m playing with an opponent that’s as bad as I am, the game is much more evenly balanced, and the coaching that Sebastian and Daniel have provided me is helping. It’s really, really helping. I’m keeping all the instructions I’ve heard from them in mind. Eyes on the tip of my cue. Keeping my head down while I take the shot. Steady and slow, with no sudden movements…

And then, it’s time for a shot at the eight ball. I close my eyes and mutter a small prayer to the universe. Please, I ask. I really want this.

I miss.

Crap, I mutter under my breath. Crap, crap, fucking crap. I move to the side to let Michael take his shot. Sebastian’s talking to Juliette, who must have come in at some point while I was playing. She’s gesturing at him angrily, and they look like they are having some kind of argument. Daniel comes over to talk to me. “You are doing really well,” he says. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I missed the shot at the eight.” My voice is disconsolate.

“So what? The game’s not over yet. Your opponent still has two balls left, and he hasn’t made two shots in a row all night long. There’s an excellent chance you are going to get another try at this.”

He’s absolutely right. I just need to keep this in perspective. Sure enough, as Daniel has predicted, the guy misses and I get another go. It’s not going to be easy - the eight ball is all the way on the far end of the table. Since I have almost no chance at it, I just go through the motions. I mark my pocket and I chalk my cue, and I aim, and wham.

There must be a fairy godmother.

Because that ball?

That sweet, precious eight-ball?

Rolls into the pocket.

I have won my first pool game.

I squeal like Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, jumping up and down with gleeful excitement. “I won,” I shriek in Daniel and Sebastian’s direction, but they aren’t looking at my face. Their eyes are glued to my chest. “Oh come on,” I flush, getting closer to them so they are the only people that can hear my next set of words. “My face is up here, you know.”

“I know,” Sebastian says, unabashed. “I wasn’t looking at your face.” He puts an arm around my waist and draws me in. “Now I am,” he mutters, his lips so close to mine that I stop breathing in reaction to his nearness. “Congratulations, Bailey,” he says. Then he dips his head toward my lips, and kisses me.

He smells like musk and sandalwood and man. His kiss is soft but insistent, and I yield, parting my lips and deepening contact as if I can’t get enough of him. Forgotten is the pool hall and my opponent. I ignore Clark’s slack-jawed stare and Juliette’s narrowed eyes, and I kiss Sebastian Ardalan, bad boy celebrity chef, strong, tattooed Sebastian Ardalan, and it is so good. My hands come up to hold onto his waist, and the blood pounds in my ears, and I am helpless and aching for more.

We pull away slowly from each other as he breaks the kiss. In his eyes, I see the same hazy lust as I’m feeling. Then he leans in for one more brief kiss. “The match isn’t over,” he says hoarsely. “First one to win two games, remember?” He shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips. “A pool game has never been more inconvenient.”

My head's still spinning as I walk back to the table. My focus isn’t on the game. It’s on the very public kiss that Sebastian just gave me. As much as I’m trying not to think about it, I can’t help it. What does that kiss mean? What’s going to happen next? And most importantly, what does Daniel think about it?

Distracted as I am, I promptly lose the next two games. Clark glares at me as Michael pockets the eight-ball to win. “Sebastian, you’re up next,” he says curtly. “And try to win your match, damn it.”