Chapter Four
Four
Ryker
“Thank you both,” Sadie says, looking across the booth at me and Ginny toward the end of the night.
“Yeah, we promise not to be too difficult,” Beckett assures us.
Something lodges in my throat—surprise, mostly. Maybe a little pride. We don’t do a lot of mush in our family, and I never expected to be anyone’s first pick for something like this. Not even my own brother’s.
“Hell yeah,” I say, high-fiving him. “You’re stuck with me now.”
Beckett laughs. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I lean back in my seat, heart thumping. Best man. Huh.
That means wedding planning, more meetings, tastings and fittings and dinners…and more time with Ginny.
I glance at her next to me, where she’s been forced to be all night. She’s mid-sip, totally unaware that she’s the best part of this gig. For once, I don’t mind all the wedding crap. Not if it means getting a few extra hours in her orbit.
Sadie and Beckett stand and slide out of the booth, tossing their napkins on the table like they’ve just wrapped up a five-course meal instead of two rounds of fries and a couple of beers.
I wave them off when they reach for their wallets.
I’ve got the bill. I do own the place, after all.
Mikey was ready to let it go, and I needed an investment.
Not many people know that, and I’m fine keeping it that way.
Sadie looks over at Ginny. “You good?”
Ginny nods, barely. Her spine’s straight, her expression neutral, but I can tell she’s debating whether to bolt.
Beckett slaps my shoulder on the way out. “Try not to say anything completely inappropriate for five minutes.”
“No promises,” I call as they head for the door.
And then it’s just me and her.
Mikey’s hums around us—pool balls cracking, beer bottles clinking—but all I can hear is her breath as she exhales slowly, like she’s bracing for something. Or trying not to want it.
I look over at the dartboards. There’s one open. “You up for a round?”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Of darts? Didn’t I already tell you never again?”
“I meant karaoke. Thought I’d serenade you with some Bon Jovi.”
Her lips twitch. “God, no.”
“Then I suppose it will have to be darts. Seems we’re going to be spending some time together, so we might as well be friendly, right?”
She gives me a look. “Yeah, because that always goes so well for our families.” She sighs, like she’s already regretting this. “Fine. One round.”
I rise to grab the darts from the bar and hand her three. “What should we bet?”
She spins one of the darts between her fingers, and her eyes cut to mine, dark and unreadable. “You already took my virginity,” she says.
I blink. “I did?”
The corner of her mouth lifts, slow and wicked. “Just kidding.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Jesus, woman. You’re dangerous.”
She shrugs, all innocence and sharp edges. “Winner picks the prize.”
“Winner’s choice?” I ask, stepping into position beside her. “You sure about that?”
She lines up next to me, brushing her shoulder against mine. The contact is brief but electric, like the air between us shifted.
“You scared?” she asks softly.
“Terrified,” I murmur. Because yeah, she could wreck me, and I think she knows it.
I throw first. Bullseye. Her eyes widen. She didn’t expect that.
“Your turn.”
She steps forward and tosses. Just off-center. “Lucky shot.”
I scoff. “You keep telling yourself that.”
We fall into a rhythm—throw, tease, taunt. The distance between us shrinks with every exchange, tension curling around us like smoke. I forget the bar. I forget the damn game. All I see is her, Ginny Dempsey, with her razor wit and guarded eyes, daring me to look closer.
On the final throw, she sinks a triple twenty.
I let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
She walks toward me, slow and deliberate, her smirk firmly in place. “You just got beat by a Dempsey.”
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. “Twice now,” I murmur. “And I’m not even mad about it.”
She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the citrus in her shampoo. Her chin tips up, defiant, but her eyes dart to my mouth for a moment. “I’m not collecting my prize tonight,” she says, and her voice isn’t as steady as she probably wants it to be.
“No?”
“No.”
I step in closer. “So what is the prize, winner?”
Her eyes move past me, toward the back of the bar.
The private room waits in shadows, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain like a dare.
I remember how it felt the last time we were back there, her lips on mine, her breath warm against my neck, her fingers gripping my shirt, like she couldn’t get me close enough.
My voice drops low. “Wanna go back there?”
She tilts her head like she’s weighing her options, but I can already see the flicker in her eyes. That fire’s lit. The question is whether she’ll let it burn.
“Are you always this predictable?” she asks.
“Only when I’m dying to see if lightning can strike twice.”
She bites her lip, and I feel it like a punch to the gut. “It can’t,” she says.
But she doesn’t step away.
Instead, she lifts her chin, eyes sweeping the row of pool tables against the far wall. “There are plenty of pool tables here,” she says. “I’d rather beat you at pool in front of all of Paradise.”
I grin. “So you want to humiliate me publicly now?”
She tosses a glance over her shoulder, already walking. “Only a little.”
I follow her to the farthest table tucked in the corner, not minding at all. Not when she’s walking like that, hip-sway confident, knowing damn well I’m watching.
She reaches for a cue stick and chalks the tip, like she’s done it a hundred times before. There’s something hypnotic about the way she moves, like she’s in control of the whole room and doesn’t care who knows it. Maybe she brought me back here to remind me I don’t hold all the cards.
“Let’s lag for it,” she says, grabbing two cue balls from the rack and handing me one.
“Fair.” I roll the cool weight of it in my palm, then take my stance behind the head string. “You know the rules?”
She turns and shoots me a look. “I grew up in this bar. Don’t insult me.”
We shoot at the same time. I intentionally overshoot just enough to let her win, though the competitor in me twitches at the loss. Her ball bounces off the foot rail, drifts back smooth as silk, and stops inches from the head rail. Closer than mine by a mile.
She raises a brow, satisfaction practically radiating from her. “Looks like I win.”
I chuckle, unable to help it. “Again.”
She meets my gaze with one that’s cool and unreadable, but there’s heat there too, banked and controlled, the way a wildfire waits for the wind.
The real question isn’t stripes or solids. “What game are we playing?”
That’s what I want to know. And not just about pool.
“I’ll let you pick something,” she says with a smile.
I let the silence stretch. “Strip pool.”
She freezes, cue stick in hand. “Strip pool?”
I nod. “For every missed shot, one article of clothing comes off.”
She just stares at me. No smile. No sarcasm. Nothing but that unreadable expression that makes it impossible to know if I’ve crossed a line or opened a door.
And then, just barely, the corner of her mouth curves. “Set it up,” she says.
My eyebrows shoot high. “Seriously?”
“Eight ball,” she says. “Let’s go.”
I rack the balls fast, but my hands aren’t steady. It’s hard to focus when she’s bending over the table like that, stretching in those jeans, the curve of her waist begging for my hands. Her hips sway just enough to make me forget how numbers work.
She lines up the break and sends the cue ball flying.
Crack.
Two solids drop instantly. Clean. No hesitation.
Shit.
She circles the table, smooth, confident, eyes on the layout like she’s working a puzzle. Then, another shot. And another. Four shots in, the only balls left on the felt are mine. I’m not just turned on. I’m impressed.
I haven’t even lifted my cue.
She straightens, cue stick propped casually against her shoulder, and plants her hands on her hips like she’s staking a claim. Her smile blooms wide. “The winner gets to choose.”
I lean against the table, letting my gaze drag down her body and back up again. I’m not even trying to hide it, though my heartbeat’s punching through my ribs like it’s trying to reach her.
“So I’ve heard,” I tell her. “What do you want, sweetheart?”
Ginny tilts her head. Her eyes stay focused on mine, but there’s something in them now, something less playful. “I want to go home,” she says quietly. “Alone.”
I blink, not sure I heard her right. Not after that look in her eyes. Not after the way she just worked me over like a fantasy in motion.
I push off the table, slow and deliberate. “You’re missing out.”
She smiles, just a hint, but it’s enough to wreck me. “I know from experience that’s probably true.”
That twists something inside me I didn’t expect. Not lust, or not just that, anyway. It’s a rejection, but it feels heavier. Like I lost something I didn’t even know I wanted until she put it back on the shelf.
I step closer, enough to feel her warmth again. “Then what’s stopping you?”
She shrugs. But it’s not flippant, it’s defensive. Like she can’t let herself soften for one more second. “I’m not in the right place for anything now,” she says. “Not even a casual…scratch.”
I study her—the calm mask, the dry wit, the confidence that shines through everything she does. Underneath it there’s tension. Maybe regret. Maybe fear.
“Just figured we could help each other out,” I murmur. “Nothing complicated.”
She huffs a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “How could it not be complicated?”
“It worked out last time,” I tell her. “And I should know. I’m allergic to complications. Hives and everything.”
That earns a genuine smile, but then she shakes her head. “If I’m ever in a position to have an itch scratched,” she says softly, “I’ll call you.”
I cross my arms, not quite ready to let this go. “Promise?”