Chapter Four #3
“I might burp,” I admit, wiping my wrist over my mouth.
“That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said.” Tristan winks. “Want more? I’m warning you, though—if you start belching, I’ll fall in love.”
“Gross,” I tell him, wrinkling my nose as I laugh. “That might have been a mistake,” I say, looking pointedly at the now-drained glass.
“We’ll get you some food, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” He gestures at one of the waiters milling about, and I hold on to the edge of the shuffleboard table as the full impact of the IPA hits my empty stomach.
“Whew,” I mutter, half listening as he orders whatever fried food they have. “I could kill some chicken tenders,” I tell him.
“Get your face with the game on,” Vincenzo shouts at me from across the table, tossing what looks like sand across the surface.
“Game face?” I ask, stifling a giggle.
“That is what I said, the face game.” Vincenzo claps his hands together.
“Give her a second,” Tristan yells back, his hand over mine, guiding it to a set of tiny blue pucks. My skin heats under his touch. Part of my brain recognizes that chugging the IPA was probably a bad choice, because I don’t want to move away from him.
Tristan helps me arrange the little discs behind the line closest to the end of the table.
“Okay, this is pretty simple. We’ll take turns sliding our pucks to the other end of the table.
Closest puck to the edge of their side scores, based on where it is in the marked range.
” He points at the numbers on our side: three, two, one.
“When all of our pucks are on their side, it’s their turn.
” He raises his voice, his hand still on mine. “First to twenty-one?” he asks.
Logan and Vincenzo nod, talking easily, barely paying attention to us across the table.
Tristan turns back to me, and my gaze snags on his mouth. He’s so close to me, closer than he’s ever been, and with the haze of alcohol clouding the normally loud, logical part of my brain, I want to pull him closer.
God, I’m a lightweight. Has it really been that long since I’ve had a beer?
“You can also knock off my pucks, but you risk pushing mine ahead that way, too.” He shrugs a shoulder, his dimples deep as he smiles down at me.
The way his T-shirt clings to the wall of his muscled chest should be illegal. Hell, it probably is in some states.
“Any questions?” he asks, releasing my hand.
I don’t want him to release my hand.
“Can you show me how to do it? Like a…test run?” I blurt.
His gaze darkens, and his attention slides from my eyes to my mouth, to my neck, to the hint of skin under my collared shirt.
A muscle twitches in his temple, and he nods, his throat bobbing.
I go hot all over as he steps even closer to me, his big body bracketing mine against the end of the shuffleboard table.
His chest presses against my side, the warm air of his breath gusting over the back of my neck. Goose bumps raise across my skin as a shiver goes down my spine.
I’m breathless from the gentle press of his big body against mine, my heart pounding so loud I’m not sure even the bass blaring from the speakers covers the sound of it.
Tristan’s fingertips skate over my wrist, and my eyes half close as he threads his fingers through mine, taking the puck in both our hands.
“Ready?” The word sends a bolt of desire through me, and I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He slides our hands back, and my mouth goes dry as his hips brush against my body. A quick release, and he sends the puck sailing down the board.
I watch it, holding my breath, not daring to look up at him.
The blue puck slides right off the edge of the board.
He exhales, sending the hair at the nape of my neck flying, before stepping away from me.
“A bit too hard,” I manage, still not looking at him.
“Can’t say I’ve gotten that complaint before,” he mutters, and I suck in a sharp breath.
Sharp enough that I manage to choke on my spit.
Sputtering, I cough, the moment blessedly broken as he slaps a hand across my back.
“Here,” Tristan says, passing me his beer.
“No thanks,” I wheeze, waving my hand. “One was enough for me.”
He arches a dark blond brow and takes a sip, his eyes watching me carefully, the way he has since the first day I met him. The way he has regardless of how many times I’ve gently rebuffed his flirtatiousness, settling instead for a tacit agreement of professionalism over anything else I might want.
Not that I want anything else, no matter how funny and charming and handsome he is, or how kind he’s been to me, or how clear he’s made it that he would be interested.
And not that I’ve judged the few dates I’ve been on with other men against the way all of my conversations with Tristan are easy, or the way Tristan makes me smile, or the way Tristan looks in his uniform, or the way he might look out of it.
My throat tightens, and I swallow down all of those thoughts as hard as I can.
I shouldn’t have come tonight.
I’ve kept my distance from this man for good reason, but now that he’s within arm’s reach, I don’t want to walk away.