Chapter 18
She wanted to go home.
Not to her parents’ house—but back to Philly. Back to her real life.
Tabitha sipped her lukewarm beer, her fingers loosely wrapped around a pool cue as she waited for her turn. She was bored. Deeply, achingly bored.
The bar hadn’t changed. Ever. Same sticky, wobbly stools. Same loud music thumping through outdated speakers. Even the playlist hadn’t evolved—she could practically recite the order of the songs from memory.
Her high school friends were scattered throughout the crowd, mingling with old enemies.
Leandra was in the corner, baby bump on display as she tossed her head back and laughed at something a man—who definitely wasn’t Martin—had said.
And of course, Martin himself was here. Not watching his pregnant wife.
No, he was glaring at Tabitha from across the bar, his expression a thundercloud.
So maybe not everything was exactly the same.
She turned back to the game, doing her best to ignore him.
She was playing against Tim, who had graduated a few years ahead of her.
He was taking forever to line up his shot, his stance exaggerated like he was starring in a tournament.
Tabitha didn’t bother to hide her irritation.
The angle was wrong—anyone could see it.
Sure enough, the cue ball bounced around aimlessly, tapping a few solids before skittering away from the obvious striped ball perched at the lip of a corner pocket.
“Your turn, sugar!” Tim called out over the noise, clearly unaware of how condescending he sounded.
Tabitha examined the table. She could end the game in a single turn. But then what? Another beer? A forced dance with a man who smelled like fryer grease? Winning this game was the only thing holding off the tedium.
She lined up her shot with steady precision, grateful for something—anything—to focus on.
Maybe the beer tasted terrible because her palate had changed. She’d grown used to better things. A rich merlot. An oaky chardonnay. That pinot noir she’d found in the boutique wine shop just two blocks from her townhouse.
The cue cracked, and two balls dropped cleanly into opposite pockets. She didn’t glance at Tim. He was probably scowling. Men around here didn’t enjoy being beaten by women. Especially not in public.
Another shot lined up. She leaned in, released, then straightened—
A shift in the atmosphere stopped her cold.
Voices quieted. Then came the buzzing hum of excitement.
She didn’t need to look to know what was happening. Stacy’s delighted squeal confirmed it. Her friend raced across the bar and threw herself into John’s waiting arms. He caught her easily, spun her around, then kissed her like a man who didn’t care who was watching.
And there he was.
Ramzi.
Standing beside John, tall enough to see over the heads of the crowd. His eyes were locked on hers.
Her heart stuttered.
The fatigue from earlier vanished in an instant. She didn’t feel tired anymore. Or bored. She felt alive.
She thought of his hands on her body, the sound of his voice in the dark, the way he’d worshipped every inch of her the night before. Desire curled low in her belly.
“You gonna take your shot or are ya conceding the game?” Tim’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and sour.
It took real effort to tear her eyes away from Ramzi.
But when she did, Tabitha saw exactly what Tim was hoping for—she’d concede the game, sparing him the humiliation of being beaten by a woman.
Not a chance.
He was already wearing that smug, patronizing expression she’d come to recognize—and despise—in far too many men. That sealed it. She shifted her stance and bent over the table, letting her mind focus on geometry and angles instead of Ramzi’s gaze still burning into her skin.
Four shots later, she sank the final ball. Tim muttered a string of expletives under his breath, and Tabitha straightened just as Ramzi appeared at her side.
“Nice shot,” he murmured, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.
Then he turned to Tim, who was now loudly complaining that the cue stick was warped.
“Mind if I take the next game?” Ramzi asked politely.
Tim snorted. “Whatever, dude,” he replied, handing over the pool stick with a little too much flair, like he might toss it. But at the last second, he held on and turned away with a scowl.
Tabitha smothered a laugh, wondering if Ramzi had just pushed all the right buttons on purpose. Maybe they were one step away from a bar fight.
Except… they weren’t.
She noticed Ramzi’s bodyguards—men she hadn’t even realized had entered the bar—had subtly repositioned themselves. They hadn’t spoken. They hadn’t glared. They’d simply moved. With impressive, silent precision, they created a new energy in the room.
And just like that, Tim’s hostility fizzled out.
Tabitha blinked. That was… fascinating. She’d bet good money those men could teach a masterclass in crowd control. Or negotiation tactics. Or corporate intimidation.
But she had other things to worry about at the moment.
Namely, Ramzi, who was now leaning into her, crowding her slightly against the pool table. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to make her nerves tingle.
“Think you can do that again?” he asked, his voice like velvet and sin.
Was he talking about pool?
Or last night?
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I think I can.”
She felt daring. Reckless. A little drunk on him and not nearly drunk enough on the awful beer.
Ramzi’s smile turned lazy and heated. “Good. Show me.”
He stepped back, finally giving her space. But the warmth of his presence lingered.
With casual grace, he set the triangle, racking up the balls.
Tabitha’s eyes dropped to his hands, then to his forearms. The sleeves of his French blue dress shirt were rolled up, revealing tan skin and powerful muscles.
The top buttons were undone at the collar, just enough to show a tempting glimpse of his throat.
Why, exactly, was she suddenly obsessed with the man’s Adam’s apple?
She must be losing her mind.
And yet… she didn’t care.
“You break,” he said, stepping back to let her take position.
Tabitha picked up the cue ball and walked to the end of the table. A flicker of nerves tickled her spine. Playing against Tim had been easy. But Ramzi? She had a feeling he didn’t do anything without precision.
Still, she blocked out the noise and focused. Lined up her shot. Then took a slow, steadying breath.
The crack of the cue ball splitting the pyramid echoed across the bar.
Two balls sank neatly into opposite corners.
“Good break,” Ramzi said, clearly impressed.
“Thanks.” Tabitha straightened slowly, catching him watching her like she was the only person in the bar.
And suddenly, it felt like she was.
The music, the crowd, the haze of beer and neon—it all faded into background static.
It was just her.
And Ramzi.
Alone.