Chapter 8 Cassie
Cassie
Cole Taylor is difficult to keep up with.
Literally.
He’s firmly ignoring my stream of questions as he walks ahead of me down the darkening city street, hands deep in the pockets of his black jacket. His pace is fast; he’s about a foot taller than me and he’s not wearing heels that make it hard to walk faster than an office-appropriate trot.
“Earth to Cole,” I call after him. “Seriously, where are we going? Because I’ve been in these heels all day and I’d love to sit down. I mean, it’s okay if we’re walking more, but I—”
He spins around, and I nearly crash into his chest.
“Enough. Jesus, 007.” He stares down at me, his emerald-green eyes dark in the fading light. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“007?”
What kind of nickname is that?
“Yeah. 007. You’re an agent, and I think you’re going to be the death of me.”
He points his forefinger, miming shooting me through the heart.
I try not to let my mouth twist into a smile. “Hilarious. And yes, I do stop talking sometimes. But only when people ask nicely, which you haven’t. So, let me ask again. Where are we going?”
Without breaking eye contact, Cole reaches above my head to push open the door we’ve stopped in front of—okay, to be fair, he did time that pretty well—and I follow him inside.
I’m mostly just grateful to be out of the cold.
…until I glance around. “Seriously?”
It’s a dimly lit townie dive bar called Murphy’s. Faded polaroids of bar patrons line the walls. All the chairs are mismatched. A few old men look up from the bar to stare at us.
I shrug off my puffer jacket and chase after Cole as he leads us to a table in the corner, warmth slowly creeping back into my hands.
“You want to have this business meeting in a dive bar? The cafe I chose was really nice. It was clean. There were no sticky carpets or hundred-year-old men drinking Coors Light. It’s one of my favorite cafes in Boston. ”
He shrugs. “And this is one of my favorite bars in Boston.”
I glance around. “This? As someone with access to your contract paperwork, I know you make enough to afford drinks somewhere that wasn’t around when the Boston Tea Party went down.”
“Sorry they don’t do espresso martinis or whatever the hell. Here, no hockey fans bother me. If anyone gives me shit, Betty ejects them.”
He nods at the bartender. She’s a gray-haired older woman with a full sleeve of tattoos, who certainly looks like she could single-handedly kick a whole hockey team out of her bar if she felt like it.
I sense I’ve lost the battle and will also lose the war if I don’t move on.
I retrieve the folder from my bag, gingerly placing it down onto the sticky table between us. I know Cole’s trying to mess with me here, obviously I know that. But despite my optimism, I’m not afraid to put up a fight.
“All right. We’re here, so we might as well make the most of it. Let me buy you a drink. You strike me as a beer or liquor kind of man.”
“You’re not buying me a drink.”
“Think of it as a peace offering,” I insist. “Plus, I’m just going to expense it to Rick’s account, anyway.”
“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll take a non-alcoholic beer.”
I feel a soft blip of surprise. In my experience, most hockey players accept alcohol if someone’s offering.
I try very hard not to think about the fact that I know he used to drink, because I read every interview available with Cole between the ages of seventeen to twenty-two, and saw plenty of pictures of him drinking with his teammates after big wins.
“You don’t drink?” I ask lightly.
“Nope. Well, I haven’t in years. It can be hard on the body, and I want my career to be as long as possible. And yes, I’ve caused all these issues for my public image even without the use of booze.”
“Noted.” Huh, after all this time, Cole Taylor is still surprising me. “Okay, then. One non-alcoholic beer coming right up.”
At the bar, I order for Cole and then pick the most sugary-sounding cocktails I can find on the plastic menu for myself. It’s called a Cape Cod Colada. It comes with a maraschino cherry on top and a tiny pink umbrella sitting in the glass. I’m immediately obsessed.
Back at the table, Cole stares at it with obvious disdain. “What the hell is that?”
“I’m not taking judgement on my choice of cocktail from a guy who doesn’t even drink.”
“I don’t need to have a real beer in my hand to see that’s a ridiculous-looking drink. It looks like someone melted down a Barbie.”
“I have a sweet tooth,” I mutter.
I close my lips around the scarlet cherry, plucking it from the stem. Sweetness fills my mouth. It tastes like summer, far away from New England’s approaching winter.
Cole’s eyes drop to my lips and his dark eyebrows twitch, his jaw clenching like he’s pissed off about something. My stomach swoops. I quickly swallow the cherry and take a long sip of my cocktail—mostly just to distract myself from how it felt to have Cole’s eyes on my lips.
“So,” I say, quickly pivoting, “now we’re at the sticky dive bar, will you sign the document and agree to the plan?”
He takes a sip of his drink and shrugs. “Maybe I’ll think more clearly at a different bar. There’s a good one in Southie I used to hang out at.”
“Cole, I’m not bar-hopping with you all night,” I say, exasperated. “Stop messing with me.”
“I thought that was the deal.” He rises to his feet, his full height towering over where I sit. “Where I go, you follow.”
“That is the deal, technically.
His eyes drift across the bar and land on the pool table in the corner. “Fine, we’ll stay. But you have to shoot some pool with me. Then maybe I’ll consider signing your little document.”
“Fine.”
I follow him to the table. At least this is preferable to chasing after him through the cold again.
I watch as Cole takes aim, breaking and then sinking three stripes easily. It’s no surprise he’s good at pool. He has an athlete’s sharp eye and total physical command of his body, after all.
I pick up a cue, feeling its weight in my hand. It’s been a while since I’ve played, too. Last time was with Britt when her last situationship chef dumped her, and we spent a night bar-hopping her sorrows away.
I take a few clumsy practice shots. “Darn it.” I draw my cue back and nearly knock over a guy passing by our table. “Sorry!” I yelp behind me.
Cole huffs out a humorless laugh. “You’re terrible.”
“Gee, thanks. Very encouraging.”
He must take pity on my pathetic showing, because he sighs and waves me over toward him.
“Here. Do it like this.” He demonstrates, leaning down and stretching out his arm to span across the green felt of the table. My eyes scan his form, lingering on the flexed muscles in his forearms and the bulge of his biceps under his shirt.
“Got it?” he asks, and I quickly drag my eyes away from his muscles, because I am a professional.
I try to mimic his pose with the cue. He shakes his head like he’s disgusted by my mere attempt. “No. For god’s sake, sunshine. Not like that. Here.”
Sunshine.
I know it’s a sarcastic nickname, probably intended to irritate me. But it does something wild to my pulse.
I don’t have time to object before he’s closed the space between us. My breath catches. I’m almost shocked at just how gentle his touch is as he corrects my form. He nudges my arms into the proper position, one hand shifting my hip before dropping back to his side.
Not that I thought this NHL star was about to forcefully manhandle me. But Cole is usually like a pickaxe into ice. Blunt, cold, hard enough to leave damage wherever he touches.
Instead, his touch is firm but… careful.
My face heats as a rush of nervous warmth burns through my body. I blink hard, willing my focus back to the table, and I try to arrange my arms into a decent position.
My stomach flips as I see his eyes drag down my body sidelong.
Assessing my form.
Just assessing my form, right?
“That’s it.” His voice has a low, rough timbre. “You got it.”
His praise sinks right through to some part of me I’d much rather ignore.
Flustered, I take the shot, and the white ball veers off wildly to the left, missing the green ball entirely.
“Guess I need some practice,” I say sheepishly, rising back up to standing. “But anyway… What can I do to get you to sign off on the plan? Rock, paper, scissors?”
He doesn’t seem amused by my attempt at humor. Instead, his eyebrows raise as if he’s had an idea. “If you sink the 8-ball before I do, then I’ll sign your document. Then I’ll go along with your plan.”
I give a little nod, trying to keep my face neutral. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” I stick out my hand, and Cole shakes it. “But you start. Show me how it’s done, All Star.”
If he can give me multiple sardonic nicknames, I can give him one too.
Cole sinks three stripes, then hits one more that rolls to a stop just before the pocket.
He nods at me, a slight smirk on his face. “Your turn.”
Now for the fun part.
I swing the cue up to the table. Muscle memory comes back to me: I line up, aim, and confidently thrust the cue forward. The ball rolls right into the pocket.
Then I do it again.
Four times.
I bite back a giggle as realization dawns on Cole’s face, those deep-green eyes glinting. “You know how to play.”
I flash him my most innocent smile. “What do you mean?”
“You hustled me,” he growls. “You pretended like you couldn’t hit the ball for shit.”
“You were the one who suggested the competition. I just let you make your own assumptions.”
Cole leans forward to take his shot. I hide my smile with my hand when he misses. I think I’ve rattled him.
Leaning against the table, I measure the perfect angle before I draw the cue back and shoot. The white ball collides with the blue in a fast, clean shot with a satisfying click.
Cole crosses his arms, irritation radiating off him. “Where the hell did you learn this?”
“I’m more of a cafe girl now,” I explain lightly, circling the table for a clearer angle on the next shot, “but my mom bartended for years while I was growing up. It was just the two of us, and she couldn’t afford a babysitter.
I’d mostly just do homework and watch hockey on TV in the backroom, but sometimes she’d let me hang out in the actual bar. ”
Clack. I sink the orange.
“And guess what every bar had? A pool table. Trust me, all the regulars were way too keen to teach a kid how to play. They thought it was hilarious. I ended up getting pretty good.”
His eyes track me as I circle the table.
“Excuse me,” I say, squeezing past him. I can feel the heat of his body as I move by.
I have to lean half over the table to make a clean shot at the black.
Heat simmers under my skin as I feel Cole’s presence just inches from mine.
I can’t help but wonder if his eyes are on my face, or my hands, or my ass.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of how my back curves as I lean, how my thighs shift against each other.
I take a breath, and—clack. The black ball disappears into the pocket.
Jackpot.
“All of this to say…” I straighten, tilting my head up to meet his eyes. “Underestimate me at your own risk.”
Energy crackles between us.
His mouth tugs up into a warm, dark smirk. Wait, is Cole Taylor actually amused by me outsmarting him?
“You,” he says slowly in that deep voice, drawing the word out, low and hot, “are full of surprises, Cassie Wells.”
I quickly grab the document from our table, click the pen, and hand it over to Cole. He drops the paper onto the green felt and signs it.
He thrusts the paper back toward me, muttering under his breath. “Should’ve gone with darts.”
I smile sweetly. “I’d probably have beaten you at that, too. See you at the game tomorrow, All Star.”