Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
“What’s going on between you and Carson?”
Booths line the walls of Frankie’s, a sports bar located on the Bay boardwalk, and Aspen’s gaze is intent on mine over the side of one.
“What do you mean?” Did I mishear the implication? Must’ve, given the blaring commentary flooding the place.
Aspen’s look is all raised brows and deliberate wide eyes. “Come on. You’ve been spending a lot of time together.” She nudges her elbows onto the table. “He asked about you more than once last night, you know?”
“He did?”
“Mm-hmm. And after we ate, Reese, Dylan, and I stuck around the boardwalk. But Carson? Took off.”
She pauses for effect, waiting.
I cave. “Yeah, he came to see me.”
That lights her face right up.
“But,” I add, twirling my straw, “he’s teaching me to swim. That’s all.”
“He is? What about Reese?”
“Not anymore. I think he probably jumped at the chance to dump me on Carson.” I’m only half-joking.
She hums, easing back. “There’s definitely something—”
Reese interrupts by sliding into the booth, a Corona in hand and a too-big grin. “What are you two gossiping about?”
She gives a vague flick of her fingers while he stretches a tattooed arm behind her.
Frankie’s hums with the usual sports-day-chaos.
Laughter ricochets off the walls, the screech of stools drag across tile, and orders are shouted over the bar.
My gaze roams. Dylan’s at the dartboard.
Carson… isn’t far. He’s at the bar, and the girl beside him is all braid and curves, poured into a ruched two-piece.
Aspen’s foot taps mine. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
She tilts her chin. “What do you think?”
What do I think? I look again—at her head-turning profile, the way she leans just a little too close to Carson.
“I don’t think anything,” I reply, swallowing a mouthful of my too-sweet daiquiri. All I taste is regret. I should’ve stuck with my usual, something strong enough to combat the sudden heat prickling under my skin.
Reese is curious. “What’s this about?”
Aspen gestures lazily. “Carson.”
He catches on fast, brows jumping. “So?”
I’m down to the watery end of my drink, sucking at ice, but for some reason I keep at it.
“So?” Aspen echoes. “Don’t you think Carson and Brielle have gotten… close?”
“Because he’s teaching her to swim? I did that too.” His chuckle is low. “Can’t say it took though. Better luck with Carson, darling.”
“Not just that. She also stayed over,” Aspen points out. “Slept in his bed.”
“Which was completely platonic,” I clarify, finally setting my drink down. “And only because no one was over at mine. We had a whole back-and-forth about who’d take the couch, trust me.”
Aspen’s unconvinced, while Reese takes a pull from his beer, eyeing her over the rim.
“So sharing a bed means something now? That the argument?”
A pause blooms in the air, but I’m turning sideways again before I can decipher it. The brunette’s hand hovers midair, inches from Carson’s arm. I look away before it lands.
“No,” Aspen exhales. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Sure sounded like it.” Reese’s tone is odd, holding a note I’ve never heard from him before.
Whatever passes between them, I miss it, my attention drawn—magnetised—to the six-foot-something swimmer who’s soothed me to sleep before.
His arms are bare of ink, but the memory of how they felt wrapped around me fills them in.
The girl’s hands are fixed at her sides, and the misplaced relief that sparks in me is short-lived, because Carson’s eyes lift then—locking with mine over her head.
He straightens.
Backlit bottles carve definition into his face, but it’s the shift in his expression that holds me. The blank mask I hadn’t realised he was wearing slipping away, replaced by something warmer. Aimed straight at me.
I try to smile, but it unravels at the edges.
He doesn’t smile back. Just dips toward the brunette, says something short, then pivots my way.
Her disbelief is plain as she watches him go. It’s a second later when her gaze finds mine, then bounces between Carson and me before something clicks behind her lashes. She mouths something I think I catch.
Sorry, girl?
Maybe. I can’t do more than offer a confused smile, and when she answers with a wiggle of her brows, I’m even more lost.
I don’t have time to puzzle it out, though. Carson’s already closing the distance, and, for some reason, the last thing I want is him tangled in whatever this was. Although Reese and Aspen currently seem miles away, locked in some silent battle of wills.
I slide out of the booth, mumble a quick, “Be right back,” and cross the room to meet him halfway.
The static in me abates with every forward step. By the time I reach him, his pull drowns out everything else, and my smile feels truer. “Wanna play a game of pool?”
He considers, tongue peeking at the corner of his mouth. “You any good?” There’s no condescension in it, just curiosity.
“I can manage,” I say, going for coy.
His gaze flickers, easing in a way that feels almost unguarded. “Let’s have it, Jameson.”
Then, his hand. On the small of my back, light enough it’s practically nothing.
So why does every thought in my head slam to a halt?
It isn’t the first time he’s guided me somewhere, not by a long shot, but usually it’s by the hand. Not this. This… this feels different. Intimate. Especially when his fingers shift, brushing the skin left exposed by my open-back top.
I swallow. This isn’t the first time I’ve sensed this foreign undercurrent between us, but lately it seems to be pressing in as if daring me to give it a name. Maybe Aspen isn’t entirely off base, even if I want her to be.
But it’s not what she thinks.
It’s loneliness seeking loneliness. A familiarity in the ache. It’s easy to confuse it for something more. Easier still to step aside and dodge the weight of his stare.
We pass Dylan, still locked in a game of darts, then round the bend to the pool tables.
Only one’s free. Or, almost.
A guy who looks fresh out of a Pine Oak catalogue leans against it, cue propped on his shoulder like an accessory. His smirk aims at me, but when he speaks, it’s for Carson.
“Play a game, man?”
Carson steps in until our shoulders brush. “Already got an opponent.”
Country-club amps up the cockiness. “Scared you’ll lose in front of your girl? Tell you what—if I beat you, I get her number.”
My smile is light as air. “I don’t have a phone.”
His gaze dips to the device peeking from my pocket. Still, I don’t blink.
“Fine,” he drawls, offering the cue like it’s a gift. “Then you play me. Promise I’ll go easy.”
Carson intercepts, snatching the stick before I can touch it. “One game.”
I don’t argue. Chances are I’d regret it somewhere between the first shot and the first sleazy once-over if I rose to the challenge.
A coin flip later, names exchanged, and Nathan watches as Carson breaks. It’s a crisp thwack that scatters the balls clean across the baize. Two sink in opposite pockets as effortless as breathing.
Minutes in, the outcome is clear. Carson’s going to win.
Every stroke is deliberate, every angle is calculated, like he’s playing chess while Nathan’s barely keeping up at checkers.
Nathan’s stature remains impervious to the fact, his Rolex glinting under ambient lighting as he misses yet another shot.
He leans on his cue, flashing me teeth. “You gonna kiss your boyfriend when he loses?”
“He’s not—”
“I won’t lose,” Carson inserts, lining up another shot. He’s a picture of composure, captured under a snapshot of confidence.
Nathan scoffs, making a little flourish toward the spread. “Bro, I’m stripes.”
Carson stills mid-aim. He doesn’t look at Nathan. At least, not right away. His focus lingers on the table. Six solids. Three stripes. Then his gaze lifts to mine, and in it is a spark.
My returning grin answers, Seriously?
But instead of calling him out, he just says, “My bad,” and steps around the table.
My lips part. He’s letting the hustle slide?
He is.
He circles the felt and only when his arm purposefully brushes against mine do I realise: I’m in for a show. He lines up again, and suddenly it feels like the whole bar is orbiting him. He’s not just playing now, he’s performing.
One shot, then another. Each one fluid, like he’s painting lines across the green instead of sinking balls.
His shirt shifts as he leans, a flash of golden skin, and the thought hits me like a break shot. Carson is hot. Not just attractive, magnetic. It’s in the way he zeroes in, the confidence that doesn’t need words to prove itself.
I flick a glance left. I’m not the only one seeing it. A pair of girls at the next table track him openly, following every bend and strike. It makes me shift, that unwelcome pang crawling back in. He can have anyone here.
And yet… the second the final ball sinks, it’s me he finds. Me he throws a wink at.
My stomach becomes a fluttering mess, abated only slightly by movement in my periphery. Nathan’s ears blaze, and his grip on the cue is so tight his knuckles blanch. With a clatter, he slams it onto the table and steps forward. “You’re a fucking cheat.”
Carson rises to his full height, unhurried, and meets him stare for stare. Nathan falters—of course he does—and it’s not long before he storms off, muttering curses as he goes.
“Someone’s a sore loser.” Carson taps the table once, moving toward me.
I laugh lightly. “You’re really good, Carson.”
“I put on my A-game.”
“Because you wanted to beat him?”
That smile, the one that slips in sideways, and makes him boyish, appears. “Maybe I wanted to impress you.”
I laugh again, because what else can I do? It fades fast when I notice the smile’s already gone.
“Did it work?”
He’s joking, right? It doesn’t sound like he’s joking.
My teeth catch my lip. “Look around, Carson. I think you impressed everyone watching.”
His gaze doesn’t budge. “I don’t care about them.”
“Well, everything you do impresses me.” It slips out a little too raw, so I scramble to flick it lighter. “Seriously, is there anything you’re bad at?”
“I can think of a few instances where I’ve fucked up.”
“Really? When?”
“First time I met you. Second time I met you. Pretty much every time after that.”
I pause. That’s… not what I meant. “Well, we’re good now, right? Honestly, you’re one of my closest friends, so none of that matters.”
He looks away, a sigh tugging at his chest. Did I say the wrong thing? But then his eyes come back again. “Yeah. Don’t you owe me something, though?”
You gonna kiss your boyfriend when he loses?
For a second, I falter. Then, “Oh, screw it,” I mutter, kissing one cheek, then the other.
I pull back, expecting a grin. Maybe a laugh.
Nothing. Just his face, holding something so heavy it knocks the breath right out of me.