Chapter 15
Kenzie
“Ithought this would be a good place because it’s not far from the house,” I say, rambling more than I normally do since Trevor’s been quiet for the short drive to a nearby sports bar. “Jet shouldn’t be able to get into too much mischief while we’re away.”
Before we left, I filled the food and water bowls in Jet’s ‘room.’ It’s nothing official like Banks’s room, just a kitten-proofed guest bathroom with a baby gate.
He nods, cutting the engine and pulling on a plain white baseball hat. I swipe away the odd twinge of disappointment at Trevor covering his wavy hair, knowing he prefers to keep a low profile out in public.
Anticipation sings in my veins as we silently exit his truck. Trevor’s unusual stoicism aside, I’m excited to play pool. I’ve been watching how-to videos, and I’m pretty confident I’ll pick it up quickly. It’s laden with math.
Country music and the clack of billiard balls greet us at the door followed by the scent of fried food. My stomach gurgles reflexively. I’d been too distracted by the confusing memory of Trevor’s hooded gaze tracing my hip to do more than push my single pancake around my plate earlier.
Trevor hums, the low sound sending pinpricks down my bare legs. “That smells good. Do you want something? I’m ordering fried pickles and onion rings if they have them.”
Since he follows such a tight dietary regimen during game days, Trevor enjoys the occasional treat on his days off.
“Fries and a Coke, please. I can pay for—”
“I got it.” Trevor waves me off as he beelines to the bar, ordering our food and asking about the pool tables.
Once we’re settled at the last open table, I arrange the balls in the same manner I’d seen in one of the instructional videos.
The striped ten ball keeps sticking as I roll the rack, so I pluck it up and lift the hem of my white tee to buff it.
My lips tug up after I return the ball to the table, and it rolls freely.
“The balls are racked,” I tell Trevor, setting the rack aside.
He doesn’t move from his position on the other side of the table, pool stick in hand. My roommate doesn’t even notice the perfect triangle I left behind because his gaze is fixed on my shirt. I glance down, noticing the smudges of blue cue chalk left on the fabric.
“It’s okay.” I shrug. “Can’t be worse than getting out garden dirt.”
Trevor blinks then, jolting into action. “You sure you don’t want to go first?”
“I’d prefer to calculate the angles rather than create them,” I say before I can rein in my inner nerd.
The slow smile he sends my way feels like spring sunshine warming my face. “Okay. I’ll start.”
After Trevor’s impressive break, I do some quick math to select solids or stripes. Since my good friend, the ten ball, is in the perfect position, I start with him, calling each shot before I take it. After four balls sink into their pockets, I’m out of options.
“Your turn.”
“Jeez, Kenz,” Trevor says, sliding past me to align his shot. “Are you sure you’re not hustling me?”
His slight chuckle, the way his callused hands tent over the table while his body stretches in preparation of his shot, and the fact that he shortened my name again…
I clear my throat, wishing I’d ordered an ice-cold water.
Trevor accidentally sends the cue ball skipping off the table, but instead of sulking or being irritated, his boisterous laugh draws the attention of the foursome of women playing nearby.
“Not sure you needed any more of an advantage,” he jokes before one of the women at the table beside us hands it back. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she coos with a wink.
Trevor ducks his chin, hiding his face beneath the brim of his hat before stepping close with an upturned palm. Ignoring the proffered cue ball, I glance up, meeting his gaze.
“Is she still watching?” he asks in a low murmur.
I flick my focus away before returning it to Trevor’s tense eyes. “They all are.”
The table of four friends seems very interested in us newcomers—or rather, the man wearing the heck out of a faded The White Stripes tour shirt and a pair of jeans.
Trevor frowns with a slow exhale.
“What if I…” Instead of taking the cue ball, I slide my fingers up his forearm until I’m pulling him closer by the back of his rock-hard tricep.
“What are you—”
“Just smile,” I add, pulling my lips into what I’m hoping is a flirty enough grin. “They’ll leave you alone if they think you’re with me.”
“I don’t think—”
His sentence drops off when my fingertips slide over his shoulder to play with the hair at the nape of his neck.
Trevor’s thick lashes flutter closed as a slight shudder wracks his body, sending a strange surge of power over my collarbones.
His hand dips until the back of it rests on the table, like the cue ball suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
Then Trevor’s head bends farther, surrendering until his temple rests against mine, his breathing even.
My fingers continue moving, but everything else inside me freezes. Even my trusty brain can’t rationalize why my roommate looks like he’s more blissed out than Banks on catnip.
“Are they still looking?” His husky words draw my attention to his lips.
His cupid’s bow is slightly uneven with an almost imperceptible scar line running through it. What caused that? A childhood accident? A baseball gone awry while his mask was off? My free hand drifts upward, wondering if that line is raised or—
When Trevor lifts his head, so do I, dropping my hand before glancing at the women who’ve long since returned to their game.
“The coast is clear,” I sing, snatching the cue ball and striding toward the other end of the table.
I’d planned on shooting from where I’d been, but I need a second to let my racing heartbeat settle. Recalculating angles will help with that. I don’t look up as I plan my next shot and the one after that. By the time I miss my last ball, I feel more in control of my body.
Trevor focuses on the table as he completes two shots, and then we both pause to thank the server for bringing our food and drinks to the bar shelf running the length of the wall surrounding the billiards area. Hot greasy fries and a bubbly Coke feel like much-needed sustenance.
“Glad I wasn’t the only hungry one,” Trevor says with a friendly smile, already halfway through his mustard-covered fried pickles.
The way he’s acting, like nothing happened, like he never bowed to my touch, is making me feel like I’m going insane.
It had to be a show, right? I asked him to pretend, and Trevor did so in spades.
I crunch on a perfectly salted fry, working through it in my mind.
The last few weeks with Trevor have felt…different.
Not that he’s changed.
Trevor has always been an amazing person.
For example, most people wouldn’t choose to adopt a cat in medical recovery.
And there was the time I overheard a telephone conversation with the Waves’ philanthropy manager, inquiring how he can do more to give back.
And who can forget when he went on an emergency tampon run for me, casually stating that half of the population has a menstrual cycle, so it’s no big deal for him to be photographed standing in line at CVS with a box of feminine products.
The insignificant daily details are still the same too. He’s not much of a morning person but forces himself to go through the motions. He mindlessly blows oversized, pink bubblegum bubbles while he’s doing his daily stretches. He hums while he does the dishes. He coats anything fried in mustard.
I’ve always liked Trevor. I jokingly called him my big brother because he makes me feel safe and comfortable.
But ever since the incident at the lighthouse, I’ve been…
noticing things. Like how his eyes soften when I’m speaking, or how immaculately sculpted his forearms are, or how there’s this husky undertone to his laugh.
The problem is that my very logical point from this morning still stands. The last thing I need, after untangling the emotional brain-melt of my last relationship, is a crush on my roommate, even if Trevor has a heart of gold, loves cats as much as I do, and is built like a Renaissance statue.
Also, I’m well aware of my…average attractiveness.
I have a plucky spirit and am great at numbers and keeping green things alive, but I’ve seen the kinds of women players usually date—supermodels, other athletes, and movie stars.
Not accountants from small towns. It was mind-boggling for one MLB player to want to date me, so the probability of two doing so…
It’s not even worth calculating.
But no matter how much I want to put the issue aside like a soiled napkin, I can’t.
My parents still like to joke about how I spent hours on my homework as a kid because I needed each mathematical expression to be true.
I’d work each problem backward until I confirmed I was correct.
Often, they’d go to sleep, and my desk lamp would spill light into the hallway because of my need to check my math.
What if there was a way to do that now?
The world tilts sideways as a wild thought crawls through my mind. My breathing kicks up, and for the split second before I decide to take action, I feel more reckless than when I jumped atop the dugout all those weeks ago.
Setting down my Coke, I step forward—just as Trevor swallows a mouthful of fried pickles.
“You’ve got a little something…” I let my words trail off as my hand lifts to wipe fictitious mustard from Trevor’s cupid’s bow.
He freezes, mouth half-open as if to ask a question, before my thumb slides slowly over the scar on his top lip.
Not raised. That’s the thought that pops into my mind as Trevor’s hazel irises practically vanish at my touch. I hesitate for a single slamming heartbeat before finishing my math-check by sliding my thumb between my lips with an approving hum and a coy smile.
If I thought my jump to the top of the dugout had been an out-of-body experience, it’s nothing compared to this. I’ve never in my life been capable of even the most pedestrian flirting, but suddenly, I’m a femme fatale. Maybe those body-snatching alien babies are still in play.
Trevor’s ragged breath washes over my skin as he crowds closer, almost on instinct, like he’s helpless not to.
One hand takes a firm grip of my hip as his other slides under my hair.
My hand drops from my mouth to rest over his thundering heart.
A pause hangs between us as his hungry gaze sweeps my face.
The answer to the question of whether Trevor is attracted to me?
A resounding yes.
Did I hallucinate the almost-kiss two weeks ago?
No, I did not.
Will Trevor demolish the handful of inches between us?
I freaking hope so.
Caution tuts in the corners of my mind. Kissing my roommate in a sports bar has the potential for very messy consequences.
But apparently, my body is in control now, because I rise on my tiptoes to close the distance.
Our noses brush, and Trevor’s gorgeous lashes fall closed just as a loud, slurred voice interrupts.
“Hey, don’t I know you?”