I don’t tell him I associate tequila with him—because he tasted like salt and lime the first time we kissed. The white wine we had with dinner is buzzing through my bloodstream. More alcohol is probably a bad idea. But it’s too late. We get served immediately—female bartender—and so I follow through. Gray watches with a smirk as I lick the salt, down the shot, and make a face as I bite into the tart wedge. He kisses me as soon as I toss the lime, stealing the last drop of sour juice from my lips.

My feet stumble on absolutely nothing as he pulls me away from the counter, giving me no time at all to recover from that display of oral aptitude.

“Want to play pool?” Gray asks when we reach the corner of the bar, as if he didn’t just melt my insides into a puddle of goo.

I strive to match his nonchalance. “I don’t really know how to play.”

“I’ll teach you,” he declares, confident as ever.

I watch as he sets a plastic triangle in the center of the green felt and starts filling it with colored balls, then grabs a couple of long wooden sticks.

He takes a sip of the beer he ordered and then beckons me over. “Come here.”

Saying no never seems to be an option with him. I comply, coming to stand at one end of the table. He moves in behind me, bracketing me between his arms and brushing up against my back. I doubt he can hear my breathing accelerate. “Rocket Man” is blaring in the background, mixing with the loud chatter, but I don’t think he’s oblivious to how my body is vibrating with awareness. He murmurs instructions in my ear, talking about cues and racking and breaking. I don’t absorb a single word. Instead, I memorize how he feels pressed against me and process how he smells like sandalwood and hops—a surprisingly arousing combination. Then again, I’d happily kiss Gray if he’d eaten garlic and I hadn’t, so maybe it’s not all that surprising.

“Ready?”

My time to daydream is up.

I turn in his arms, so I’m facing him. “If you want me to focus on anything you’re saying, you can’t stand this close.”

“So, of that, you got…”

“Nothing,” I finish.

One corner of his mouth rises, forming a lopsided smile. “Maybe that’s part of my winning strategy.”

“You’ve played before, and I haven’t. I think that’s all the strategy you need.”

“We’ll find out, huh?” He hands me a stick. “Here’s your cue.”

“What are we playing for?”

One eyebrow rises. “You mean, what am I winning?”

“That’s awfully presumptuous.”

“Not really—unless you’re lying about playing before.”

“I’m not,” I assure him. “Just trying to keep things interesting.”

“Interesting how?”