Page 1 of Kissing Her Rescuer

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“George, you're not even trying now.” Eliza Campbell leaned on the pool table, resting the pool cue against her shoulder and impatiently waiting for her burly student to make his shot. The smoke-filled bar was like a second home. An odd statement thinking about how she'd grown up the quiet, small town in Georgia nearby. But she'd practically lived in joints like this during her disastrous marriage. That smell of old grease and soured beer held a touch of nostalgia.

“'Liza, I don't see the point, darling. You've won the last four games.” George took a long drink of his beer, the tip of the bottle disappearing under his dark, bushy mustache laced with gray. “How did you get so good at this?”

“Lots of practice.” Hustling pool for money wasn't a typical Southern Belle characteristic, but she'd mastered it all the same. The pure rebellion of her youth that had eventually turned into survival. When your child needed clothes, and her father took off for two weeks, you survived. She ran a hand over her dark hair. Tonight, she’d kept it casual. Her classic ponytail with almost no make-up made her look closer to eighteen than twenty-eight. Another advantage when hustling.

“Position control is key. There are a couple different shots you can take if you think outside the box.”

He grunted and downed the rest of his beer in one long gulp, the tattoo of a snake along the side of his neck wiggling with each gulp.

“Staying sober also helps,” she murmured as she nursed her one, warm beer. The leisurely pace of the game suited her current situation. No need to engage in a hustle after moving back into her dad’s home.

George took his shot. The poor guy could probably make a decent shot if he took off that leather vest. But telling someone in a biker “club” to take off clothing might give him the wrong impression. Although George was her weekly pool buddy and had never crossed that line, she didn't want to tempt him. Aging bikers were not in her future.

“That was good.” She patted him on the back as he passed by to take another shot. He missed, cursed, and then ordered another beer. “Good thing we aren't playing for money.”

He raised his thick, gray eyebrows. “I imagine you could make a killing.” After a beat of silence, he shook his head, possibly smiling at her under his mustache. “I bet you did make a killing.”

Eliza shrugged a shoulder. At one time, in the right clothes, she had. That was part of thepositiveinfluence of her ex-husband, Zach, the piece of crap that he was. Now she played for fun.

“I'm going to go ahead and wrap this game up, George. I need to head home. It’s a work night, you know.” Eliza leaned down to line up her shot. “Got to be an adult.”

A shadow in the far side of the bar shifted. She recognized the broad shoulders. His height. The casual way he leaned against the far wall, seemingly easygoing. She knew otherwise.

And the thought of him made her mouth run dry.

Dewey.

She took a breath, pushing him away from her concentration. He always had a place in the back of her mind since their one-night stand. She shot, a kick-shot sinking two balls, in order, before moving to the other side of the table, smiling at George as she approached him.

“It’s easy when you think outside the box.”

“Damn, 'Liza,” George said and toasted her with his new beer.

She smiled and turned her back to Dewey and George. She didn't have to play the next shot. There were two different shots to take, but she liked to torture Dewey a little, so she leaned over the table.

Too bad George had a front-row seat of her jean-clad butt as well.

Behind her, George choked a little on his beer and stumbled to the other side of the pool table, his eyes wary, staring over her shoulder. Poor man. He must have been evident in his appraisal.

Her silent bodyguard struck again.

She finished the game without any more fun conversation with George. Setting the cue back into the rack, she grabbed her keys from the corner. “See you again next week?”

George nodded as he continued to glance at Dewey. “You alright walking out with that big guy following you? I don't like the way he looks at you. My guys and I can help you out.”

Eliza suppressed a laugh. “He's fine. Known him all my life.” She didn't point out that he was a Sheriff's Deputy in the closest town to Rhonda's Roadhouse, although he didn’t wear his uniform. His T-shirt and jeans gave most male models some serious competition if they ever ventured this far south in Georgia.

He’d shown up at Rhonda’s every night she played pool the past month. It was some weird, unspoken arrangement between the two of them.

Since she'd returned to Statem, Dewey had otherwise kept his distance. Not talking to her too much in town or when all their mutual friends got together. Polite but distant. Neither one had addressed their history.

She gave Rhonda, the owner behind the bar, a brief wave as she walked outside. Dewey's boots crunched on the gravel behind her. “You know, you don't have to babysit me every Wednesday.” She spoke without even a glance in his direction.

His slow Southern accent always made a shiver race down her spine. “You seem to keep peculiar company. I'd rather know you're safe and not get a call on the radio. Glad you picked Wednesdays, though. I don't have to take off work to be here.”

She turned around at her car. As usual, he stopped a respectable four feet away. Don’t get too close and act like a real friend.

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