Page 39 of Make the Play

Fuck, she’s hot.

“What’s the bet, then?” she asks, voice sharp.

“If I win, you agree to this fake relationship.”

Zoe exhales through her nose like she’s re-evaluating every decision that led her to this moment. But something flickers in her eyes, and I know I’ve got her.

“Fine. But if I win, you drop the entire thing.”

I smile, letting my eyes coast over her face for just a moment.

“Deal.”

She stares back at me for a beat, then huffs, shaking her head like she already regrets this.

I move around the table, lining up the break shot, rolling my shoulders as I glance at her. She’s standing with her arms crossed, weight on one hip, already calculating angles. I haven’t even broken yet, and she’s assessing the damn table like it’s a battlefield.

“Try not to cry when I run the table, sweetheart,” I murmur, lining up my shot.

She hums, utterly unconcerned. “Let’s see if you can even get past the break first.”

I send the cue forward, cracking against the racked balls with a sharpsnap. The scattered colors streak across the green felt, and two striped balls sink instantly.

Zoe nods once, then flicks a glance at me. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

“I do love it when you give it to me,” I say with a grin, lining up my next shot and sinking one more. But the angle on the fourth is tricky, and when I go for it, the cue ball kisses the edge and stops short.

“Tough break,” Zoe murmurs, already stepping forward before I’ve even moved aside.

The casual way she moves is almost deceptive. There’s nothing calculated about her posture, but I know better. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

The first shot is a clean, effortless sink. I tilt my head, mildly impressed. Then she does it again. And again. Shot after shot, ball after ball. Absolutely perfect.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath.

Zoe doesn’t just know how to play, she’sdestroyingme.

She lines up her next shot, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek in that way she does when she’s amused but pretending not to be. Her eyes flick up to mine, golden brown flashing under the bar’s dim lighting.

“You good over there, Walton?”

I tighten my grip on the cue stick.

“No talking while I’m strategizing,” I reply smoothly, nodding at the table. “It’s very distracting.”

She smirks, chalking the tip of her cue. “I’ll try to keep my chit-chat to a minimum.”

Then she leans down, arching just enough to make my brain short-circuit at the curve of her ass. I force myself to stare at literally anything else, but I can still hear everything.

The soft hitch in her breath as she pulls back the cue stick. The smooth, practiced follow-through as she sends the ball rolling straight into the pocket.

This was a terrible idea.

I rub the back of my neck. “Alright, I have questions.”

“Such as?”

“How long have you been a pool shark?”

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