Page 89 of Mr. Picture Perfect
But it’s more than just his thoughtfulness. It’s his continued dedication to me. His focus on the details. It’s the way he listens to me and encourages me to open up to him. He knows things about me that I wasn’t even aware of myself. It must be why he’s so quick to anticipate my needs, from extra whipped cream to how he put a comforting arm around me at the movies when the power failed. Did I also tell him last night that I have a thing about dark places? That it’s why I have three bright, colorful nightlights in my room? I hope they didn’t bother him when he was trying to sleep last night. I’m used to them and didn’t think to ask.
All I know is that Cole listens to me.
He appreciates me and all my weirdness.
I hope I can show him, even in the littlest way, that I appreciate him just as much right back.
After our meal—which he insists on paying for, as this is “his night of treating me”—we take a stroll around the block and end up at Tumbleweeds, a bar and diner I’ve always avoided. Cole says they have great virgin drinks if I’m not a drinker, and they even have some pool tables in the back of the room. I warn him I’m not very good, but he says, “Pool’s just math and geometry. You’ve got those skills built-in already. Don’t sell yourself short!”
And that’s how I get roped into a round of pool with Cole.
It’s also when I learn he’s got another side to him I’ve never seen before. After a few mishaps with my aim at first, I get a lucky hit, which is then followed by another, and before I know it, I’ve sunk five balls into the pockets. Cole stands at the side of the table, astounded. When it finally becomes his turn, his face twists with determination. “I see how it is,” he mutters to himself as he lines up his shot, squints with focus, then shoots—and misses. “Dang stick, it slipped. I need more chalk. Or a new stick.” When it’s his turn again, I have to suppress my laughter as Cole, with all the confidence in the world, struts up to the table to take his shot—and misses even worse than before. “I’ve got smoke in my eyes,” he decides with a scowl. “I don’t do good with smoke. I’m allergic.”
Maybe playing pool against Cole is about to prove way more entertaining than previously predicted.
“Alright, alright, beginner’s luck,” he decides as he squares up the balls with the triangle for another game. “But this next one, I am gonnaownyour butt.”
I am sitting front row center for this adorably competitive side of Cole Harding. “We’ll see about that.”
“Yeah, we will,” he agrees with a smirk, grabs his stick, aims, and breaks. We both watch as the balls scatter like startled cats looking for places to hide. Not a single one goes into a pocket.
I come up. “Stripes,” I call, take aim, then hit.
I sink the eleven ball.
And then the fourteen, which ended up by a corner pocket, as if waiting for me.
And the ten.
“Alright, fine,” says Cole, coming up to my side by the table. “If you wanted to humiliate me, you could have at least divulged to me that you’re secretly a billiards prodigy.”
I sink the twelve, then shrug innocently at him. “It’s just math and geometry, right? I have the skills …built-in.”
He glares playfully at me.
Well, I think it’s playful.
“Using my own words against me,” Cole notes with a pursing of his lips. Then he smirks challengingly at me and brings his face close. “I think I like this side of you.”
Our sides are touching. Our lips are inches apart. I smirk back at him. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
In this moment, I could literally forget every last person here. It is just me and Cole and the sticks we’re gripping and the breath in our mouths.
I really could kiss him right now.
Abandon my own rule and put my hands on him.
I don’t care about the game. I don’t care about the article or the upcoming pageant at the McPhersons’. I just want to hold him close to my body and feel what I felt last night again.
Something about not being able to … makes me want it more.
Then I remind myself why I put the rule in place at all. Why I insisted that we keep what we have a secret from the public. Why it is better that the two of us not invite the minds and opinions of the town into our private lives any more than they already are.
“You’re that Mr. Perfect Cole guy, ain’t ya?”
We both turn from each other to find a woman, maybe thirty or so, tall, blonde, and pale, in tight jeans and a beige peasant top.
Cole adopts his usual politeness. “Sure am.”
