Page 60 of Beautifully Messy
“Some of us have real jobs.”
“Real jobs?” James straightens, eyebrow raised. “I wasn’t aware architecture was fake.”
I catch myself before I smile. I always appreciate his ability to put Mason in his place. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me affected. I won’t let him see me watching.
But Jules has no such limits. “Oh good, nothing says ‘family bonding’ like a dick-measuring contest over a pool table. Should we get popcorn for this testosterone parade?”
“I don’t know what has gotten into them,” Ivy laughs, soft and delicate. She smooths the ivory silk blouse, tucked into the waist of her tailored slacks, pausing as her ring catches in the light. A tightness sets at the corners of her lips.
“Good question. Any thoughts, Syd?” Jules asks innocently.
I glare before pivoting. “Ivy, did you bring your camera? I was hoping you might take some pictures of Anna?”
“No, I don’t do that anymore.”
The shift is jarring. Ivy’s voice turns clipped as she looks off toward the moon-filled night. The woman who was giggling about erotica has vanishedcompletely, as if she looked down at a script and remembered that laughter and photography no longer fit this version of herself.
“So, Ives,” Jules says, swirling her wine, “what’s the engagement story? We haven’t gotten the full romance yet.”
Ivy stretches her hand out under the lights, and I take a long sip of wine, the acid burning all the way down. My skin itches. I need to move. Todosomething. To remind myself I’m not some delicate thing wilting on the sidelines.
Because I don’t have to listen to this story.
I drain the rest of my glass, set it down with a neat little clink, and stride toward the pool table. I know what I’m about to do, but can’t stop myself.
“All right, boys,” I say, flashing a grin. “I’ve got the winner.”
Mason raises a brow, Tom chuckles. And James... He leans against the wall, confident and relaxed, beer in hand, arms folded, one ankle crossed lazily over the other. His head tilts, taking me in.
“Worried about getting your asses handed to you by a girl?” I flutter my eyelashes.
“We wouldn’t dream of underestimating you, Sydney.” James lifts an eyebrow, that maddening smirk tugging at his mouth.
A wave of heat crashes through me. My name in that voice, wrapped in low rumble and pure challenge, slides under my skin. I bite my lower lip, trying to suppress the way my body responds.
“James wiped the floor with us. Are you sure you want to take him on?” Mason asks, his tone tinged with curiosity.
“Don’t worry, babe. I can handle him.”
Taking my place at the table, I feel their eyes on me. Assessing. Appraising. None of them knows the kinds of bars I used to haunt on weekends away from boarding school. Escaping the brats I was forced to smile at all week, I found solace in dimly lit dive bars across Europe. My first glimpse of freedom, making that choice and leaving the curated life of boarding school for one with real people.
It led to the nights in college and the beginning of law school, where I found another kind of comfort in those same bars.
The sharp crack of the break echoes with a clean, satisfying sound. I sink the first ball with a no-nonsense shot, and surprise moves through the group. I examine the options, lazily move around the table, casual but deliberate, closing the distance with James.
I tell myself it’s strategy, but I know better.
With my eyes on the felt, I ask in a tone low enough only he can hear: “The real question is...can you handle me?”
He keeps chalking his cue, rhythmic circling, never stopping or faltering. I wouldn’t even know he heard me, until his voice like gravel says, “I would fucking love to try.”
The roughness in his voice sends electricity straight down my spine, and I have to grip the felt to keep steady. He moves to the other side of the table, studying his options. Studying me. His gaze holds mine for the first time all day, unflinching when I stare back. I stand, cue in hand, feet planted. Not shrinking under the intensity. I know how damn good I look tonight. With his back to the others, his eyes never leave me, even when he bends to take his next shot. One he badly misses.
A speaker on the bar flares to life and I look away, surveying the room. Jules casually sips her drink, and when the slow, smooth chords of "Tennessee Whiskey" kick in, her knowing smirk says it all. The song isn't random.
Lining up my next shot, my heart pounds in rhythm with the slow beat of the song. James doesn’t move. But I still feel his eyes on me—a slow, deliberate drag while the lyrics weave between us. My eyes shut for a second, letting the words settle. Lyrics about finding love as salvation. Something that steadies you after a life of heartache.
But I’m still angry, and my game isn’t over.
