I’m not sure who she’s talking to, but I hear a sexy, sultry voice float right back from over by the pool tables: “One, ask for what you want, not all this ‘would be nice’ suggestion shit. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Two, my shift is over, Charlene. If you wanted me to work overtime to help out, you should’ve asked before I clocked out. Three, this is my me time. Four, your tap’s overflowing your pitcher.”

  Charlene grumbles something I can’t hear under her breath in response, but she runs over to shut off the beer tap and set aside the overflowing pitcher. I scan the crowd over at the pool tables, looking for the owner of the voice.

  When I see her, my mouth goes completely dry.

  Bent over one of the pool tables, holding a pink cue, is one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen. Dressed in denim cutoff shorts, a red-and-white plaid shirt that’s tied in a knot above her belly button, and caramel cowboy boots that have seen better days, she looks like your classic country girl next door.

  Except she’s not some country music video starlet. She’s 100 percent real, a knockout in the flesh.

  Without even worrying about Charlene’s situation, she flicks her long, dark waves over a shoulder as she lines up a shot. From here, I can tell she’s got a waist I’d like to grab and a round peach ass I’d like to smack.

  For the first time in a while, I feel something stir. And not just my cock, though it’s perking up as she slides the pool cue between her fingers smoothly. There’s something about her confidence in telling Charlene off and the suggestiveness of the way she’s stroking her cue.

  “Holy fucking shit.”

  I don’t even realize I’ve said that out loud until I hear Winston lean over and say, “That’s Hazel Sullivan.”

  He could have said she was the queen of England, or any other name in the world. I barely notice with so much of my attention caught up in her movements. “Who?”

  “Avery’s best friend. She was in the same grade as Wren, so you might not know her, but let’s just say she grew up good.” I nod dumbly, agreeing wholeheartedly even though I have no idea what she looked like before. “Before you get too invested in your eye-fuck situation, she’s also Etta’s niece.”

  Two words . . . and a tsunami wave of cold water on my burgeoning interest.

  “Of course she is. Fucking Uncle Jed.” I pick up my beer, telling myself I’ve struck out even before getting to the plate, but I can’t take my eyes off her.

  I realize that the blond man behind her is her opponent in her current pool match, and a quick scan of the table tells me there are eleven balls left—five solid, five striped, and the eight.

  I watch as Hazel walks around, positions herself, and steadies her cue. Following her gaze, I see the ball she’s trying to hit. Three ball, center right pocket. It’s an extreme cut shot, one that some semipro players might struggle with.

  “No fucking way you’re making that,” I whisper to myself, but sense Winston turning around to see what I’m looking at so intently.

  “She will,” he says nonchalantly. “She always does.”

  I watch, hypnotized, holding my breath, as Hazel goes still as a statue. All time seems to stop. Then she pulls her arm back and pushes her cue forward with a graceful and precise motion.

  My eyes follow the cue ball as it hits the red ball with a clean, muted click, sending it sailing cleanly into the center right pocket. Not too hard, not too soft . . . just right.

  Impressed, I let out a low whistle as a triumphant smile spreads across Hazel’s face. In contrast, her opponent’s face turns a dark shade of red. But Hazel doesn’t pay him any mind, strutting around the table to take her next shots. She makes each of them easily, and her opponent only seems to get madder with each successful shot.

  On a run, she hits the last solid in and pauses. The eight ball is at the top left pocket, shielded by two of her opponent’s balls. There’s no way to hit the ball without hitting those. Depending on the table rules, she could be out of luck.

  But that doesn’t seem to concern Hazel as she positions herself again, her hair falling over her shoulders and down her side like a dark, silky veil as she stretches her body out over the pool table, angling her cue to line up her shot.

  Despite his frustration, Hazel’s opponent runs his eyes over her body appreciatively before returning his attention to the balls on the table, and I have to remind myself that it’s just a game.

  Pop!

  Hazel hits the bottom of the cue ball, and it jumps over her opponent’s balls, tapping the eight ball into the pocket before safely caroming off and coming to a rest.

  “Whooo!” Hazel cheers loudly, waving her pink pool cue above her head. “That’a girl, Joannie!”

  Who’s Joannie?

  Strutting, Hazel walks over to the blond guy and sticks out her palm expectantly. “Alright, Roddy. Pay up.”

  Roddy looks like he’s on the verge of explosion, his face red and his lip curled in a snarl. I’m paying close attention, but even if I weren’t, I’d be able to hear his rebuttal. “I’m not paying you shit. You’re a fucking cheater, Hazel Sullivan.”

  Hazel’s grin melts into a sneer of her own. “One, you owe me for that eye fuck you just gave my ass. And two, I am not a cheater. You’re just salty that I beat you fair and square.”

  Roddy laughs bitterly. “Fair? Your aunt owns this place, so who knows what kind of booby traps you got under these damn tables to help you win. There’s probably magnets and shit.”

  “Booby traps and magnets? Really?” Hazel rolls her eyes. “Do you know how incredibly stupid you sound right now?”

  “I dunno, I sound pretty smart to me, because I’m keeping my two hundred in my pocket.” He pats his chest pocket as he looks over his shoulder at two guys perched on nearby stools. They grin at Roddy like that comeback was actually a solid burn.

  Hazel licks her lips slowly, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind. After what she said to Charlene, I almost can’t wait. Part of me wants to get involved . . . but not quite yet. We’re still at the talking stage, and Hazel doesn’t seem to need or want any help in that department.

  Loud and clear, she says, “I get it, Roddy. You’ve been talking shit for weeks about how you were gonna wipe the floor with me, only to find out that not only is my dick—oh, I mean, stick—bigger than yours, but I’ve got better skills with it too. So your choices are to hold up your end of the bet, pay up, and live to play another day, or . . .”

  Hazel doesn’t threaten him out loud, but she does hold her pink pool cue in front of her, tapping the thicker end against her palm. The intention is pretty fucking clear.

  “Fuck off. You’re not gonna hit me with that stick of yours. We all know what it means to you.” Roddy eyes the pool cue in question as he takes a small step toward Hazel, who holds her ground.

  The move alone is aggressive, but partnered with the threat, it’s crossing a line. I’ve seen and heard enough. I’m out of my seat before Winston can stop me, heading straight for Roddy. And Hazel.

  Chapter 3

  HAZEL

  Holy fuckballs! Is Roddy actually gonna make me smack him around?

  I don’t want to. He’s right—it would probably fuck up Joannie. But that doesn’t mean I won’t give him a swift kick in the ass if I have to. I’m a waitress in a place that serves Fat Pussy burgers, so I have thick skin by default and a mouth that would shock a sailor. My spine and smack talk are usually enough to get me through almost any situation.

  But Roddy is in an extra-pissy mood, not that I blame him after losing so epically. He should just suck it up like the buttercup he is and move along. If he weren’t making such a big deal out of this, his buddies wouldn’t either. But they smell blood in the water . . . Roddy’s. And he’s deflecting big-time, hoping to sic them on me instead.

  I bend my knees slightly, getting my weight centered, and flick an angry scowl Roddy’s way. He’s so close, I can smell the cheap beer on his breath and the sweat from a day’s work on his skin. I tighten my grip on Joan of Arc, a.k.a. Joannie, my pink pool cue that I saved up to buy. This maple cue has seen me through some tough games over the years. She’s my baby, and if Roddy ends up making me defend myself with her, I will make him pay for a proper funeral service for my best girl, and a replacement Joan of Arc 2.0 that’s bigger and better. Or at least lighter, my personal preference.

  Roddy doesn’t seem the least bit frightened by my stance or scowl, though, probably too hyped on liquid courage and testosterone-fueled desperation. His balls are on the line, at least in his mind. He doesn’t make a move to reach for the cash I know he has stashed in his chest pocket.

  As shitty as his refusal to pay is, it’s not the first time this has happened to me. In fact, it’s why I try to not play strangers on my home turf. They see the cute waitress, flirt a little, and think they’re going to “teach” me to play. By the time I’ve wiped the table with them, their wounded pride rears up, and more than once, I’ve had to get a bit tough with them. But they always pay up . . . eventually.

  I thought I was safe playing Roddy, though. He’s a regular, after all, drinking and having a good time with his buddies here at least once a week. He damn well knows I’m good. Hell, he’s been watching me play, studying my moves for weeks. He should’ve known this would be the outcome.

  “Pay up, Roddy,” I grit through clenched teeth, only loud enough for him to hear, though we’ve gotten quite an audience now. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but it’s not only two hundred bucks at risk here. Both our reputations are on the line.

  For fuck’s sake, man, just do it. Reach in your pocket, take out the money, and hand it over. I’ll even let you make a few comments to salvage yourself, let you play it off if you want to save face with your buddies. I’ll save my rebuttal for after you stomp out the door like a pissed-off pit bull.

  His hand moves toward his chest, and though I’m tempted to let out a sigh of relief, I hold my breath steady, staying ready. It’s a wise decision, because while Roddy is giving in, it’s on his own terms.

  “Fucking take it, bitch.” He pulls out the wad of cash he flashed when we bet and throws it at me. The green bills smack me in the chest and then flutter to the floor. In a different environment, people might scurry to grab up the money like squirrels gobbling nuts.

  Ha, nut-loving critters! The phrasing makes me laugh even at a time like this, but only on the inside.

  But not here. Not right now.

  Nobody rushes to grab a single bill because they’re mine and everyone knows it. Especially Roddy. There’s saving his rep . . . and then there’s this.

  I don’t move, don’t drop a single inch toward picking up the cash, because I won’t tolerate this kind of disrespect. Pool is a game of rules, and even in a barroom match, I won’t be disrespected. And I for damn sure am not getting my head anywhere near his dick level. “Pick it up. You don’t have to hand it to me if it hurts your wittle feewings, but at least put it on the table so everyone can see you’re a man of your word.”

  Okay, so maybe poking the drunk, angry bear isn’t the wisest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s definitely not the dumbest, either, despite what happens next.

  Roddy knocks Joan of Arc out of my hands, and she clatters to the floor. “Pick it up yourself. It’d do you some good to spend a few minutes on your knees. I’m out of here.”

  Oh, hell to the nah nah nah.

  He spins, already throwing a hand up at his buddies to signal it’s time to leave. His arrogance gives me the perfect opportunity. With a primal scream that draws from an ancestry of women who don’t put up with anyone’s shit, I jump onto Roddy’s back like the worst piggy ever, gripping him with my knees and clawing at his wide shoulders.

  “Pick it up!” I shout over and over. “Pick it up, pick it up!”

  Roddy pitches forward but catches himself, thankfully not throwing me ass over his head. “Get offa me, you crazy bitch!”

  We tussle, him trying to get me off his back and me using my weight to get him closer to the ground so he’ll pick up the money. Around us, cheers and shouts ring out, mostly on my side.

  “You show him, Hazel!”

  “Ride that bastard, cowgirl!”

  “That ain’t no way to treat a lady!”

  “You call that a lady?”

  Okay, so that last one might not’ve been in my favor, but if defending myself makes me unladylike, then un-fucking-ladylike I’ll be.

  I’m making progress, or at least I think I am, when a booming voice orders, “Enough!”

  Viselike arms wrap around my waist, pulling me from Roddy. Thinking one of Roddy’s friends has suddenly grown a pair and intervened, I flail and fight back.

  I drive back with an elbow, but the contact is weak, glancing off the thick shoulder behind me. I kick my feet, aiming for shins, and connect with a knee, judging by the grunt behind me.

  I will take this to my deathbed, and never even whisper this secret to my best friend, but wrestling around with the thick-bodied, hard-muscled man behind me is the most excitement I’ve had in ages. I can’t see his face, but the feel of his strength is sexy in a dominant, powerful way.

  And that’s enough of that nonsense, Hazel Sullivan. You ain’t that type of girl.

  “Put me down!” I bite out, also considering biting my captor. Maybe on that bicep I can feel flexing as he holds me securely.

  “Only if you calm down. Both of you.”

  I hear a snort from our audience as they get their comments in. “That one ain’t too bright, is he? Everyone knows not to tell a woman to calm down unless you want her to go nuclear.” Nuclear is said like newk-eww-lerr, with long drawls on each syllable.

  At least that one’s right. I give it all I’ve got, wiggling for my life. Fine, and also maybe to see if I can feel abs behind me . . . or something more. But I’m not admitting that, even to myself. But before I can do more than wriggle, my feet find the floor. Instantly, I step away, whirling to face my captor.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I spit out, the accusation fortunately preformed by my brain and already sent to my mouth, because as soon as I see him, my brain turns into complete static.

  A tall, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted, sexy model stands before me. Seriously, he looks like he just walked off the pages of Modern Logging. Is that even a thing? If not, it should be, and this asshole should grace the cover of the premier edition. His blond hair is stylishly messy in that way that should take forever but, since he’s a guy, is likely actual bedhead. His jawline is chiseled and shaded by day-old stubble that makes him look rugged instead of pretty. And his eyes, blue diamonds that are sparkling with delight.

  “Helping you,” he explains with a healthy dose of “duh” woven through the words.

  Ah, there it is.

  He’s one of those types. White knights. The saviors who want to rush in to save the little damsel in distress, all the while laughing at her inability to take care of herself. He’s nothing but trouble with a bonus side dish of asshole.

  “I don’t need your help. Or anyone else’s,” I return, waving my hand to urge him back to his beer or whatever. “So skedaddle along back to wherever it is you came from, Prince Charming. I’ve got this handled.”

  “Wyatt?” Roddy says behind me.

  Hell, I’d almost forgotten about that particular jerkwad.

  “The one and only,” the walking sex god says dryly. “I’d shake your hand, but I think we have another issue to take care of first.” He glances down at the cash on the floor pointedly. “Why don’t we all pick it up together, put it on the table, and call it good?”

  Roddy looks at me and shrugs, suddenly willing to give in now that another guy is running the show.

  That pisses me off anew, but I try to not cut my nose off to spite my face. “I get the two hundred either way.”

  Okay, maybe just a tiny slice.

  The three of us slowly bend down, gathering up the scattered bills. To his credit, Roddy shoves the wad he’s collected into my hand instead of dropping it on the table. As I put the bills into my pocket, Roddy picks up Joannie, laying her on the table and rolling her forward and backward to make sure she’s still good. My breath catches in my throat, both from his hands being on my prized pool cue and in hope that she rolls cleanly.

  “Looks okay, but lemme know if not.” It’s all the apology Roddy offers, so all the acceptance I give is a dip of my chin. He looks past me and startles. “Think I better call it a night, I guess.”

  I lift a brow and glare over my shoulder. Sex God Wyatt is standing like a bodyguard, feet firmly planted to the floor, arms crossed over his chest, and a hard look on his face. Turning back to Roddy, I say, “Probably for the best. Looks like I have a line forming of assholes to deal with.”

  Roddy’s lips twitch. “You saying stuff like that makes me want to stick around and see someone else get his ass handed to him.” Still fighting off a grin, he holds his hand out to Wyatt. “Good luck with this one, man. Glad to see ya.”

  I have no idea what Roddy’s talking about. I’m perfectly pleasant when I’m not being disrespected.

  Wyatt shakes Roddy’s hand, and then Roddy heads out with his two friends in tow. They’re already teasing him about both losing the game and getting beat down by me, which serves him right.

  I turn back to Wyatt, ready to handle whatever his business is fast and quick. Cold and hard, I inform him, “I didn’t need your help. I had it perfectly under control.”

  “Roddy’s a big guy,” Wyatt replies easily, seeming not offended in the least by my ungratefulness. “Looked like he was about to walk away from the bet to me. Or worse.”

  I roll my eyes. Roddy might know this hunk, but this hunk definitely does not know me. “Puh-leeze. Roddy wouldn’t have laid a finger on me. He’s been a regular for years. He gets a little hotheaded sometimes, but nothing I can’t handle. Especially with Joan of Arc backing me up.” I pick up my cue, brandishing the pink maple like a lightsaber, complete with sound effects, causing a few nearby people to step out of the way of my swinging arc. Wyatt chuckles at my antics, and the deep, full rumble tickles something within my core, making the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise.