"I thought you didn't like beer," he said.
The Hefeweizen was good. Cara leaned forward to grab his glass and took a drink of the murky liquid. He sat lazily in the booth and smirked at her, arms crossed over his chest. It was noisy with the din of conversation throughout the South Water Kitchen. But the lounge was classy and comfortable and it was connected to his hotel lobby...plus there was a pool table. Which for this night, was exactly what he wanted.
Cara set the glass down and smiled back. "I just like
your
beer," she countered.
"But you're a beer snob," he challenged again, shifting, but keeping his arms crossed.
"Oh, that's not fair." She raised her eyebrows in defense. "Just cause I'm from Portland doesn't mean I know micro-brew."
He frowned teasingly. "Like hell it doesn't."
God, she was easy to rile up, and he liked watching her skin flush as she took the challenge. She leaned forward in the seat across from him, and he knew she wasn't ready to give up yet.
"Beer snob my ass... you're the one with the artisan beer obsession!"
Cara's eyes narrowed again. She knew he wasn't really high maintenance, but he also had a preference for a privately bottled, hard to find lager and hell if she'd let him get off without playing that card.
Tom laughed thru his nose, and put his hands up in the air. "All right, all right, ease down turbo."
Cara smiled in victory and looked away. A sweep of auburn hair fell across one temple covering the corner of her eye. She sat relaxed, but her body was tight with excitement.... warm, even in the air conditioning.
Tom watched her fiddle with her watch, twisting it back and forth. He knew from experience it meant she was nervous. It had been a long time since college -- almost 14 years since he'd seen her. They'd met junior year, working together, and quickly became friends. He had flashes of memories -- moments in time with her. Boating on a lake...trail biking in the woods...lying on the floor of his apartment studying...crying gently to her about a breakup...getting coffee for her (cream, no sugar) in the student union....seeing her sleep in his lounge chair, wrapped in a sheepskin blanket. He'd watch her when she didn't know he was looking. Watch her calves flex going up the stairs, or see her T-shirt pull against her breasts when she twisted sideways.
They even teetered on more. Hugs that lasted too long, her body touching the full length of him. Massages that drifted off his back, caressing his hips, down his hamstrings...feeling her hands on the inside of his thighs, but not any higher. She'd dated someone else and he'd never butt in, never asked her to question that relationship or tell him what she truly thought of theirs. And then they graduated and moved on.
They had barely connected with Christmas cards, and then more so with Facebook. He knew she had her own company doing event planning and corporate meetings. But unlike his frequent traveling, he knew she was rarely away from Portland. Then, she texted last week rambling on about speaking at an industry conference.
Now she'd flown to Chicago for the conference and he had driven in for a partner meeting. And for the first time in almost 2 decades they were in the same place at the same time - and he wanted every possible minute with her.
"Oh geeze...now what are you thinking?" she asked with wry alarm.
Cara watched his thoughts spinning behind light blue eyes. He was just as she remembered -- wry, playful, confident, smart. Taller than she thought and still in shape with strong molded shoulders and trim waist. Tousled brown hair, short at the temples and mussed along his forehead. She hadn't thought of him in so long, but felt the contentment of being with him now. She found herself intensely curious of his life...his achievements, what made him laugh, what he did on Saturday mornings. There were so many things she wanted to ask. She watched patiently for small flares of his masculinity...his Adam's apple when he talked...the sinews of his forearm when he rotated his hand...the deep rumble in his throat as he hummed instead of saying "yes."
Tom leaned forward and looked right at her. "Pool. I wanna shoot pool. With you."
Cara raised her eyebrows and smiled slightly before answering.
"All right."
She got up, smoothing the sides of her skirt over her thighs and straightening the tank top. Tom unfolded himself from the bench seat and followed her to a rack of cues. He pushed up his sleeves and grabbed a wallet from the back pocket of tan cargo pants. Peeling out a $5 bill, he paid the bartender and brought over a rack with 15 balls. Cara held a wooden triangle out for him.
"Any rules?" she quizzed him.
"You know what they are."
She smiled lazily. "You think you can distract me?"
He hoped to God so. "We're about to find out."
As Tom finished with the setup and started to break, Cara went to the opposite end of the table, directly above his shot, and cocked her head gently to one side. Tom smirked as the cue ball slammed into the tight stack, scattering it across the table.
Nothing went down so Cara wandered the edge looking for the best shot.
"Six ball. Side pocket."
Tom was a good three feet away but as she leaned over the table, Cara felt the end of his cue slide gently up her calf. She smiled, but took the shot and sank it. She stood and looked at him through her eyelashes, smirking gently.
He chuckled. "All right hot shot, go again. So you still play?"
She shook her head. "Been a long time..."
"Well, it's just like..... You know."
"yea....bike riding," she answered.
"Mmmmm. Something like that."
She called for the four ball corner pocket, but it meant a shot down the near rail -- difficult for a right handed player. With her right foot on the ground, she propped her left hip on the side of the table and swung the cue around her back.
"Ohhhhh, nice," he drawled.
"They're your damn rules. My foot's touching the floor."
He chuckled again and gestured with his hand. "Take your shot."
Tom watched the furrow in her brow as she concentrated. With both arms behind her and leaning back for the shot, her breasts pushed forward making the orange cotton fabric taut. They were smooth and round, held in (he guessed) padded satin, not lace. "Damn....," he muttered under heavy breath, and she knew he was looking. It was enough to throw her. The ball nicked the corner without going in.
"Shit," she said climbing off the table. But she knew she'd started to get to him. "You're up handsome," as she took a few steps to give him room.
Thomas paused, feeling tightness in his thighs. "That's about right," throwing a glance at her. He looked back at the table, but he'd already chosen his next move. "Nine ball. Corner pocket." He flexed a shoulder and brought the stick down hard. He hadn't given her time to get near him and the ball went down fast. As he set up for the next shot, Cara circled the table the opposite way and met him on the other side.
He could feel the heat of her, as she got close. Leaned over the table, he cocked his head to look at her. She smirked at him, her eyes glistening. She did like this. He saw the flush in her cheeks...the shallow breathing thru parted lips. "Twelve ball. Near pocket," he said quietly. It was a bank off the far rail and he needed a second to set up the angle. Cara slid her warm hand under the collar of his pullover and stroked the back of his neck, dragging her fingertips thru the nape of his short hair. God it felt good. He had a flash of memory from years before -- the same smooth fingers doing the same teasing thing. He let his breath out slowly as his head drooped, enjoying her touch. He let her caress him another moment before drawing back the stick. The cue ball made the ricochet, but just barely kissed the twelve, pushing it into the rail.
