Chapter 3

The air in the vintage pool hall still held the heavy, suspended silence of a held breath, thick with the scent of old cigar smoke, lemon oil, and the faint, metallic tang of sweat that had dried on skin hours ago. It was late evening, though the amber lights strung above the green felt tables cast a perpetual, hazy dusk over the room, obscuring the corners where the shadows deepest pooled. I stood near the mahogany bar, my fingers tracing the rim of a cooling glass of whiskey, watching him. He was leaning against a leather booth, that rich, worn cognac hide that looked soft enough to sink into but sturdy enough to support the weight of a man who commanded a room simply by existing in it. He had removed his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the chair, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing the strong, corded muscles of his forearms. The sleeves were pushed just high enough to show the subtle veins tracing down to his wrists, hands that had been so gentle, so deliberate, so possessive the night before. We were alone. The rest