Tanya Michaels: Mistletoe Hero

“Quinn! Ari. Looks like we just beat the rush,” Patrick observed. “This was the last table available.”

Gabe nodded his hello. “Ladies.” His gaze flicked from Quinn to Arianne. His features were unreadable, but Arianne could have sworn that his glance lingered. Her skin warmed. Did he like what he saw?

“Can I get either of you a drink?” Patrick volunteered.

“I’ll take a beer.” Arianne pulled a five-dollar bill out of her pocket.

“I’ll come with you,” Quinn said.

Patrick grinned at her, then turned to Gabe. “Ready for a refill?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He’d placed the triangle on the felt and was racking the balls.

The two teachers headed for the bar, leaving Arianne and Gabe alone.

“I hope this is okay with you,” she said. “Quinn and I joining your boys’ night?”

He raised his eyes just long enough to give her a pointed look. Was he implying that it was unlike her to worry about boundaries?

She cleared her throat. “You got my message about the plank and ball pit? We’re officially a ‘go.’”

“Yep.”

“Have you had time to think about the actual ship yet?”

“Yep.”

She walked toward the wall where the cues hung. “So, are you any good at pool?” If he said yep, she was bashing him with one of the sticks.

“Not bad.” But there was a spark of underlying mischief in his tone that made her suspect he was being modest. “You?”

“I hold my own.” She studied a stick, then rolled it over the table to make sure it wasn’t warped. “My brothers taught me to play. Tanner used to be the black sheep of our family. For a while, I thought he might skip college and just hustle pool for a living. But he went on to get a prestigious degree and a job in finance. Just goes to show people can change, huh?”

Gabe leaned against the side of the table, his expression pained. “If that’s your way of suggesting I-”

“I wasn’t ‘suggesting’ anything, only making conversation.” She peered up at him with innocent eyes. “Do you always think everything’s about you?”

He shook his head at her denial. “Like I’m going to trust someone dressed as a junior cat burglar?”

“You’re one to talk,” she rejoined, raking her gaze over him. “Quinn said we look like twins.”

That startled a rusty laugh out of him. “Arianne, we couldn’t be less alike if we tried.”

After Patrick and Quinn returned with the beverages, it soon became clear that Gabe and Arianne had at least one thing in common-they were definitely better at pool than their companions.

Quinn reached blindly toward the wall rack and grabbed the closest cue stick to her. “Do we have to play by the formal rules of calling a shot for it to count?” She wrinkled her nose. “If I have to give up the ones I make out of sheer dumb luck, I could be in trouble.”

“How about for the first game, while we’re getting warmed up, we only call the last pocket to win?” Patrick suggested. He grinned boyishly. “I’m out of practice, but even when I played, I was never exactly pool-shark material. No pointing and laughing, I beg you.”

“And,” Quinn added, “no accidentally knocking your opponents’ balls in just to give yourself competition.”

Arianne studied the ceiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m starting to think,” Patrick said, “that Quinn and I should not be on the same team. No offense, Quinn.”

“None taken,” she agreed cheerfully. “It would be a slaughter.”

“So how do we want to pair up?” Arianne asked. “Girls against guys?”

“Or you and Patrick can take on Quinn and me,” Gabe suggested.

That met with everyone’s approval, and they flipped a coin to see which team would break. Patrick did an all right job with that task, although no balls were pocketed. Quinn put in a stripe but scratched in the process. Arianne knocked in two solids before misjudging a bank, and then it was Gabe’s turn. He sank three consecutive balls, one of which was a beautiful behind-the-back shot.

“All right, now you’re just showing off,” Arianne chided.

He dazzled her with a lazy smile. “Maybe.”

It was criminal that he had a smile like that and so seldom used it.

On the other hand, at least he wasn’t abusing its power-irresponsibly flashing it at unsuspecting women. When he grinned at her, Arianne couldn’t even look away. She wanted to go to him, run her thumb over the dimpled brackets along his mouth, brush her finger over those lips…

“Um, guys?” Quinn’s voice was hesitant. “It’s still our team’s turn, right?”

Embarrassment warmed Arianne as she realized she’d lost track of time and place staring at Gabe. Then again, he’d been staring back. His smile had disappeared, but he looked no less sexy without it. Stop gawking already! Arianne whirled around to the railing where her beer sat. She sipped slowly, taking a moment to compose herself. With her back turned, she missed Gabe’s shot.

Apparently so did he. She caught his soft “damn” and smiled against her glass. Her flustered reaction to him wouldn’t be nearly as humiliating if he was equally rattled.

They completed another round of turns with Patrick making the only shot. Though Quinn missed, she made strategic progress by leaving absolutely nothing for Arianne. Gabe lined up a shot, but put too much spin on the ball, ricocheting it off the corner tip instead of into the pocket.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Patrick, you’re up. I believe it’s my turn to get drinks? Anyone need anything?”

When Quinn and Patrick both accepted a second round, Arianne slid off the stool where she’d been perched. “I’ll help carry.”

Of course you will, Gabe thought ruefully. Last week he’d had the exasperated thought that Arianne Waide was difficult to escape. She had a certain aura of inevitability, but he no longer found that annoying. When had that changed?

Maybe at Tuesday’s festival meeting, when she’d been so protective of grandmotherly Mrs. Momsen and so sincere in her gratitude. In small doses, Arianne’s exuberance could be refreshing.

Or maybe his feelings toward her had softened tonight when he’d caught sight of her in the formfitting turtleneck. It was difficult to think of her as nothing more than an adorable pain in the butt when she looked so artlessly sophisticated.

And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. As they walked through the crowd, Gabe wondered if she was aware of the way men’s gazes followed her. It occurred to him for the first time to be surprised that she, unlike her happily married brothers, was single.

They reached the bar, politely elbowing their way into the waiting throng.

“Lot more crowded tonight than on Wednesdays,” Gabe noted.

She slanted an assessing look at him, searching for something.

“What?”

“I have a question that’s none of my business.”

“And you’re showing restraint and decided not to ask?”

“Hell, no. I was just debating the best way to broach it.” She smiled at him unrepentantly.

Gabe smothered a laugh, not wanting to encourage her. “You’re something else.”

“Lovable,” she supplied promptly. “That’s what my family calls me.”

“Maybe when you’re in earshot.”

“Why, Mr. Sloan, did you just make a joke?”

“No, I was serious.” But he grinned down at her.

“So why don’t we see more of you in here on the weekends?” she asked. “You used to drop by on occasional Fridays and Saturdays.”

“My God, you really are a stalker.”

The blush climbing her cheeks belied the dismissive way she rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not like I memorized your schedule. It’s just that you don’t exactly blend into the crowd.”