Lynn Montagano - Catch My Breath

Taking a deep breath, I dialed Alastair’s number and waited. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail. I hung up and went to bed.

A frantic, incessant beeping woke me out of a somewhat deep sleep. It was anything but restful anyway, so the interruption wasn’t too unwelcome. I glanced at the time. Two in the morning? Only one person on the planet would have the balls to text me at this hour. Nathan. I cringed, wishing he would leave me alone. The phone beeped again. Grumbling, I grabbed it.

1:58am Hello, Amelia. Sorry I missed your call earlier. Do you always call someone and not leave a message?

Relief swept through me. It wasn’t Nathan. The relief was soon replaced with anticipation. A tiny smile played at the corners of my lips.

2:00am How did you know it was me?

The phone rang in my hand, scaring the hell out of me.

“Hello?”

“I knew it was you because everyone else who has this number knows to leave a message.”

I could almost see his smirk through the phone.

“You’re up late,” I said, stretching.

“I was working. What’s your excuse?”

“Someone texted me at two in the morning.”

He chuckled, low and deep. Lying like this and hearing his voice so intimately close was a turn on. I smiled in spite of myself.

“I don’t want to keep you up. You have a busy day planned tomorrow.”

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it.

“I’m not going with them.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, grimacing. Eager, much?

“You’re not? What are you doing instead?”

My brain was apparently on hiatus, because my mouth spouted off whatever the hell it wanted.

“You tell me.” I curled up on my side, closing my eyes.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” he paused. “Amelia?”

“Yes?”

“Sleep well.”

* * *

Getting Stephanie out of the hotel while dodging her questions was an exercise in elusiveness at its finest. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell her what I was doing for the day, I just didn’t know.

Riding down in the elevator proved to be more nerve-wracking than I had anticipated. I hadn’t been this giddy and nervous to see a guy since, well, never. I reminded myself to play it cool, that it was just a simple afternoon out in the city. Besides, I could fake a stomach cramp if I wanted an easy way out. The elevator doors opened and I strode through the lobby. I could see Alastair standing on the sidewalk, looking hot in a t-shirt and jacket with his hands tucked in the pockets of distressed jeans.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

“Lia.” He slid his emerald eyes over me in his dangerously alluring way. My resolve to resist him weakened by the second. Holding my hand, he traced along the palm with his thumb. The sensation made my vision double.

“I like you with your hair down.”

“Thank you.” I twisted the ends, mentally kicking myself for enjoying his flattery.

“Let’s go somewhere casual and fun. What do you say?”

“Do you even do casual and fun?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Would you like to go or not?”

I sighed dramatically. “Okay.”

* * *

"The object of this game is quite simple really. You have to score more points than me." Alastair tossed a pale pink ball in his hand, looking smug. I folded my arms across my chest. We were at a pub attempting to play snooker. It didn't sound too difficult. I gathered it was similar to pool, only the balls weren't numbered.

Fifteen red balls were arranged in a triangle. The pink ball that Alastair nonchalantly tossed around needed to be placed at the top of the triangle but couldn’t touch it. There were five other assorted colored balls. Each one had its own value. I grabbed my beer and circled the table.

Alastair grinned and leaned against it as I walked by. "Nervous, Meyers?"

"Not at all, Holden."

“Played a lot of English snooker while growing up in Florida then?”

“I didn’t grow up in Florida,” I corrected him, “I’m from Connecticut originally. And no, I didn’t play it, but I’m a fast learner.”

“While I admire your tenacity, you will lose."

He placed the pink ball on the table and reached for a cue stick. I watched him closely as he chalked it and leaned over the table. The tip of his tongue poked out of his mouth as he concentrated. In one smooth strike he broke the triangle, scattering red balls across the felt. He potted two of them immediately. His next shot wasn’t so great. The white cue ball skated past the yellow one he'd aimed for. I snickered.

"So glad you find me amusing." Alastair handed me the cue stick, motioning toward the table. "I believe it's your turn."

His smile nearly knocked me off my feet. I raised the stick, leaned over and aimed. Just as I was about to strike, he hovered over me.

"You're not going to hit anything with the cue pointed so low."

His warm breath tickled my ear, sending tremors rippling under my skin.

"You're distracting me. That's not fair."

"Just trying to be helpful. Give you a sporting chance and all that."

“Sport yourself over there so I can take my shot.”

The cue stick was difficult to hold thanks to my hands’ obscene levels of clamminess. I blew a wayward piece of hair away from my eyes and bent over the table again. Even though I couldn’t see him, I was keenly aware of Alastair’s eyes roaming slowly down my body.

I aimed, striking the white cue ball. It skirted and snapped against two red ones, spinning them into the corner pocket. Feeling more confident, I took another shot. By some stroke of beginner’s luck, I potted a green one and a brown one.

“Told you I was a fast learner,” I bragged.

He sidled up close, leaving me eye level with his mouth. An extremely persistent pounding noise filled my ears. Alastair bowed his head and looked down at me over the bridge of his straight nose. “Then I’ll have to teach you another game.”

I clasped the cue stick close to my legs. He cupped his hand around my hip and squeezed. Staggering backwards, I knocked into the table. It wobbled violently. Both of our pint glasses crashed to the floor, scattering shards around our feet. Several people stopped what they were doing and stared at us.

“Sorry about that,” Alastair called out. “We have a rather impassioned snooker player over here.”

Completely horrified, I apologized to Alastair and anybody else within earshot. This wasn’t normal behavior for me. But of course, being around him turned me into a nervous, twitchy mess. He pointed me to a nearby chair to sit while someone swept up the broken glass.

Un-freaking-believable.

"Are you alright?" he asked, bemused.

"I'm fine, thanks for your concern,” I grumbled. “Don’t think this is an excuse to get out of losing the game.”

When the broken glass was cleared away, I grabbed the cue stick and prepared for another shot. Alastair never had a chance. I beat him swiftly and succinctly. We negotiated a bet for the next game. Loser buys the winner a drink of their choice. The competitive juices started flowing. I wasn’t about to lose to this guy.

Four games and three pints later, it was clear I was out of my league against him. Apparently my beginner’s luck had run its course. Alastair didn’t seem to mind at all. He methodically made perfect shot after perfect shot.

“I didn’t mean to scare you off last night,” he said, leaning against the table. His statement was so out of the blue I stared at him in shock. Scare me off? I gripped my pint glass.

“You didn’t. I meant what I said.”

He clenched his jaw and rolled the cue stick between his hands. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or not. Pushing himself away from the table, he stood in front of me, dominating my line of sight. The pub became a vacuum.