Miles handed her the pool cue. “Then I guess we’re ready. Do you want to break?

Or should I?”

“No-go ahead.”

Sarah watched as Miles went around to the head of the table, chalking his pool cue as he did so. Then, leaning over, he set his hand, drew back the cue stick, and hit the ball cleanly. A loud crack sounded, the balls scattered around the table, and the four ball rolled toward the corner pocket, dropping neatly from view. He looked up.

“That makes me solid.”

“I never doubted it for a minute,” she said.

Miles surveyed the table, deciding on his next shot, and once again, Sarah was struck by how different he was from Michael. Michael didn’t play pool, and he certainly would never have brought Sarah to a place like this. He wouldn’t have been comfortable here, and he wouldn’t have fit in-any more than Miles would have fit neatly into the world that Sarah used to occupy. Yet as he stood before her without his jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up, Sarah couldn’t help but acknowledge her attraction. In contrast with a lot of people who drank too much beer with their evening pizza, Miles looked almost lean. He didn’t have classic movie-star good looks, but his waist was narrow, his stomach flat, and his shoulders reassuringly broad. But it was more than that. There was something in his eyes, in the expressions he wore, that spoke of the challenges he’d faced over the last two years, something she recognized when looking in the mirror.

The jukebox fell silent for a moment, then picked up again with “Born in the USA ” by Bruce Springsteen. The air was thick with cigarette smoke despite the ceiling fans that whirred above them. Sarah heard the dull roar of others laughing and joking all around them, yet as she watched Miles, it seemed almost as if they were alone. Miles sank another shot.

With a practiced eye, he looked over the table as the balls settled. He moved around to the other side and took another shot, but this time he missed the mark. Seeing that it was her turn, Sarah set her beer off to the side and picked up her cue. Miles reached for the chalk, offering it to Sarah. “You’ve got a good shot at the line,” he said, nodding toward the corner of the table. “It’s right there on the edge of the pocket.”

“I see that,” she said, chalking the tip and then setting it aside. Looking over the table, she didn’t set up for her shot right away. As if sensing her hesitation, Miles leaned his cue against one of the stools. “Do you need me to show you how to position your hand on the table?” he offered gamely.

“Sure.”

“Okay, then,” he said. “Make a circle with your forefinger, like this, with your other three fingers on the table.” He demonstrated with his hand on the table. “Like this?” she said, mimicking him.

“Almost…” He moved closer, and as soon as he reached toward her hand, gently leaning against her as he did so, she felt something jump inside, a light shock that started in her belly and radiated outward. His hands were warm as he adjusted her fingers. Despite the smoke and the stale air, she could smell his aftershave, a clean, masculine odor.

“No-hold your finger a little tighter. You don’t want too much room or you lose control of your shot,” he said.

“How’s that?” she said, thinking how much she liked the feel of him close to her.

“Better,” he said seriously, oblivious to what she was going through. He gave her a little room. “Now when you draw back, go slowly and try to keep the cue straight and steady as you hit the ball. And remember, you don’t have to hit it that hard. The ball is right on the edge and you don’t want to scratch.” Sarah did as she was told. The shot was straight, and as Miles predicted, the nine fell in. The cue ball rolled to a stop toward the center of the table. “That’s great,” he said, motioning toward it. “You’ve got a good shot with the fourteen now.”

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah, right there. Just line it up and do the same thing again…” She did, taking her time. After the fourteen fell into the pocket, the cue ball seemed to set itself up perfectly for the next shot as well. Miles’s eyes widened in surprise. Sarah looked up at him, knowing she wanted him close again. “That one didn’t feel as smooth as the first one,” she said. “Would you mind showing me one more time?”

“No, not at all,” he said quickly. Again he leaned against her and adjusted her hand on the table; again she smelled the aftershave. Again the moment seemed charged, but this time Miles seemed to sense it as well, lingering unnecessarily as he stood against her. There was something heady and daring about the way they were touching, something…wonderful. Miles drew a deep breath. “Okay, now try it,” he said, pulling back from her as if needing a bit of space.

With a steady stroke, the eleven went in.

“I think you’ve got it now,” Miles said, reaching for his beer. Sarah moved around the table for the next shot.

As she did, he watched her. He took it all in-the graceful way she walked, the gentle curves of her body as she set up again, skin so smooth it seemed almost unreal. When Sarah ran a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear, he took a drink, wondering why on earth her ex-husband had let her get away. He was probably blind or an idiot, maybe both. A moment later, the twelve dropped into the pocket. Nice rhythm there, he thought, trying to focus on the game again. For the next couple of minutes, Sarah made it look easy. She sank the ten, the ball hugging the side all the way to the pocket.

Leaning against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, Miles twirled his cue stick in his hands and waited.

The thirteen ball dropped into the side pocket on an easy tap in.

With that, he frowned slightly.Strange that she hasn’t missed a shot yet… The fifteen, on what can only be described as a lucky bank shot, followed the thirteen a moment later, and he had to fight the urge to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket.

Only the eight ball was left, and Sarah stood from the table and reached for the chalk. “I go for the eight, right?” she asked.

Miles shifted slightly. “Yeah, but you’ve got to call the pocket.” “Okay,” she said. She moved around the table until her back was toward him. She pointed with her cue stick. “I guess I’ll go for the corner pocket, then.” A long shot, with a bit of an angle needed to get there. Makeable, but tough.

Sarah leaned over the table.

“Be careful you don’t scratch,” Miles added. “If you do, I win.”

“I won’t,” she whispered to herself.

Sarah took the shot. A moment later the eight dropped in, and Sarah stood and turned around, a big grin on her face. “Wow-can you believe that?” Miles was still looking at the corner pocket. “Nice shot,” he said almost in disbelief.

“Beginner’s luck,” she said dismissively. “Do you want to rack them again?” “Yeah… I suppose so,” he said uncertainly. “You made a few really good ones there.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Miles finished his beer before racking the balls again. He broke, sinking a ball, but he missed his second shot.

With a sympathetic shrug before she began, Sarah proceeded to run the table without a miss. By the time she’d finished, Miles was simply staring at her from his spot along the wall. He’d set aside the cue stick halfway through the game and had ordered two more beers from a passing waitress. “I think that I’ve been hustled,” he said knowingly.

“I think you’re right,” she said, moving toward him. “But at least we weren’t betting. If we were, I wouldn’t have made it look so easy.” Miles shook his head in amazement. “Where did you learn to play?” “My dad. We always had a pool table in the house. He and I used to play all the time.”

“So why didn’t you stop me from showing you how to shoot before I made a fool of myself?”

“Well… you seemed so intent on helping me that I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”