Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
“Be quiet, Lo.”
“But I ruined your night.”
“No, actually, you saved me, remember?”
He’s probably just being polite. “I don’t want you to ever feel obligated to be friends with me.”
“Obligated?” He starts to wipe his hands on a tea towel. “I don’t feel obligated, Lo. Never. You’re like a breath of fresh air.”
I feel my forehead wrinkle. “A breath of fresh air?” He must be deluded.
“Yes,” Luke confirms. He’s definitely deluded. There’s nothing fresh about me. I’m polluted. My life is polluted. Everything about me is polluted. Luke sighs. “Lo, trust me when I say that. All I’ve ever known are women who are only happy if they’re showered with gifts. A broken nail is the end of the fucking world. A ladder in their tights will bring the night to a close, because God forbid anyone sees them looking anything less than perfect. A streak in their fake tan makes them suicidal. You’re different.” He looks at me and smiles. “I only had to hug you to feel your sorrows lift from your shoulders. And I’m hedging my bets that those sorrows aren’t caused by a wardrobe malfunction or a bit of rain in your hair. So, yes, you are a breath of fresh air.”
I stare at him, momentary stunned, but quickly grasp how serious he is. “You’re a breath of fresh air to me too,” I eventually confess.
Resting his elbows on the breakfast bar, he leans in. “Wanna have your arse whooped at pool?”
And this is why I love Luke so much. He just makes everything between us so easy. No pressure. No conditions. It’s a simple, pure friendship, and I’ve truly never had one like it before. I’ve never needed it so much as I do now. “You’re giving me a pass to the bar?”
“Well, you’re not a piece of arse to me, more a mate, so I figure, as a mate, you’re allowed a pass. Just don’t tell Todd.”
Brushing off my hands, I jump up off the stool. “Silly man,” I sigh, wandering back to Luke’s Bar. “Although you need to change out of that stupid costume first or you’ll put me off my game.”
“Fighting talk, darling,” he calls to my back. “And I thought you said I looked hot.”
“I didn’t want to bruise your ego.” I hear him jogging behind me on a laugh, and as I head into the bar, he heads upstairs to change. I grab a cue and a piece of chalk and coat the end generously. I have no idea what I’m doing, but this is what they do whenever I’ve watched it on TV. I close one eye and inspect the end. “Good enough,” I say to myself, heading for the table. There are still some balls on the cloth, some in the pockets, so I set about collecting them up and putting them in the triangle that I find hanging on the wall by the dart board.
“What are you doing?” Luke asks as he enters, pulling a black T-Shirt down his chest.
“Setting up the balls.”
“All wrong.” He moves the red and yellows about, and when he’s done it looks just like how I had them. Random. I frown at his work as he carefully lifts the triangle and hangs it back on the wall. Wandering over to me, he takes my cue and replaces it with another. “That’s mine,” he says.
I look at my new cue. “But I want that one.”
“Tough.” Pointing to the end of the table, he smiles, like he’s privy to something. “You can break.”
“Break what?”
“The balls.” He laughs, setting the white on a little dot. “Just smack it up the table.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I lie, pouting as I bend over the table and get my aim right. Pulling back the cue, I strike the white with all my might, and the tip of my cue skims over the top, sending it crawling up the table slowly. “Oh.”
“Good shot,” he teases, laughing his way to my end of the table.
“I’ll get it right this time,” I tell him, collecting the white and re-setting it on the dot.
“Oh, no.” Luke bumps me out of the way and levels up his cue. “You don’t get another go.”
“Why not?” I ask indignantly as he hits the ball with accuracy, sending the reds and yellows scattering across the green cloth.
“Because that’s the rule.” Two reds fall into pockets, and I balk, tossing him a disbelieving look. “Champion,” he says simply, dipping and inspecting the balls’ positions, considering his next shot. I stand back and proceed to watch as Luke pots every single red ball on the table one after the other with ease, leaving only yellows and the single black. “Silly woman,” he muses, leveling up his last shot and sinking the black. I stare at the table in awe mixed with irritation as he unbends slowly and blows the end of his cue. “Best of three?”