Chapter 61 Pool and shots
Timothy
When I step into the lounge room, the first thing I notice is movement.
Lisa and two staff members are arranging covered trays on side trolleys, the soft clink of porcelain and cutlery filling the space. The low lights cast a warm glow over the room, making everything feel quieter, slower and removed from the chaos of the day I’ve just crawled out of.
And then there’s Hannah.
She’s hovering near the coffee table, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back loosely, like she’s been personally supervising the setup. When she looks up and catches sight of me, her face brightens instantly.
She smiles.
It’s not the polite, careful smile she wears in public. It’s easy. Familiar. Disarming.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, my chest tightens.
Lisa clears her throat softly. “Dinner is served, sir.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
The staff bow their heads slightly and file out, Lisa following last. She pauses at the door, glances between us with something unreadable in her eyes, then leaves quietly, closing the door behind her.
The room suddenly feels… smaller.
Too intimate.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants before they can betray me by fidgeting. My eyes flick around the room, anywhere but at Hannah. The couch. The pool table tucked into the corner. The drinks laid out neatly. The wall. The ceiling.
Get a grip, Whitaker.
Why am I standing here like a nervous teenager on his first date?
This is Hannah. My wife, yes…but not like that. There’s nothing romantic here. Nothing soft. Nothing dangerous.
And there never will be.
I repeat that to myself until it almost sounds convincing.
“Holding your breath over there?” Hannah asks lightly.
I glance at her before I can stop myself and immediately regret it.
She’s grinning.
She waves me over. “Come on.”
I move closer, stopping a safe distance away as she gestures proudly at the spread. “Okay, so,” she begins, pointing at each dish like she’s presenting trophies, “we’ve got lemon herb roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, honey-glazed carrots, and this…” she lifts a lid slightly “…is grilled salmon with dill sauce.”
She looks up at me expectantly. “Oh, and there’s charcuterie because I refuse to live in a world without cheese.”
I blink. “You… planned all this?”
She nods. “Every bit.”
Something warm stirs in my chest, inconvenient and unwelcome. “It looks… good.”
She beams. “I knew it.”
Before I can say anything else, she reaches for something leaning against the pool table and presses it into my hand.
A pool stick.
“We’re playing,” she announces.
I stare at it. “We are… what?”
“Playing pool.”
I lift a brow. “Hannah, I just got off a twelve-hour day. I am exhausted.”
“And you’re also about to have fun,” she counters. “Rules are simple.”
I open my mouth to shut this down, to point out how childish this sounds, how absolutely unnecessary….
She glares at me.
The kind of glare that promises consequences.
“…Fine,” I mutter.
She claps once. “Yes.”
She hops toward the table, already energized. “Okay. New rule I just invented: every time you sink a ball, you get to ask the other person a question.”
I narrow my eyes. “And if they don’t want to answer?”
“They take a shot,” she says cheerfully, pointing toward the tray of drinks.
I scoff. “Absolutely not.”
She tilts her head. “Scared?”
“That’s not…”
“Scared,” she repeats smugly.
I exhale sharply. “This is ridiculous.”
“And yet,” she says, lining up her shot, “you’re still here.”
She breaks.
The cue ball cracks against the rack, scattering balls across the table. One rolls neatly into the corner pocket.
She gasps. “Oh! I’m up.”
She straightens, eyes sparkling. “First question.”
I cross my arms. “Go on.”
“What was your worst habit as a teenager?”
I blink. That’s… harmless.
“Smoking,” I admit. “Quit early. Don’t lecture me.”
She laughs. “Noted.”
My turn.
I line up my shot, sink one smoothly. “Your worst date.”
She groans. “Oh no.”
“Answer,” I prompt.
“Or shot,” she counters.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine. Guy spent the entire night talking about his crypto investments and called his ex three times.”
I wince. “That’s tragic.”
“Right?”
We go back and forth like that.
I win more often, my shots are cleaner, my aim steadier, but she’s good surprisingly. Better than I expected. She asks about my favorite childhood memory. I ask about her dream vacation. She dodges a question about past relationships with a shot, grimacing at the burn. I skip one about my parents and down whiskey without hesitation.
Some questions hang heavier than others.
“Do you trust me?” she asks at one point.
I freeze.
“…Shot,” I say quietly.
She watches me drink, expression unreadable.
By the time we’re halfway through, I feel the warmth spreading through my veins. A pleasant buzz dulls the edge of my thoughts. Hannah, meanwhile, is visibly wobbling, laughing too loud, cheeks flushed.
Then, everything changes.
She sinks one shot. Then another.
And another.
Her movements sharpen. Her aim becomes deadly precise. Balls drop into pockets like they’re being summoned.
“What the hell,” I mutter as she sinks a near-impossible bank shot.
She grins. “Told you. I get better when I’m buzzed.”
She overtakes me in points before I can adjust.
I try to recover, but it’s too late. She lands the final shot with a dramatic flourish, raising both arms.
“I win!”
I stare at the table, stunned.
Then I laugh. A real laugh. Unrestrained. “You set me up.”
She shrugs innocently. “You underestimated me.”
“That’s on me,” I admit. “I concede.”
She punches my arm lightly. “Good.”
I exhale, exhilarated, heart still racing.
For a moment, I wonder if this is it. If the night is over. The thought disappoints me more than it should.
Before I can voice anything, Hannah rubs her stomach exaggeratedly.
“I’m starving,” she declares. “I could eat a whale.”
I chuckle. “Please don’t.”
She turns to me. “Movie?”
I don’t hesitate.
“Yes,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Of course.”
And for once, I don’t question why.