The line of her dress draped over her body is enough of a distraction on its own, but coupled with the slight rock of her hips as she leans across the table is too much.

“Call it,” Michael swallows, watching her slide the cue between thumb and forefinger already aimed at the black ball.

Rolling her eyes, she licks her lips theatrically before saying; “Eight ball. Straight down the center.”

It’s not the most natural shot, he’d go for the side at her angle, but she never did do things easy.

Crack. Thud.

“Dinner with your mother.”

“Double or nothing?”