I slip on a pair of boots with four-inch heels and take a twirl in front of the mirror.

Not bad, if I do say so myself.

I walk into the living room just as the doorbell rings.

“Hey, handsome.” I grin and step back as Zack’s jaw drops and his eyes roam from the top of my head down to the heels on my feet.

“Fuck me, you’re beautiful, Jilly.” He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, urgently. “I missed you this week.”

“I missed you too. I thought maybe you weren’t going to call.”

“Fuck,” he whispers and leans his forehead on mine. “I’m sorry. The days just got away from me, and I was in the barn more than I was at the house.”

“It’s okay.” I shake my head and push my fingers through his soft, dark hair. “I hope the horse is better now?”

“So far, yeah.” He nods and then grins down at me before gently brushing his lips over mine one more time. “Are you really going to try to walk through the snow in these fuck-me boots?”

“I’ll be fine,” I insist. “I was going for sexy.”

“You’ve achieved it. I can’t get much harder.” I cock a brow and boldly glide my hand down his chest to cup his hard-on in my hand. “I stand corrected. That did it.”

“Very nice, Sergeant King.”

“Dinner first,” he growls and cups my face in his hands, kissing me yet again.

“Let’s go.”

He helps me out to his truck, patiently guiding me through the snow in my heels.

“I can’t believe you’re wearing those in this weather.”

“I won’t fall,” I assure him and then damned if I don’t slip. I catch myself, but Zack turns and lifts me into his arms, carrying me the rest of the way to his truck. “This is excellent service.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a grin. “I can’t have you falling. You’ll break your neck in those things.”

“You don’t like them?” I pout.

“I fucking love them, sugar. Wear them anytime you want. I’ll carry you.” He winks and kisses my cheek before setting me gently in the cab of his truck.

“What are you in the mood for?” Zack asks as he pulls out of my driveway.

“I already ate a third of a pan of brownies today, so we might as well indulge in some greasy bar food.”

“Bar food it is.” He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles as he easily maneuvers through the streets to downtown Cunningham Falls.

“My house is so close, we almost could have walked here.”

“Not in those boots.” He laughs and parks, helps me out of the truck, and leads me into the dimly lit bar. There is a small kitchen immediately to the left, where we place our order, then go to find a table in the heart of the bar.

Because it’s a weeknight, it’s relatively quiet. We choose a table near the back, by the pool tables.

“Shall we play?” Zack asks, pointing to the table.

“I don’t really know how.” I shrug and bat my eyes innocently. “But I guess we can play. Will you show me?”

“Sure.” He grins widely and hangs our coats on the backs of our chairs before choosing two pool cues. He’s delicious in another pair of faded blue jeans and a fitted blue T-shirt. He’s wearing Chucks, which surprises me but completes his outfit perfectly.

He’s just yummy.

“I’ll break,” he offers and sets up the balls while I order us both a beer from the waitress.

“Good idea.”

He takes his shot and scatters the balls, and when a solid goes in the corner pocket, he says, “Looks like I’m solids.”

“You are solid, yes,” I agree and run my hand down his arm, feeling his muscles. “I like it.”

“Are you going to be trouble all night?” he growls in my ear.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I smile serenely and point to the table. “Your shot.”

He chalks his cue and watches me with narrowed eyes, and a half smile on his lips, then takes a shot, missing the pocket.

“My turn.” I circle the table, looking for my shot. Of course, I lied through my teeth to Zack. I played pool all the time in college, and I’m damn good at it.

Not that he needs to know that.

I make sure I find a shot that puts my ass in his line of vision as I bend over the table and take a shot, sinking the ball.

“Oh, yay! That must have been a lucky shot.” I wink at him and then bite my lip at the look of lust in his eyes. He’s leaning against his stool, his arms crossed over his chest, showing off the bulge in his arms.

Christ on a crutch, I want to attack him.

I circle the table and find my next shot, on the opposite side of the table, bend deep so he can see my cleavage, and shoot the ball, missing the pocket.

“Don’t think I’m not onto your game, sugar.”

“I’m playing pool.” I shrug and smile at the waitress who delivers our food. Zack takes a huge bite of his burger and then walks around the table and takes several shots, sinking all of the balls.

I nibble on my buffalo chicken fingers with sour cream and chive fries—really, I’ll be eating yogurt for a month to make up for this meal—and watch the sexiness that is Zack move around the table.

“Nice shot,” I say when he sinks his fourth ball in a row.

“Thanks.” He shoves some fries in his mouth and wanders back to the table. And for the next while, we eat and play in companionable silence, high-fiving when we sink the ball, and rooting for each other.