Weston Ford casually wrapped an arm around Stella Sealey’s waist. “Ignore him. He’s always like that.”
Stella simply nodded and followed him to the changing room, her expression calm though her mind whirled.
The billiards lounge didn’t enforce a strict dress code, but Stella hadn’t expected Weston to bring her here. In her skirt, movement was limited and awkward—hardly ideal for a game of pool. She quietly requested a change of clothes from an attendant.
She returned a few minutes later dressed in a simple set of white and blue sportswear. The outfit was plain, but somehow, on her, it exuded a fresh and understated beauty—as if she breathed new life into something so ordinary.
Weston approached her, his gaze lingering. He reached out, letting his fingers gently trace the ends of her loose hair before tucking the strands behind her shoulder. “Which would you prefer?” he asked.
Stella blinked, surprised. “Are you… doing my hair?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he simply held out his palm in silent request. Understanding, she handed him her hair tie and obediently sat in front of the dressing mirror, watching as he fumbled with it in his large hands.
But Weston wasn’t exactly skilled at this.
He tried once, twice, then again and again—his brows furrowing with increasing frustration as if the simple task had turned into a personal vendetta. Each time, he would undo it and start over, refusing to settle.
“Are you fixing my hair or just using me for practice?” Stella asked with an exasperated laugh. “This is getting ridiculous—”
“Nope,” Weston cut her off sharply. “Why are you in such a rush?”
Eventually, after a few more failed attempts, he tied it to his satisfaction. Stella gave her head a light shake, but the tie slipped almost immediately.
“It’s too loose,” she pointed out.
But Weston simply pressed down on her arms and said with finality, “This will do.”
Her hair now draped softly over one shoulder in a slightly loose style, giving her a gentler, more subdued look. Weston ran a hand along her cheek, his fingers brushing lightly as he locked eyes with her through the mirror.
Stella shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Just as she was about to turn away, Weston lifted her chin and kissed her.
Because of the difference in their height, every time she had to tilt her head back, it made her neck ache. His habit of cradling her nape, stroking it slowly and repeatedly, only worsened the strain—by the time he let her go, she often felt like her neck might snap.
But today, Weston wasn’t finished.
With a sudden move, he lifted her off the bench and into his arms. One hand supported her back, the other cupped her head, tilting her downward toward him. This time, she leaned into the kiss, letting him have his way. It was long—how long, she couldn’t say—but by the time he finally pulled back, his voice had turned rough and husky.
“Let’s teach you how to play pool.”
Though Stella still had no idea what he was really up to, she followed him out of the room without resistance.
Outside, Xavier Ford was still engaged in his game. At the sound of the door opening, he turned. His eyes flicked to Stella—now dressed in sportswear—and he nearly whistled aloud. The only thing stopping him was the sharp, warning glance from the man beside her.
Instead, he leaned lazily on his cue stick, gesturing with his chin. “The clothes do make the woman.”
Weston shot him a look—icy and unamused.
Xavier raised a hand in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. She’s your precious one. I won’t tease her.”
“As long as you remember,” Weston said coolly, lighting a cigarette.
The white tendrils of smoke curled around him, softening the sharp angles of his face yet somehow making them more striking. With the top two buttons of his black shirt undone and his sleeves casually rolled up, the thick cords of muscle along his forearms were visible—an unspoken reminder of the power he rarely had to wield outright.
He flicked the lighter against the side of the pool table with a dull clack, then nodded toward Stella. “Come. Let’s start with your stance.”
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