Chalk it up to love

At the pool table, Chloe is an expert. She can see all the angles, sink all her shots. But when it comes to love, she’s more of a novice – unlike her best friend, Bridget, who plays to win.

But when Alex comes to town, he changes everything. Slick and confident, he makes Chloe feel things she’s never felt before, and he even beats her at pool. The trouble is, Bridget also has her sights set on him. Meanwhile, Chloe’s old friends, Theo, seems to want to be more than her pool partner. When dealing with friendship and love, will Chloe be stuck behind the 8-ball? Or is this a game she can win?

Chapter One

I was just a girl in a pair of low riders who might give them a glimpse of my thong when I bent over to take a shot. Or that’s what guys thought when they first played pool with me. They asked for a game so they could stare at my ass. Guys don’t seriously think that a mere girl can beat them at pool.

A game of pool is full of deceit. Otherwise, no one would put their money on the table, would they? I mean, if a guy knows from the beginning that I’m going to run the table, why would he play?

Since my dad left, I’ve had a no-guy rule. It helped me focus on the game. I hadn’t even indulged in a random hookup, at least, not until Alex.

The first time I saw him was at Gino’s, on a hot Friday afternoon. It was late October, well after school started.

My friends and I went to Laguna Beach High School, in Orange County, California, the place television had made famous (or infamous, depending on how you looked at it). But don’t believe everything you see. Life was much less chaotic than portrayed on television, at least before Alex came into my life.

Laguna Beach isn’t like what’s shown on television, at least the Laguna I knew. The Laguna I knew was a sleepy little beach town nine months of the year. Lots of writers and artist lived here, along with a handful of celebrities who have prime beach real estate that they rarely use. The other three months of the year was when the aliens (also known as tourists) invaded our quiet little town. In the summer months, traffic was bumper-to-bumper, and even I couldn’t get a table at Gino’s.

Gino’s was a restaurant on Pacific Coast Highway. Out of the big bay window, if you craned your neck, you could see both the sunbathers and the surfers paddling out to catch the waves. The tablecloths were red-checkered and those cheesy red glass candleholders snuggled up with the salt and pepper shakers. Most of the candles had melted down to nothing, but Gino never replaced them. It smelled like basil, yeasty bread, and spilled beer.