She contemplates the razor skeptically.
The water is boiling hot, flushing her skin and sending up clouds of steam that fill the tiny bathroom. She's amazed that the building's water heater has kept up this long, but loves that she's had enough time for a thorough scrub.
More than thorough…
She's exfoliated. She's washed and conditioned her hair. She's scrubbed every inch with a puff loaded full of "Pomegranate Berry" body wash, and now smells like a fruit salad.
She's scrubbed her face and can feel the velvety texture of her own skin even under the water. And now she's looking at her razor.
It's ridiculous, really. Why is she going to this trouble?
She steadies the stick carefully, lining up the shot. It's not helping that he's directly in her line of sight, leaning against the wall with a glass in hand. She could use a little less distraction, as if the dive bar and the blaring music weren't enough...
She glares up at him. "Will you move?"
He smiles. He's like a jungle cat – every damn move is sinuous, lithe, graceful. Even a smile.
"You have a clear shot, love," he points out. He sips from the glass, and deliberately – slowly – damn – licks a stray bead of liquor off his own bottom lip.
She's really hoping that the look on her face isn't as helpless as she's afraid it is.
It probably was. His smile changes to triumph, and he saunters out of her direct line of sight. She sighs – mostly internally – and bends back over the table.
No good. The shot is off and she knows it, the two ball careening off the table's bank with no control, and rolling to a stop just shy of the corner pocket.
She had been concentrating, and almost jumps through the ceiling at the purr in her ear. "Darling, you'd better focus if you're hoping to win this…"
If she turns her head an inch, she'll be kissing him. The idea is tempting.
Instead, she steps forward, her hips coming within an inch of the pool table. "Don't count your chickens, Hook."
He chuckles, throaty and low. She feels a hand touch her neck, pulling her hair back, and then smoothing down over her shoulder. He steps forward and she feels his body directly behind her, effectively pinning her against the table. His cheek presses against hers, rough stubble scratching.
Her body performs an executive override, and she's leaning back against him, wanting more than this simple, relatively-acceptable public display. His closeness is clouding her thoughts, she can't breathe – and she wants more.
"I want you, Swan," he murmurs in her ear. It's indecent, how his voice vibrates straight into her pants. She wonders if anyone's ever come from verbal stimulation alone.
She can feel the proof of his words against her backside. Shouldn't that hurt, with such tight pants?
"I am going to win this wager," he continues, "and you will owe me an evening…and we both know how that will end, Swan."
A dim corner of her mind is wondering if anyone is watching the town sheriff being publicly seduced by a pirate. The rest of her is not caring.
"You're awfully sure of yourself," she murmurs.
"I don't see you calling for help, love….or pushing me away."
"Maybe I don't want to make a scene."
"Maybe you know that I'm right, and that you want me as much as I want you…" His hand strokes her neck. "You're already burning for me, love. If you weren't so stubborn, you'd let me stoke that fire this very night…but…"
Without another word, he steps away from her and lifts his cue, moving around the table. She actually loses her balance at the absence of his body, but recovers quickly, and invents several new profanities in her head.
He sights along the cue. She's been surprised at how good he is – he's ahead of her by three balls at the moment – and how gracefully he balances the stick on the polished steel of his hook. He discarded his heavy coat at the start of the game, and although she's sure he's noticed, she's trying not to be too obvious about how much she's enjoying the view of leather pants hugging his thighs and…well. The view from the rear isn't half bad either.
It makes sense that he's in shape. Right?
The rest of the game could charitably be described as a slaughter. He's merciless, and sinks shot after shot, despite draining almost as many glasses as sunken balls.
He lines up for the eight. "Corner pocket. If I were you, love, I'd clear your schedule tomorrow evening. And the next morning. And perhaps into the afternoon."
She's holding her breath, hoping he'll scratch or miss – but no such luck. His shot is clear, and the eight sails smooth as a kiss into the corner pocket. The cue ball might as well be on the other end of the table for all the chance that he'll scratch.
She's lost. It seems like a good time to drain her own glass.
She yanks herself out of the memory, of how she got into this stupid mess in the first place. She's still got the razor in her hand.
"This isn't a date," she firmly tells it. "I lost a bet. It's just dinner. It's not a date."
The razor apparently has the voice of her mother, which chimes in her head. Then why are you thinking about shaving your legs?
"It makes sense. I might wear a dress…"
Sure, I wear dresses all the time on not-dates. In the fall. When it's forty degrees out. And raining.
"Shut up," she mumbles.
Perhaps the best way to deal with this is Murphy's Law. If she does not shave her legs, something is going to happen. You want it to. She can ensure her own safety and that of her already-wobbly defenses by shaving and wearing a dress and pulling out her laciest black underwear, and doing absolutely everything else to primp herself.
As if it were really a date. As if I were hoping that dinner would lead to dessert, and then a nightcap, and then…
She reaches for her shaving lotion.
He'd caught her at a vulnerable moment. That was really the problem.
The Rabbit Hole wasn't exactly a traditional stomping ground for her, but it had seemed like the right place to go, given her mood. Her parents and Henry were off camping in the woods – something about spending alone time with their grandchild.
To be honest, she hadn't minded. Ever since coming to Storybrooke and becoming swept up in the life of the town…not to mention adjusting to having a son, and parents, and a family…her time to herself had been limited at best. The idea of the entire weekend stretching before her all to herself had seemed marvelous at the time.
Which was exactly why she was alone at the Rabbit Hole at one in the morning.
"Another one, Sheriff?"
She spun her fingers at the bartender, the universal signal for Keep it coming, buddy. A glass plunked down in front of her seconds later, and she grasped it gratefully.
A second plunk echoed the first, and she turned, her features drawing into a scowl at the sight of black leather, dark stubble, and sea-blue eyes. Great.
Hook slid onto the stool beside her, his fingers curving around the tumbler he'd already set down. "Fancy seeing you here, lass. Although I think I'd recall if you normally graced this establishment…?"
"What do you want, Hook?" She sipped the beer.
"You're alone. I am as well. It seemed to me that we should remedy that mutual condition."
"Maybe I want to be alone."
"Maybe I don't."
"So go find someone else to bother." She gestured with her glass. "In case you didn't notice, there are plenty of people here."
"And none of them are worth my time." He smiled. "Emma, you know I will not stop. You know I am not a man to give up on something I want. Why continue to deny me? Is there something you're afraid of?"
"Hardly. I don't think many people would call me crazy for choosing not to spend time with a pirate."
"You never know until you try. Perhaps a friendly wager?"
"You've got to be kidding."
He inclined his head towards the pool table in the corner, which was – surprisingly – vacant. "Do you know the game?"
"What if I do?"
"Then I propose a wager. If you best me, I'll cease pursuing you. I shall leave you alone for as long as you wish it."
She tried to ignore the way the bottom of her stomach dropped at the thought of him "leaving her alone." "And what happens if you win?"
"Hmmm…" His teeth were shockingly white against the scruff of beard. "Dinner. Aboard my ship. Tomorrow night."
She walks to the harbor. The choice of transport was not easy – everyone knows her distinctive Bug, and the sheriff's cruiser is not exactly inconspicuous either. She's lucky that the earlier rain has stopped – at least for awhile.
The Jolly Roger is at anchor by the longest of the docks, the huge ship dwarfing the smaller sailing boats nearby. She has an unhindered view of the deck, which appears to be empty.
Oh god. I hope we're eating inside. As opposed to outside where anyone walking by would see…
She walks up the steps, the heels of her boots clicking. The windows of the captain's cabin are giving off a faint light, and she heads in that direction, raising a hand to knock on the door.
He opens it first. She steps back, startled, but is arrested by the sight of him.
He's not the kind of man who will ever look clean-shaven, but his stubble is at least trimmed. The clothes have changed too – he's in a white shirt, for once, and a red vest that shimmers in the candlelight coming from the cabin behind him.
He looks fantastic.
She's aware, all of a sudden, that her mouth is hanging open, and closes it with a swallow. "Hi."
"Good evening, love," he purrs. "Won't you come in?"