He couldn’t fathom how he’d ever thought solitude was a good idea. So here he was in Eureka with Chase Edgerson, shooting pool in the local bar. He missed an easy shot and Chase looked at him, coolly appraising. “What’s wrong with you?” Ben grunted, watching Chase sink ball after ball. The money he’d laid neatly on the side of the table quickly made its way into Chase’s pocket. “Woman trouble. How did someone find you up in your Lost Coast monastery?” Ben ignored him, racking the balls and breaking again. Back into the groove, he made a few shots, then missed. He hadn’t lost to Chase or anyone at Ragg’s Rack Room in two years. His hand eye coordination was legendary up here. But for some reason he was having his ass handed to him tonight. Maybe too many small animal surgeries had blunted his accuracy. He flexed his fingers. Cracked his knuckles. “She was a patient’s owner.”
