She frowns. “This pains me.”
“I know. But drinks for life . . . and cake for life, too, ’kay?”
She nods resolutely and reaches for the ball in my arms. For the briefest of moments, her fingers graze the fabric of my shirt, a casual button-down that’s untucked and rolled up at the cuffs. Maybe I’m imagining things, but it feels like her fingers linger on my pecs longer than they need to.
I do what any sane man would do—clutch the ball tighter so she’ll have to move in closer. She does, and yes, her fingertips are definitely touching me.
Good thing I can hold this ball for a very long time. All night long, if I’m lucky.
“Nick,” she whispers in a plea, and it sounds so damn good, the way her voice goes feathery when she says my name. Instantly I hear that inflection, and all that follows it, in my imagination—more, harder, please, now, yes, yes, yes. “May I have the ball, please? It’s the only way I can fuck up the next turn.”
I blink and hand it over to her.
I lean against the ball machine and watch as she heads to her spot, brings the ball to her chest, and pistons her arm behind her. She takes a few fast steps before releasing it. I tense because she looks just as polished as she did when she nailed that strike.
But the girl is good. Her arm swings the slightest bit wider, and the pink orb rolls straight for a second, then veers, and soon acquaints itself with the gutter.
I utter a silent yes, even though it’s a damn shame to ask her to blow the game. I have no doubt she’d rack up even more points, and look spectacular doing so. She is a sight to behold tonight, in her dark blue skinny jeans, a purple-and-green argyle sweater, and white-and-red bowling shoes. Her hair is pinned up in a twist, all those silky red strands piled high on her head. Her neck is long and elegant, and I’ve got this feeling her skin tastes spectacular there, and everywhere. I wonder if she’d enjoy soft, lingering kisses along her neck, across the column of her throat, up to her ear. Whether she’d moan, and sigh, and lean into me, her body asking for more.
I decide she’d love it because I’d kiss her so damn well, she’d melt into me. She’d want so much more, and I’d give it to her, making her feel good in every fucking way, driving her wild. I’d lick a path between her tits, down her belly to the button on those jeans. One fast flick, and they’d be undone. I’d have them off her in less than two seconds, my nimble fingers tugging her panties down . . .
She turns and snaps in an aw shucks gesture, and I shut down the very vivid, very arousing, very promising fantasy faster than you can clear the history on your Internet browser. She wanders back to me, looking appropriately forlorn. Gino smiles, a slick grin that continues as his team goes on to win, thanks to Harper blowing the final few frames. The photographer he hired snaps a shot of Gino, with his curly hair, dark eyes, and broad frame as he ambles toward me.
“Nice game, Nick,” he says, all slick and faux-friendly. “Better luck next time.” He punches my shoulder in an old buddy, old pal move. “But hey, at least you’re good at writing the shows.”
“Let’s just hope I write better than I bowl,” I say, serving it right up to him the way he likes it, with a side dish of suck-up.
He laughs loudly, like a gorilla. Then Gino notices Harper a few feet away, checking her phone in her purse. “Ah, redheads,” he says, as if he’s sucking a piece of meat off the bone. “They’re fiery and feisty.”
Involuntarily, I clench my fists. But before I can say, “Shut up, you ape,” Harper spins around and flashes us both her gorgeous smile. It’s pure magic. It’s what woos the kids and wins the hearts of the parents who book her months out for the parties. It’s wide, charismatic, and totally stunning.
“Well, hello there. You played a very good game,” Gino says, extending his hand. She shakes it, and I make a mental note to remind her to wash her hands thoroughly when we leave. Maybe even use hand sanitizer a few times. Fuck, the way he grips her hand, we’re going to need a full decontamination chamber here.
“Thank you so much. But honestly, you’re just so fantastic,” she says to him, an adoring look in her eyes. “Quite a tenacious competitor.”
I could kiss her for this.
“Oh, you flatter me,” he says, waving a hand.
“I assure you, it’s not flattery when someone rocks the lanes like you do,” she says, then gives a sexy little jut of her shoulder.
And that’s the money shot, folks. Gino is eating out of the palm of her hand. He turns to me and hooks his thumb at Harper. “I like her, Hammer. She’s a keeper.”
“She definitely is,” I second.
When we leave, she grabs my arm and squeezes my bicep.
My arms are strong. That’s not me being conceited. They really are, courtesy of my devotion to exercise and perhaps my addiction to the benefits it reaps. Her hand curls over my left arm, and yup, the hours at the gym are worth it right now. “Was I obsequious enough?”
“Like you have a master’s degree in it.”
She wiggles her eyebrows as we pass the vending machine on the way to the shoe counter. She gives another squeeze. “By the way, nice arms.”
Then she lets go, and I’m tempted to stop at the machine, buy a crackerjack box, and hunt for a decoder ring at the bottom. Something to decipher what the hell she means with these half-flirting, half-not remarks. Was “nice arms” a compliment, or just a general observation? Did it mean she wanted to run her fingernails along them as I braced myself above her, or that she thought I could be useful for, say, lifting a heavy coffee table in her apartment?