Best Laid Plans

Gabe laughs. “As if I’d miss it. I’ll be here with the guys.” He points to me. “And you and I have some games to play, so you better save some lane time for me.”

“Count on it.”

See? Saying yes to Gabe is easy because he’s a friend. Friends are easy to understand.

And because we’re friends, I’m starting to formulate a plan. It’s the seed of an idea now, but I’ll spend time with it, tweak it, refine it.

After we eat our pizza, he asks if I’m up for a game of bowling.

I say yes. It’s good practice, after all, and I need time to devise my plan.

I need to practice saying yes when I want to, and I intend to do precisely that.





9





Gabe





I’ve been called many things.

Pain in the ass, by my sister.

Top prospect, by the major leagues.

Playboy, charmer, and ladies’ man, and any and every combination of those.

I’m not saying any of those terms are wrong.

But I do have to wonder what the hell is wrong with being a ladies’ man?

Women are basically the best thing ever. They’re beautiful, lovely, witty, clever, and a whole hell of a lot of fun to spend time with.

Women are my favorite gender.

My best friend in high school was Lacey Cunningham, a soccer star. In college I was tight with Vivian Wells, who was a goddess at grammar. And now, here I am with Arden. She is fit as a fox in that plaid skirt and matching red tank top, and I want to ask why the hell she likes to bowl in a skirt, but I also don’t want her to ever consider bowling in anything but a skirt.

“So how was the hair stylist?” she asks, inquiring about a date from a few weeks, maybe a month ago.

“It was fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine.” I grab a green ball.

“Fine is not an answer,” she says, egging me on. “Are you seeing her again?”

“She was a lovely lady, but there was no, how shall we say, spark.”

She pouts playfully. “Poor Gabe. No spark must have made you so lonely.”

“Oh, I didn’t say I was lonely.”

She swats me. “You’re such a pig.”

I oink.

“But why would you sleep with her if there was no spark?”

“Oh, there was a physical spark. She’s a fiery one.”

“So she was naughty?” Arden asks carefully, as if she’s measuring her words.

“Maybe a little, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Arden nods, humming. “Nope. Nothing wrong with that at all. How was she naughty though?”

The question comes out like she’s asking it in class, and her tone makes me laugh. “Are you taking notes?”

“Yes. I’m working on a report for the town bulletin.” Her tone is 100 percent deadpan.

“I don’t want to kiss and tell, and definitely not for the same bulletin where Pedro Hardaway advertises his plumbing services and Sally Caruso offers dog sitting by the hour. So stop using your superior powers of persuasion to try to get me to give up all sorts of details, and get focused on your game, woman. I want to beat you.” I head to the lane and take my first shot, sending the ball straight to the finish line.

“Did she have a riding crop and ask you to hit her with it?” Arden asks as the ball slams into eight pins.

It’s a damn good thing I wasn’t throwing the ball when she asked that because it might have landed five lanes over.

Cracking up, I head over to the ball return. “That’s a little specific and definitely inappropriate for a town bulletin.”

“Did she like to be tied up?”

I shake my head. “Not going to go there.”

When the green ball pops up, I palm it then slide my fingers in the holes. She follows my hand with her eyes. “Do you mean she likes to be . . . filled in all the holes?”

I laugh so hard I nearly choke. “Who has the naughty mind tonight? I was simply getting ready to throw a spare.”

She doesn’t even blush. She’s undeterred. “Did she ask you out on the date?”

I frown, trying to remember who asked first. I shrug. “I honestly don’t recall.”

“You’re not helpful. You won’t answer my questions, and you won’t tell me how it started.”

“That’s partly because it’s not going to continue. I’m not seeing her again.” I return to the lane and send the ball down the hardwood, waiting until it smacks the remaining two pins, nailing the spare. When I turn around, I ask, “Why do you want to know so badly what it was like?”

Arden has never pumped me for dating details before. Not the tawdry ones at least. I half want to believe it means something, but it could mean nothing at all.

“Just curious,” she says nonchalantly as she grabs her favorite purple ball. She makes it sound so casual, her inquiry. But there’s that word again from Words with Friends—curious—and it snags on my brain. Why exactly is she so curious?

A second later, she gives me the answer. “Everyone’s coming into the bookstore buying these racier books. It just got me thinking.”

She turns away, heads to the top of the lane, and holds the ball in front of her.

And her comment has me thinking too.

About dirtier books.

If she reads them.

What she likes between the sheets.

What her curiosity has piqued exactly. Well, besides me. I’m definitely piqued, and I make a quick adjustment in my jeans so it’s not so damn obvious.

As she tosses the ball down the lane, her left leg arcing behind her, showing a hint of the back of her thighs, I groan.

I want to know the landscape of her body. Want to slide my hands up and down her legs, nibble on her ass, and make her whimper.

I would love to know what would make Arden go wild in bed.

That’s not only because I’m wildly attracted to her.

It’s because I want to know what makes her tick in the bedroom as well as I know what excites her out of it.

I want to know her in every way.

Sooner or later, I’m going to have to figure out how to drive this car clear out of the friend zone.

Sooner is my preference.

Like maybe this weekend at the party here at the bowling alley.

Maybe I can find a way to pique her interest in me.





10





Arden