“Beer’s good. Thanks.” I’m okay to have a beer or two. I’ll nurse them throughout the night.
“Cool,” he says before sauntering off.
I stare at his retreating back and admire his tight backside. God. I can’t believe I’m on a date with Jake Connelly. What is life?
Sighing, I slip into the really dorky bowling shoes, and then walk up to the screen that instructs me to enter our names. On the Player One line, I type Brenna.
For Player Two, I type Little Jakey.
I lock it in, and I’m still grinning to myself when Jake comes back carrying two bottles of Bud Light.
I grimace. “Bud Light?”
“All they had,” he says ruefully. “This ain’t exactly a classy joint.”
“We’ll make do,” I assure him. “Thank you.” I accept the bottle he hands me and take a quick sip. Ick. This is my least favorite beer brand.
“Let me enter our names in the—” Jake stops, noticing the overhead screen. He sighs. “Really? What are you, a five-year-old?”
“No, but it sounds like you are, Little Jakey.”
“I’ll show you who’s little,” he growls.
“What are you gonna do, whip your dick out right here in front of the Sons of Anarchy and that nice old man?”
Jake pretends to think it over. “You’re right. I’ll save that move for later.” He holds out his bottle. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
For the second night in a row, we clink our drinks together. This is all sorts of wrong, and not only because he plays for Harvard. I don’t usually date. I haven’t had a serious boyfriend since Eric, and I haven’t wanted one. And for argument’s sake, even if I did want a boyfriend, Jake is the last candidate I should consider for that position. He’s moving to Edmonton in a few months. What kind of relationship could we even have?
I look around the not-so-lively bowling alley, taking in the sounds and sights. Pins smashing together, the loud chatter of the bikers, the bright lights, the shiny wood surface of the long lanes.
What am I doing here?
“Brenna.”
A hot shiver rolls through me at the sound of my name on Jake’s lips. Which further solidifies my conviction that I shouldn’t be here. I hate how much he affects me.
“You’re overthinking,” he says bluntly.
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “How do you know that?”
“You always get the same look on your face when you’re analyzing something.” He shrugs. “You’re questioning why you’re here.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I told you, we’ve got chemistry and I want to see where it goes.”
I blow out a breath. “It won’t go anywhere, Connelly, so get that idea out of your head. The only reason I’m here is because you bullied me into a date.”
“Keep telling yourself that, babe.”
Do I feel a little bit tingly when he calls me babe? Yes.
Do I like the sensation? Not at all.
I take a desperate gulp of my beer and then set the bottle down on the ledge. “All right. Let’s do this thing.”
18
Jake
Brenna is a terrible bowler, but she’s damn fun to watch. She saunters up to the foul line in those abysmal shoes, her hips swaying and her ass looking phenomenal in those tight, black jeans. I’m an ass man, and I can’t take my gaze off her backside.
Despite the fact that she sucks at bowling, she gives every frame one hundred and ten percent. Concentration creases her features as she swings her arm back, rotates her wrist, and releases the bright pink ball. Her timing is off and her follow-through is nonexistent, but for the first time in six frames, the ball moves in a straight line.
Brenna cheers happily as her ball careens toward the jackpot. At the last second it veers, knocking over four pins instead of giving her the strike.
“So close!” she wails.
Then she turns around and she’s never looked more beautiful to me. Her cheeks are like two red apples, her eyes are sparkling, and she performs a cute little dance as she shimmies off the shiny floor.
“I’m getting better!” she exclaims.
“Nowhere to go but up,” I agree, and then I get up and bowl a strike.
“I hate you,” she announces when my score appears on the screen.
I’m beating her in the ass-kicking of the century, but I don’t think she truly cares. To be honest, I’m not paying much attention to the score. Usually I’m competitive as fuck, but tonight I’m just happy to hang out with Brenna. It’s been ages since I’ve been on a real date. Last night’s dinner party doesn’t count, because neither of us had much fun. And the cognac at the bar afterward doesn’t count either, because we did more kissing than talking.
Tonight allows me to see Brenna in a way I haven’t seen before. Bowling isn’t the most romantic of activities, but it can give you insight into a person’s nature. Are they competitive? Petty? Are they a sore loser, or, worse, a sore winner? And with girls specifically, a bowling date can reveal whether a chick is high-maintenance. I know women who would turn their noses up at the alley’s sticky floors or crappy beer. But not Brenna.
After I win the first game, it’s Brenna who suggests another one. “Ha!” I gloat. “You like bowling.”
“I do.” She heaves an overdramatic sigh. “I’m really into this.”
I study her to see if she’s fucking with me. But there isn’t an ounce of fuckery on her face.
“I’m serious. This is awesome.” She shakes her head in amazement. “I think I actually like bowling.”
Her visible shock makes me double over in laughter. Once I’ve recovered, I move closer, my tone going serious. “I guess we’ll have to do this again sometime…” And then I wait.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she approaches the touchscreen and says, “All right, I’ll let Little Jakey go first this time.”
But when my name flashes on the screen, it simply reads: Jake.
I swallow my satisfaction. I think I’m growing on her.
She’s definitely growing on me.
“So are we allowed to talk hockey?” I ask as I walk over to the ball return. I’ve fallen in love with a neon-green ball I’ve been calling the Strikemaker.
“What about it?” she asks suspiciously.
“Well, we’re playing each other soon. It’s a big game.”
“It’s a big game,” she agrees.
“Which raises the question—who will you be rooting for when you’re sitting in those stands? Your school or your new boyfriend?” I flash a cheeky smile over my shoulder.
It’s her turn to double over in laughter. “You’re not my boyfriend.”
“That’s not what you told Mulder…”
“Mulder is a prick, and I don’t feel bad lying to him. Now turn around and bowl, Jakey. I want to check out your ass.”
My grin nearly breaks my face in half, and I’m grateful she can’t see it. For her benefit, I make a big production out of my turn, flexing my arms, stretching forward in a way that makes my ass stick out. I hear a choked noise from behind me. When I turn my head, there’s heat sizzling in Brenna’s dark eyes.
“You’re such a tease,” she accuses.
“I’m just bowling,” I say innocently.
“Uh-huh, sure you are.” She slides off the chair. “Man, is it hot in here?”
The next thing I know, she’s pulling her black long-sleeve shirt over her head, leaving her in a thin black camisole that clings to her perfect tits. I glimpse the lacy cups of her bra peeking out from the neckline, and my mouth goes completely dry. I return to the seating area and grab my beer. We’re both on our second beer, but there won’t be a third. I told the concessions kid to cut us off after two.
I gulp down the cold liquid as Brenna saunters to get a ball, her gait more seductive than ever. She tosses her long, glossy hair over one shoulder, spins around, and actually licks her lips.
Lord help me.
Her first throw knocks over seven pins.
“That’s your best yet!” Standing at the edge of the lane, I offer words of encouragement. “Go for the spare, Hottie. You’ve got this.”
“Really?” she says dubiously. “I haven’t bowled a single spare yet.”
“So? Doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”
It doesn’t happen. Her second ball rolls into the gutter.
“You jinxed me,” she complains, trying to brush past me.
I hook an arm around her slender waist before she can escape. I want to tug her body against mine and kiss the hell out of her, but I settle for a chaste peck on the cheek.
“Did you just kiss my cheek?” she asks in amusement.
“Yeah. Got a problem with that?” I rest my hands above her ass, fighting the urge to move them lower. “Your ass looks amazing in these jeans, by the way.”
“I know. That’s why I wore them.”
I chuckle. My palms dip half an inch lower, but then I think, screw it. My back is to the other patrons, and nobody can see what my hands are doing, anyway. So I give her a nice, firm squeeze.
She makes a husky sound. “Dammit, Connelly, we’re in public.”
“So?”
“So you can’t go around squeezing my butt.”
“Why not?”
Brenna pauses. Several seconds tick by before she shrugs. “You know, I can’t think of a good enough reason.”