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“Aren’t they cute together?” I ask Ian quietly while flipping off Mac.
“They are,” he says. “You’ll have to tell me the story of how they met.”
“Oh, you should let them tell you—it’s a good one. Can I bowl now?” I ask.
Ian gives me two thumbs-ups and gestures to the lane.
I do just like I practiced, but this time I release the ball. It glides all the way down to the pins, but I only knock out three.
I turn back to Ian and shrug.
“You’ll get ’em next time, tiger,” he says, and when his lips quirk up in a smile, my stomach tumbles like a gymnast doing a floor routine. Damn it, he is adorable.
Ian takes his turn and throws what looks like an effortless strike. Mac and Jessie cheer for him, and I boo, giving him two thumbs down.
“Maybe next time put a little effort into it,” I heckle him as he joins Jessie and me back at the seats.
Mac hops up for his turn.
Ian settles in next to Jessie and asks her how she and Mac met. She starts the story about the Halloween party from almost a year ago, where Mac, dressed as Shakespeare, danced with Jessie, dressed in all black with a cat-ear headband, at a frat party.
Mac chimes in when his turn is over and Jessie’s is up. He tells Ian about how Jessie had no idea she was dancing with him, but they didn’t just dance—they made out at that party. I talk about how Jessie went on a hunt for Sexy Shakespeare, as we nicknamed him, while Mac was trying to spend more time with Jessie, but Jessie had no interest in spending time with Mac because she didn’t like him.
“It’s not that I didn’t like him! I just thought he was, like . . . a know-it-all,” Jessie says at the end of her turn.
“That sounds familiar,” I say, raising my eyebrows at her.
She sticks her tongue out at me and makes a face.
I take my first turn with the ball, taking all of Ian’s advice, but my ball still only grazes and knocks over one pin. I turn back with my thumbs down.
“I just want you to know that I’m super good at a lot of things. A lot of different things,” I say to Ian as he approaches the ball return.
“Let me help you be good at this. May I?” He gestures to where I’m standing, and I shrug. “Grab your ball,” he instructs, and I resist the urge to make a joke. I take the ball from the return machine and stand where he’s pointing for me to stand.
He walks up to me and stands behind me. His scene-shop and Old Spice scent envelops me, distracting me for a second.
“Half a step back toward me,” he says, and I take a delayed step back.
“This first set of approach dots,” he says, pointing to the dots under my feet.
With my eyes, I follow where he’s pointing.
He points to another set of dots two steps ahead. “That’s the second set, and you can start there, but I’m going to teach you the way I like to do it.”
Something about the way he says the words, quiet enough that only I can hear him, makes me turn to look at him. Is he being suggestive, or am I just always horny? He’s got the softest smirk on his face, and I swear there’s mischief in his eyes. Whatever version of Ian this one is, it’s the opposite of the guy who was at my apartment a month ago, not really interested in hooking up with me. His words, his body language—it feels flirtatious. Or maybe I just need to get laid.
“So I know I just said most of this, but I’ll walk through it with you again. Here—put the ball down real fast.”
I let him remove the ball from my hand and set it back on the machine.
“May I touch you?”
He stands behind me, his voice soft in my ear, and I almost don’t hear him. My throat is too dry to conjure words, so I just nod, and he places one hand on my hip. He takes my hand in his, and we look down the lane as if my arm is the barrel of a gun while he explains the arrows and where I should aim the ball. He walks me through the steps, his chin brushing my shoulder occasionally. His breath caresses my ear, and my skin prickles with goosebumps. There’s a familiar stirring below my belly button.
Ifthisis turning me on, I definitely need to get laid.
“Okay, so you’re going to take five steps, but you want to end right before the line.”
