Page 93 of Playing Mr. Perfect

“Are you afraid of a little competition, Mr. Perfect?”

“Never.” I haul her against me. “But call me that again, and I might just have to show you who’s boss. And for that, you will be naked.”

“I don’t know if I should be scared or turned on.”

“Given how you loved being at my mercy in Paris, I’d say turned on.”

Heat flares in her eyes. “In that case, whatever you say, Mr. Perfect.”

“Reckless,” I grit out, and kiss her senseless.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Pepper

Clay wasn’t kidding when he said he’d researched places to go today. Our first potential hobby is bowling, and it’s bustling with children’s birthday parties and rowdy kids running to and from the snack counter, giggling and shouting. I didn’t even realize there was a bowling alley here.

We scarf down hot dogs and nachos, and as we put on bowling shoes, I’m still reeling from our trip to the craft store. We had a blast taking separate carts and gathering supplies, trying to keep our design ideas secret. But my competitive man didn’t play fair. He cornered me in the packing material aisle, smelling good enough to eat, talking dirty, and kissing me until my knees weakened and my ability to think wavered. I was this close to divulging my plans for my boat, but I held firm and pried myself out of his arms.

Clay is lucky. All he has to do is pull down the shirt he has on under his hoodie to cover his erection, while I’m stuck walking around with damp panties.

Damn him.

I have to admit, I love his taunts and the way he appreciates my intelligence and brings out my inner sexual being. I didn’t know that was possible. In my experience, if I was seen as a sexual being, my intelligence went unnoticed, and vice versa. I’m starting to realize I’d drawn a hard line between the two, but Clay makes me feel whole and appreciated on both levels. What’s even more amazing is that he noticed my competitive nature, when I thought I’d hidden it so well. Nobody has ever taken note of it except Ravi, and he only sees it in regard to my work. My family thinks I did well in school because that’s who I am.

The truth is so much more complicated.

Now that the competitive cat is out of the bag, there’s no need to downplay it. I finish putting on my shoes and pop to my feet. “Prepare to lose, Braden.”

“I thought you said you haven’t bowled since you were a kid.”

“I haven’t, but I’m still going to beat you.”

“We’ll see about that.” He pushes to his feet, looking even more rugged with his shaggy scruff and baseball cap. I’ve never been into scruffy guys, but I have a feeling Clay could grow a thick and wild beard and a beer belly and I’d still find him impossibly hot. His quick wit, thoughtfulness, and intelligence don’t rely on his looks. Of course, his charming dimples and piercing blue eyes don’t hurt.

He puts a hand on my back, drawing me from my thoughts as he leans in and says, “Keep looking at me like that, and these little kids are going to see things they shouldn’t.”

The innocent faces of the little girls playing in the next lane should be enough of a reason for me to give him grief for even saying something like that. But the truth is, I love the way he sees my hidden thoughts and the way he wants me even at inappropriate times. Not only do I refrain from giving him a hard time, but I also can’t stop the grin from tugging at my lips.

Oh God. I’m turning into Brindle.

“What’s that grin for, Reckless?” He smirks. “Thinking about all the fun things I could do to you?”

I school my expression. “You might want to get your mind out of the gutter so your balls don’t end up there.”

“It’s nice to know you’re thinking about my balls.” He pats my butt. “You’re up first.”

He sits down and types our names into the machine that keeps score—Reckless and Winner.

I choose my ball, and it takes a minute for me to remember proper positioning.

“Come on, Pep. You’ve got this,” Clay cheers.

I take a deep breath, tuning out the din of the other players, the crashing of pins, and the rumbling of balls. I set my eyes on the center of the lane as I swing my arms back, step forward, and release the ball. It rolls straight down the middle of the lane, knocking over nine pins. Clay cheers, and the little girls beside us clap. I smile at them as I turn around.

“Are you sure you haven’t played since you were a kid?” Clay asks as I pick up another ball.

“Yes. I didn’t get a strike, did I?” I say matter-of-factly.