Page 39 of Right Up His Alley

“I like you, Truett.” Mom laughs and reaches out to take his hand. A cute blush colors his cheeks as my mom squeezes his hand. “How can I repay you for helping my son with the alley? We don’t have money to pay you, I’m afraid.”

Truett shakes his head adamantly, already knowing about our financial burdens. “Oh no. I don’t expect compensation. I just really want this place to go back to its prime and hopefully reach new people. Like I said, this place means a lot to me because of my childhood.”

My mom should end it there. Say her goodbye and let me speak to Truett alone. But no. That’s not what she does, because of course it fucking isn’t. Her face lights up as if an idea just occurred to her, but I have the niggling suspicion she’s been thinking about it since I mentioned Truett.

“Hey, we’re having a family barbecue tomorrow. Plenty of food and drinks. Join us. Let my family feed you as a thank you.”

Finally, my body unfreezes, and I take a step forward. “That’s enough, Mamá. Let Truett go. He doesn’t want to come to a family party.” I close the distance between us as if proximity will somehow get my mother to leave him alone.

However, it’s not my mother I should have been worried about.

“I would love to come,” Truett says. Just like that. No hesitation at all. What the fuck? Is he trying to make me explode? I barely know what Truett is to me, and now he’s suddenly meeting my entire family?

“Good. Ezra will give you all the details. I’m going to head back over to help Mrs. Barnes in her shop. Just come and get me when you’re ready to leave,” she says the last part to me, then offers Truett a smile before heading out the door.

I wait until she’s far away before I address Truett. “You really don’t have to come.” Even as I say it, a part of me wants him to. But a larger, more terrified part of me wants to keep him to myself for a little while longer. I love my family, but they’re a lot. It can even be overwhelming for me when we all get together, and I’m used to it. I can’t imagine what that would be like for an outsider.

Truett rolls his eyes, though. “Would it make you uncomfortable if I came?” He cocks his head to the side.

Would it? I’m certain if I told him it made me uncomfortable, he wouldn’t come. But part of me wants nothing more than to have Truett there, away from the bowling setting and in a capacity where we can just hang out. But another part of me fears crossing that line.

Except haven’t we crossed the line already? At the very least, we’re straddling it, but this would push us over into new territory.

Still, I don’t want him to feel cornered by my mother, let alone my army of family members wielding insanely personal questions as artillery. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated to come. It’s really okay. I’ll just tell my mom you have other plans.”

Truett purses his lips, silently contemplating something I’m not privy to. After a pregnant pause, he smirks. “How about this? You and I make a bet. I challenge you to a bowl-off. If you win, I won’t go. But if I win, I’m definitely coming and eating my weight in food.”

“That hardly seems fair. You're a professional bowler,” I mumble, and he knows I’m not great. He’s seen me bowl before, and even with his help, I can’t ever compare to him.

Truett just shrugs, like this isn’t relevant information. He then holds out his hand to me. “So, what do you say? Want to challenge me, Ezra Jiménez? I can throw on my jersey.”

The way he says my name sounds like a song. One I want to hear over and over again, but in a different setting. My body reacts on its own accord, and before I know it, I reach out and take his hand, despite the hesitation I still feel.

“I accept,” I finally say, throwing caution to the wind.

With one hand, I pat my jersey’s bowling pin patch twice, then line up my shot. The ball is cradled in my palm, fingers snug in the worn holes. The lane stretches ahead with the newly painted walls guiding my throw. All I can see is the prize. The prize being a friendly seat at Ezra’s family gathering. If I win, I’m in. If I lose, well… I don’t plan on losing.

I shift my stance, but the sharp scent of wood and leather distracts me, rising surprisingly above the fresh paint. His pheromones are an unfair advantage.

Ezra leans against the ball return, arms crossed, smirking. “Don’t choke, Truett,” he teases. “Gotta keep that wrist nice and firm.”

I glance at him, deadpan. “Firm wrist. Got it.” I aim, pull back, and let the ball roll.

The second it leaves my hand, I find out just how easy it is for Ezra to distract me. My spin is off. Too much wrist, too little follow-through. The ball curves wide, flirting with the gutter before clipping just one pin, sending it into a slow, wobbly fall.

Ezra whistles. “Oh man! Maybe that was too firm. You might wanna loosen up your grip a little next time. Or, you know, keep a steady stroke.”

I shoot him a look. “Are you really gonna talk dirty to me the whole game?”

“Depends. You gonna keep making it easy for me?” He grins, waving his fingers in front of the small ball return fan like a villain concocting a malevolent plan.

I should go easy on him. Let him win a few frames, make it interesting. But I can’t. I need this win. That BBQ invite could give me a small glimpse into the world of Ezra Jiménez.

A world I’m eager to explore.

“Oh, don’t worry. The first roll is always just a warm-up. Plus, these paint fumes sure aren’t helping.”

“Sure,” he drawls, stretching the word like a long kiss. “I’m sure the paint fumes are what’s distracting you.” He adds a wink.