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A thunderous crash of pins exploded next to our alley as someone scored a strike, and whoops and cheers rang out loud from the group of teenagers, mingling with the laughter echoing from somewhere behind us.
Then, the bright orange ball rolled across the polished lane, catching the purple neon light, only to plunk into the gutter, to Mia’s almost inaudible groan.
Pri muttered encouragements I couldn’t possibly have heard, because Mia arched down to pick up another ball, and my brain left the building.
My eyes trailed the curve of her spine, snagging on the way those high-waisted pants hugged her ass.
Christ.
That should be illegal.
I ground my teeth and turned to see other heads whip towards us from nearby lanes, other players idly checking her out as they waited for their turn. I wanted to snarl, but I only took an angry sip of cola and reminded myself a full bowling alley was not the place for a tantrum.
“Girls vs. Guys!” Pri had announced as soon as we changed into the stiff leather shoes, and so far, we were whipping their asses.
Largely because—to put it mildly—Mia sucked. I’d never seen her do badly at anything, and it was endearing as hell, with all the little grunts, huffs of frustration, and eye rolls whenever one of us tried to gently correct her form.
Her shoes squeaked, drawing my eye to the ball rumbling down oiled wood again. The dull thwack told me it hit something this time—three pins, an all-time high—and I smothered a little grin, though the corners of my mouth twitched.
She passed me without a glance because I’d offered to coach her, so, naturally, I was dead to her.
A whiff of her perfume reached me over the characteristic scent of lane oil, mingling with the aroma of nachos and beer drifting towards us from the food area.
The pinsetter whirred, resetting the pins, as our encouragement rolled off Mia like water off a duck. If anything, her scowl deepened.
Pri gave her a little reassuring squeeze on the arm, then turned to place an audible kiss on Mark’s cheek, before stepping up to the ball return and grabbing one of the lighter ones.
“Prepare to weep, boys,” she taunted, practically strutting to the approach. She lined up her shot a hundred times, like she was doing astrophysics calculations.
“It’s bowling, not rocket science. Make the damn shot,” I drawled, unable to quite hide the fondness in my voice.
“Oh, shut up. Plotting your demise takes a minute.”
Mark whooped and stuffed his mouth with nachos, while Mia was watching her, and though the purplish shadows under her eyes lingered, her whole face had lit up, her muttered encouragements almost lost under the too-loud pop music overhead, and the noise of everyone else playing around us.
I wanted to kiss her so badly, but I was terrified of pushing too hard or doing the wrong thing, so I settled for a small graze of my hand against hers when I passed her a soft drink.
The condensation sheen cooled my fingers, before she plucked it out with a little huff that didn’t quite sound like a “thanks.”
Pri brought her arm back at last and sent the ball whizzing.
Mia whooped loudly, doing a little happy dance as five pins fell, and the urge to make her cheer for me shot through me like a bolt. I dragged a hand through my hair and told myself to get a grip.
Pri grabbed another ball, did her advanced calculations again, and struck. Three more pins hit the floor.
Not bad.
“That’s it, babe. You rock,” Mark roared, clapping in an obnoxiously sweet way.
Wait, aren’t we competing?
The groan came fast, automatic, before doubling down—
God, what is he wearing?
The Christmas sweater was ridiculous, seeing as it was February—and I made a mental note to get him a calendar—but the silly cartoon Santa in nothing but sunglasses and underpants with hearts on them, and the writing above that said “Trophy husband” made it ten times worse.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, tucked a laugh behind my teeth as Mark did a near-strike, before striding back to a high-five from Pri. She’d high-five him even if the ball sank into the gutter, no doubt.
