Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“I’m excited,” I say, feeling better about this day with every passing second. “And I have to pee. Too much coffee.”
Remy laughs. “Hold on. Like…five minutes. Maybe a little less.”
Exactly four minutes later, we pull into a gravel lot in front of an old converted barn. The faded sign above the door reads “QUARTER KINGDOM” in peeling letters, and through the open windows I see the familiar glow of arcade cabinets.
“No way.” I turn to Remy, grinning. “Old school arcade?”
“Yep.” She kills the engine, looking pleased with herself. “And the best pizza in the county. Allegedly. Ready to work up an appetite?”
“Hell, yes.” I pass Barb over as I nod toward the restroom signs on the right side of the building. “Hold the baby, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, but then my turn,” she calls after me as I bolt. “I had too much coffee, too.”
Inside, post pee break, we discover a time capsule of neon and nostalgia. Classic arcade games line the walls, their screens painting the dim space in electric blues and pinks. The air smells like pizza and fried mushrooms, people mill around with their dogs happily trailing behind them, and a cool, early autumn breeze drifts in through the open doors and windows.
Something in my chest expands as I take it all in.
It’s exactly the kind of place I used to love as a kid, back when my sisters would let me tag along to the mall with them on weekends, even though I was the bratty little brother. Sometimes, when their friends didn’t show, we’d end up playing at our local arcade together for hours.
Those are still some of my favorite family memories.
And now, I get to make more memories with Rem.
“Wow,” she murmurs once we’ve purchased a giant cup of quarters each. Her eyes widen as she scans the space. “They really do have everything. Where should we start?”
“Basketball first. Always good for a warm-up.” I take her hand, pulling her toward the collection of hoops at the back, while Barb gambols after us, already having a fabulous time. “First one to fifty points wins, and the loser buys lunch?”
She arches a brow, studying me with those sharp green eyes that see too much. “As long as you don’t have plans to let me win.”
I fake a wounded expression as we stop beside the basketball section. “Would I do that?”
“You absolutely would.” She steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that goes straight to my groin as she adds, “But here’s the thing, Stone…fake wins don’t turn me on.”
My mouth goes dry. “No?”
“No.” Her fingers trail down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “I need real, healthy, intense competition. The kind that works up an appetite for...” Her tongue sweeps across her lips. “Pizza.”
The way she says ‘pizza’ makes it clear she’s not talking about food.
Not at all.
Just when I thought I couldn’t love her more…
“Well then,” I manage, my voice rougher than it was before. “I guess it’s game on, Bossy.”
The next half hour passes in a cacophony of trash talk, rattling nets, and enthusiastic cheerleading from Barb. Remy’s good—scary good—and watching her sink three-pointers with a look of fierce concentration on her pretty face does things to me.
Things that make it hard to focus on actually beating her fine ass…
Which really is looking extra fine in those skin-tight leggings she pulled from her back seat this morning.
“Eyes up here, Stone,” she taunts after making a particularly impressive shot. “Staring at my butt isn’t going to help you catch up before it’s too late.”
I grin as I grab the ball, dribbling it with precision. “You don’t know that. Maybe butt-gazing helps me focus. Maybe it’s my secret weapon.”
Her brows lift. “Really? Okay, I’ll try it while you shoot, then.” Her gaze drops to my butt and damn it, if it doesn’t make me thicker.
Just a look, that’s all it takes.
I know I’m beaten right then, at least five minutes before she sinks her final shot, hitting fifty points with a soft “yes!” of triumph. Her arms surge up into a V of victory as Barb dances around her feet in celebration.
“Not cool, Barb,” I say. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Nah, Barb’s a girl’s girl, especially when it comes to sports,” Remy says, her eyes bright with triumph as she scoops my puppy into her arms, accepting Barb’s enthusiastic face kisses. “I know, buddy. Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without your help. You’re a great cheerleader.” To me, she adds, “Ready to get your ass kicked at Mario Kart, next?”
Too gone on this woman to care how often my ass is kicked, I nod. “Let’s do it.”
We work our way through the classics, having a blast. Barb trots along beside us, patient in the wake of sniffs from the other dogs and fawning from the players. Being the center of attention is nothing new to my girl. She’s accustomed to being the most adorable dog in any room, and handles herself with her usual grace.