Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 54520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Dawson and Mike chuckle.
I do not.
He’s goddamn lucky it’s loud enough to cover his big mouth.
“I bowled the last two strikes, didn’t I?” I snap, glare locked on him.
Mike tips his beer toward the screen. “And now you’re up again, so how about you get your ass moving and bowl another one to keep us in the lead.”
Shit. I glance up at the screen and sure enough, my name’s flashing.
And so is Harlow’s…
Perfect.
I shove to my feet, ignoring the sound of my friends’ chuckles trailing behind me.
Assholes.
Harlow and I reach the ball return at the same time. She doesn’t look at me, her focus squarely on the rack, like if she concentrates hard enough, I might walk away.
Not a fucking chance.
I move in closer, so close that our arms nearly brush, that she has no choice but feel me.
The ball she has slips from her fingers, landing with a hard thud.
“Shit,” she mutters, her movements jerky.
“Everything okay, Goldilocks?” I ask, my tone smooth. “You seem a little flustered.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes sharp enough to slice glass. “Cut the shit, Masters.”
I lift a brow, feigning innocence. “What shit?”
“You know exactly what,” she snaps, voice pitched low enough to stay beneath the noise. “The glares. The snide comments. The constant intimidation tactics. Just stop. You’re making this awkward for everyone.”
I don’t think so. She is not fucking pinning this on me.
My head dips, tone dropping. “The only thing awkward is you pretending I didn’t fuck the hell out of you just two weeks ago.”
For a second, the tough girl act slips. Her lips part, eyes flaring with the memory of that night.
Then she blinks, and it’s gone.
Her anger slams back into place, jaw tightening like she’s two seconds away from launching the ball in my face.
I wouldn’t blame her. I’m being an asshole, but I’m too pissed off to care right now.
“You got this, Harlow,” Hollis calls from behind us, misreading the situation. “Don’t let him bait you.”
She has no idea. None of them do. They can’t. Not when the woman in front of me refuses to admit it.
Harlow flashes a tight smile over her shoulder, perfecting that mask before picking up her ball again.
She straightens, only to find me still standing in her path. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I drawl, making no move to step aside.
Eyes narrowing, she shoulders past me, the small touch hitting harder than it should.
I hang back, watching her line up her shot, shoulders squared like she has something to prove.
Her release is clean, just not clean enough. Pins scatter in every direction, all but one. It teeters, swaying just enough to stir hope, before settling upright, smug and mocking.
“Damn. So close,” I mock, the taunt slipping out too easy.
She turns on me, hip cocked. “Think you can do better?”
I scoff. “I could do better with my eyes closed.”
She smirks, daring me to prove it. “Let’s see it, hotshot.”
Grabbing a ball, I step up to my lane but face her instead of the pins.
She waits for me to turn toward my target.
I don’t.
Without looking, I send the ball flying. The sound of the smooth roll, crash of pins, and cheers behind me say everything.
Strike.
Her eyes flare with unrestrained fury.
Grinning, I lean closer, smug and satisfied. “You should know by now, Goldilocks. I always score.”
Her jaw clenches so tight I’m half-expecting it to snap.
“Don’t worry about it, Harlow,” Ellie yells. “Get a spare and we’re still in this.”
Harlow grabs her second ball and marches back to the line, her focus laser sharp.
Amused, I stay right where I am, hoping like hell it rattles her.
It doesn’t.
She nails the spare, the ball crashing into the remaining pin.
The girls erupt behind her, their squeals drowning out everything else.
I would never admit it out loud, but damn if I’m not a little proud too.
She saunters back toward me, hips swaying in a way that feels more like a challenge than a walk.
My hands clench at my sides, the urge to haul her against me burning hotter with every step.
She stops just inches away, that mouth I dream about curling into a smile as she lifts onto her toes, breath grazing my jaw. “You might’ve scored, Slimer, but don’t forget who runs the game, and I never play to lose.”
Then she’s gone, leaving nothing behind but the scent of her shampoo and the heat of her body.
It takes every ounce of restraint I have not to throw her over my shoulder and find the nearest room to fuck all that sass out of her.
Grinding my molars, I shove down the burn and stalk back to my team, dropping in my seat hard enough to rattle it.
Dawson clears his throat, eyeing me carefully. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I bite out.
Nobody buys it. Not that I blame them after that little spectacle.
Across the lane, the girls are huddled around Harlow, clearly asking the same question.