Playing Mr. Perfect (The Bradens at Ridgeport #1)

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.