20. CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY
KINSLEY
“ S trike.” I spin around, pumping my fists into the air. “Take that.”
It’s the ninth frame and my seventh strike of the night. Naturally, I can’t help but gloat. I’m beating the pants off Ethan, and watching his face fall is one of the most entertaining things I’ve seen in a very long time. He tries to keep his expression neutral, though I know his tics well enough to know that when he squints like that, he’s trying not to pout.
Ethan has yet to call me out for playing him. I was a pretty terrible bowler back in high school. Strikes were rare. I was much more likely to throw gutter balls. But I joined a bowling league during my second year of college. It kept me busy, which, in turn, kept my mind off Maggie and my mom.
Sweeping around me, Ethan bumps his knee into mine. With a mumbled apology, he picks up his ball. Then he moves to the far right of the lane. He positions himself with his feet shoulder-width apart and his left leg slightly forward. His expression turns serious, stern, as he goes through the motions and releases the ball.
I hold my breath as it speeds lightning-fast down the lane and hits the center pin head-on. Eight pins fall flat, while one on each end remains standing.
“Split,” I cry out in triumph. I shouldn’t get too excited. We still have one more frame, but as long as I don’t throw my ball into the gutter, I should have this in the bag.
Ethan throws his second ball, knocks one pin down, and drops his weight onto the bench next to me. Groaning, he shoots me a glare. My heart stutters. Is he really upset?
When he leans back and throws an arm over the back of the bench, though, the worry swirling in me eases away.
“Go put me out of my misery,” he says, smirking.
I place a hand on his leg, instantly absorbing the heat of him through the denim separating my fingertips from his flesh, and squeeze. I don’t think about his skin underneath. The soft spot on the inside of his knee. Not at first, at least. But then my mind wanders to thoughts about how nice it would feel, how nice it does feel.
He clears his throat, startling me, and heat creeps up my chest and into my cheeks. I’ve made things awkward.
With an uncomfortable laugh, I stand. “Toughen up,” I say without turning back to look at him.
In the last frame, I throw three more strikes, sweeping him with a score of 258 to his 213.
With a grin so wide my cheeks ache, I jump, giddy with excitement.
“Double or nothing,” Ethan says solemnly.
“Oh, come on.” I swat at his shoulder. “You’re not even going to congratulate me? Look at my score.” I point to the screen. “Better yet, take a picture.”
“Double. Or Nothing,” he says again, this time slower and in a low, husky tone that rumbles in my belly.
He takes a step closer so that we’re no more than a few inches apart. His scent washes over me. A hint of vanilla hits me first, followed by leaves and earth and maybe cinnamon. It’s so him. So reminiscent of us. On warm summer nights, curled up next to one another on his parents’ couch when his family hosted movie night.
I suck in a breath, ready to tell him there’s no way in hell I’m giving up this win, but the words don’t come. Not when his brown eyes drop to my lips. They only linger for a millisecond, but it feels like a lifetime. My brain, the traitor, forces me to drop my own gaze too. To stare right back at his mouth. His perfectly symmetrical lips.
My heart rate picks up as I’m consumed by the desire to kiss him and the knowledge that it’s a terrible idea.
Loud cheering pulls me from my daze. And when I blink back to the present, he’s no longer looking at me.
“Somebody just shot a three hundred,” he says.
I turn and look in the direction of the women on the other end of the building. A woman around my mom’s age is jumping up and down as her friends hug her and give her high fives. Even though I don’t even know the person, I find myself clapping too.
“Just think,” Ethan whispers into my ear, “that could be you.”
My heart does a little flip. Not at his words, but at the warmth of his breath on my neck. I’m not sure what he’s trying to do with that rich, seductive voice of his, but it’s obvious that he’s itching for another chance. A redo.
So why am I hesitating? I’m better than he is. Plus, I’m having a good time. Pathetically, I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.
Far back there, in the dusty cobwebs of my brain, I know I’m not a boring hermit. I’m Kinzie fucking Grant. The girl who loves life. The girl who takes chances and knows exactly what she wants in life.
Scratch that. My stomach sinks. The reality is, that girl is all past tense. I used to be fun and free. Now, I truly am a lonely introvert who’s pretending to be fine.
I’m not fine.
Ethan is watching me again, sporting a sinister smile. Dammit. He really is good-looking.
With a huff, I duck my head and give it a shake. Whether or not that smile is real, I am having fun. And I don’t want the night to end.
“You’re on,” I say.
Despite my best efforts, I do not bowl a perfect three hundred. I don’t even hit two hundred. Nope. Because why on earth would that happen twice? It’s not like I doubled a bet or anything like that. Oh wait, that’s exactly what I did.
“One pin. You beat me by one lousy pin,” I say, wagging my finger in front of Ethan’s face.
“One pin is all that matters.” He chuckles, pressing my finger down and grasping my fisted hand.
I pull my hand back, and before I can think better of it, I say, “Best two out of three.” Instantly, my stomach sinks. What the hell, Kinz? If he wins, I’ll have to tell him about my mom, which will probably lead to me telling him about the baby and my cancer, and I’m not ready for any of that yet.
Ethan cocks his head to the side, his eyes wide with shock, as if he can’t believe I volunteered to spend more time with him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I sneer.
The way his eyes brighten and his lips quirk up eases my anxiety. It wouldn’t be the most terrible thing in the world. Tessa and Jill are right. I have to tell him eventually.
Still, I don’t want to give him any ideas, so I add, “It’s not like I have anything better to do tonight. You’re actually saving me from having to deal with Tessa and Derrick and their packing escapades.”
He chuckles softly. “Packing escapades?”
“Yes. It’s like they can’t pack fast enough.”
I’m still in shock that Tessa works for the FBI. It shouldn’t have surprised me. She’s wanted a career with them for as long as I can remember, but somewhere along the line, I stopped asking her about it, and she stopped sharing.
“She’s not in any trouble or anything,” I add, suddenly aware of Ethan’s intense gaze. “You know, don’t you? About her being an agent?”
He nods slowly. “I speculated.”
“She told me about the night you found her in the office. She said it was a setup. The guy who broke in stole files that were planted there to throw somebody off a trail. She was so worried you were going to interfere by calling for backup, but she couldn’t tell you what was really going on. So she pretended to be distraught until you left and figured you’d put two and two together once you went back to the station to file a report.”
“That’s strangely accurate,” Ethan says. “What did they decide to do with the house? Are they going to hire a management company, or will they let you help?”
“They’re sort of doing both,” I admit. “Tessa called some company today and took down their information. She’s holding on to them for backup.”
He quirks a brow. “Backup?”
I sigh. “She wasn’t wrong when she called me selfish. For the last few years, I’ve kind of been living in my own little bubble. I want to help her out, but she knows that one little thing can set me off, and if it does, it’ll be hard for me not to immediately go back to my safe place. If I do that, then it will leave her having to deal with the house from across the ocean. So,” I say, deflating, “she has a backup.”
Ethan presses his lips together, clearly considering asking more, but to my relief, he turns without another word and resets the game.
The first two balls we throw are strikes, and in the third and fourth frames, we each hit spares, followed by nine pins. It’s not until the fifth frame that I take the lead. I gloat, but Ethan doesn’t complain. He does, however, tell me not to get too excited. Then he smiles that gorgeous smile of his, and I try my hardest not to melt.
The next few frames are bowled in similar fashion, and Ethan continues to dole out compliments, telling me how impressed he is with my skills. Each time he showers me in praise, my insides soar. This man is so genuinely sweet, and when he talks to me, he acts as if we’re the only two people in the room. As if no one else exists.
At the bottom of the eighth frame, after he throws another perfect strike, and just as I’m making my way up to the ball rack, the lights dim. I miss my footing and stumble forward, smacking into Ethan’s strong, solid frame.
“Oof,” I say. Nothing about his body is soft, except for his skin. And I only know this because as I pull away, I grasp his forearm for support. An unexpected surge of warmth spreads through my fingertips. I look up and immediately regret it. Ethan isn’t looking back at me with concern in his eyes. It’s the opposite. There’s hunger there. And an intensity I haven’t seen in a long time.
Heat spreads to my face and then to my core. A flutter, a subtle yet undeniable sensation, pulses in my stomach.
The old Kinzie—okay, even the Kinzie of more recent times—would probably have taken this opportunity to kiss a man who made me feel this way. But this is Ethan. Not a mere stranger I can throw myself into bed with and kick out when I’m finished. What am I doing? As my adrenaline begins to dissipate, I pull away, hoping to break the spell, but it doesn’t disappear.
“Sorry,” I breathe, avoiding his gaze. I maneuver around him, but he’s everywhere, and there’s no avoiding brushing up against him when I grab my ball.
“Sorry,” he echoes, the gravel in his voice making my insides melt.
I let out a slow, quiet breath, trying to mask the desire pulsing through my veins.
Clearing my throat, I step away and focus on the game as best as I can. I swing my arm and release the ball in much the same way I usually do, aiming for the outer edge of the center pin. But at the very last second, when my fingers fall from the holes, my hand jerks to the right, and it goes straight into the gutter.
Eyes closed, I slap a hand to my forehead in embarrassment. I can’t even turn around to face Ethan. In my defense, my wrist flipped because I was distracted by him and his mouth.
Finally, when I know there’s no avoiding this, I press my lips together and put up my hands. “Guess it was about time I messed up.”
If Ethan wants to acknowledge this royal disaster, he doesn’t let on. He simply brushes past me, picks up his ball, and throws it down the lane. The crack of pins echoes in the space around us. Another strike.