“Every weekend during the off-season. This place is dear to my heart.”

That catches me by surprise. “Really?”

“No. Of course not. I picked it because it’s roughly halfway between our houses.” He snorts. “So gullible.”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” I say with a sigh. “I should’ve known better than to believe you have a heart.” I lock the Jeep and tuck the keys in my purse.

As we walk toward the entrance, I notice Jake slowing his long gait to match my much shorter one. “I totally have a heart,” he argues. “Here, feel.”

Next thing I know, he’s grabbing my hand and placing it inside his unzipped coat. Man, oh man, his pecs are delicious. And I can feel his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers.

“Your heart’s beating fast, Connelly. You worried I’m going to kick your butt in there?”

“Not in the slightest. You already told me you sucked.”

Damn. He’s right. I chide myself for telegraphing my suckiness in advance.

Inside, we encounter another ghost town. The bowling alley consists of ten lanes, and only two of them are in use. At the main counter stands a gray-haired gentleman with leathery skin that hints at too many years in the sun. He greets us with a smile that crinkles the corners of his mouth.

“Evening, folks! How ’bout some shoes?” His voice is so raspy, it sounds like he smokes two packs of cigarettes a day.

We get our bowling shoes, and the old man with the gray ponytail tells us we can take any available lane. We choose the one that’s farthest away from the other patrons—an older couple, and a group of scary-looking bikers who’ve been taunting and catcalling each other since Jake and I walked in. One of them, an overweight guy with a bushy beard, just bowled a strike and he thrusts his arms up in a victory pose.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, motherfucker!” he shouts.

The man behind the counter winces. “Don’t mind those fellas. They’re harmless, but someone needs to wash their mouths out with soap.”

“It’s all right,” I tell him. “My dad coaches hockey players. I’ve heard worse.”

We head over to our lane and sit down in the seating area to switch shoes. My boots take longer to remove because of all the zippers, so Jake’s done before I am. “I’ll grab some drinks,” he offers. “Any preference? Beer? Soda?”

“Beer’s good. Thanks.” I’m okay to have a beer or two. I’ll nurse them throughout the night.

“Cool,” he says before sauntering off.

I stare at his retreating back and admire his tight backside. God. I can’t believe I’m on a date with Jake Connelly. What is life?

Sighing, I slip into the really dorky bowling shoes, and then walk up to the screen that instructs me to enter our names. On the Player One line, I type Brenna.

For Player Two, I type Little Jakey.

I lock it in, and I’m still grinning to myself when Jake comes back carrying two bottles of Bud Light.

I grimace. “Bud Light?”

“All they had,” he says ruefully. “This ain’t exactly a classy joint.”

“We’ll make do,” I assure him. “Thank you.” I accept the bottle he hands me and take a quick sip. Ick. This is my least favorite beer brand.

“Let me enter our names in the—” Jake stops, noticing the overhead screen. He sighs. “Really? What are you, a five-year-old?”

“No, but it sounds like you are, Little Jakey.”

“I’ll show you who’s little,” he growls.

“What are you gonna do, whip your dick out right here in front of the Sons of Anarchy and that nice old man?”

Jake pretends to think it over. “You’re right. I’ll save that move for later.” He holds out his bottle. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

For the second night in a row, we clink our drinks together. This is all sorts of wrong, and not only because he plays for Harvard. I don’t usually date. I haven’t had a serious boyfriend since Eric, and I haven’t wanted one. And for argument’s sake, even if I did want a boyfriend, Jake is the last candidate I should consider for that position. He’s moving to Edmonton in a few months. What kind of relationship could we even have?

I look around the not-so-lively bowling alley, taking in the sounds and sights. Pins smashing together, the loud chatter of the bikers, the bright lights, the shiny wood surface of the long lanes.

What am I doing here?

“Brenna.”

A hot shiver rolls through me at the sound of my name on Jake’s lips. Which further solidifies my conviction that I shouldn’t be here. I hate how much he affects me.

“You’re overthinking,” he says bluntly.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “How do you know that?”

“You always get the same look on your face when you’re analyzing something.” He shrugs. “You’re questioning why you’re here.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. I told you, we’ve got chemistry and I want to see where it goes.”

I blow out a breath. “It won’t go anywhere, Connelly, so get that idea out of your head. The only reason I’m here is because you bullied me into a date.”

“Keep telling yourself that, babe.”

Do I feel a little bit tingly when he calls me babe? Yes.

Do I like the sensation? Not at all.

I take a desperate gulp of my beer and then set the bottle down on the ledge. “All right. Let’s do this thing.”

18

Jake

Brenna is a terrible bowler, but she’s damn fun to watch. She saunters up to the foul line in those abysmal shoes, her hips swaying and her ass looking phenomenal in those tight, black jeans. I’m an ass man, and I can’t take my gaze off her backside.

Despite the fact that she sucks at bowling, she gives every frame one hundred and ten percent. Concentration creases her features as she swings her arm back, rotates her wrist, and releases the bright pink ball. Her timing is off and her follow-through is nonexistent, but for the first time in six frames, the ball moves in a straight line.

Brenna cheers happily as her ball careens toward the jackpot. At the last second it veers, knocking over four pins instead of giving her the strike.

“So close!” she wails.

Then she turns around and she’s never looked more beautiful to me. Her cheeks are like two red apples, her eyes are sparkling, and she performs a cute little dance as she shimmies off the shiny floor.

“I’m getting better!” she exclaims.

“Nowhere to go but up,” I agree, and then I get up and bowl a strike.

“I hate you,” she announces when my score appears on the screen.

I’m beating her in the ass-kicking of the century, but I don’t think she truly cares. To be honest, I’m not paying much attention to the score. Usually I’m competitive as fuck, but tonight I’m just happy to hang out with Brenna. It’s been ages since I’ve been on a real date. Last night’s dinner party doesn’t count, because neither of us had much fun. And the cognac at the bar afterward doesn’t count either, because we did more kissing than talking.

Tonight allows me to see Brenna in a way I haven’t seen before. Bowling isn’t the most romantic of activities, but it can give you insight into a person’s nature. Are they competitive? Petty? Are they a sore loser, or, worse, a sore winner? And with girls specifically, a bowling date can reveal whether a chick is high-maintenance. I know women who would turn their noses up at the alley’s sticky floors or crappy beer. But not Brenna.

After I win the first game, it’s Brenna who suggests another one. “Ha!” I gloat. “You like bowling.”

“I do.” She heaves an overdramatic sigh. “I’m really into this.”

I study her to see if she’s fucking with me. But there isn’t an ounce of fuckery on her face.

“I’m serious. This is awesome.” She shakes her head in amazement. “I think I actually like bowling.”

Her visible shock makes me double over in laughter. Once I’ve recovered, I move closer, my tone going serious. “I guess we’ll have to do this again sometime…” And then I wait.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she approaches the touchscreen and says, “All right, I’ll let Little Jakey go first this time.”

But when my name flashes on the screen, it simply reads: Jake.

I swallow my satisfaction. I think I’m growing on her.

She’s definitely growing on me.

“So are we allowed to talk hockey?” I ask as I walk over to the ball return. I’ve fallen in love with a neon-green ball I’ve been calling the Strikemaker.

“What about it?” she asks suspiciously.

“Well, we’re playing each other soon. It’s a big game.”

“It’s a big game,” she agrees.

“Which raises the question—who will you be rooting for when you’re sitting in those stands? Your school or your new boyfriend?” I flash a cheeky smile over my shoulder.

It’s her turn to double over in laughter. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

“That’s not what you told Mulder…”