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“I’m okay.” I wipe my cheeks and sniffle. “It’s just…it feels hopeful that it’s still here. Not everything changes. I know this is stupid. I’m crying over a pinball machine.”
A half-smile touches Davis’s lips. “Cupcake, you cry your beautiful eyes out. And when you’re done…” He pauses, leans in. “I’ll kick your ass.”
I sob-laugh. “Bullshit.” I grab the flippers and hope the need for competition will dry up my tears. “I wonder if our high scores are still there.”
Davis drops a token in the slot and the blaring banger of a theme song—dueling banjos and electric guitar—drowns out the sound of every other machine in the arcade.
“You ready for an ass kicking?” I taunt.
There’s a rumble of a chuckle from Davis. “Going from crying to ass kicking? That’s what I’d call underhanded diversion tactics, Cupcake.”
I scoff. “Let’s play.”
“You’re on,” he says as he wraps one massive hand around the plunger.
“Outta my way,” I tease, elbowing him aside.
We play token after token. Long and loud into the evening. Even with my weak arm, I kill it and beat my best score. Squishkicks in my belly like he–or–she is keeping rhythm with the bright noises of the arcade.
“Damn skill shot,” I mutter. “Damn bitch, multi-ball,” I growl as three balls come out of nowhere. My game’s ended with a deafening “yeehaw” and the crack of a whip.
“Shit,” I whine. “I almost had that.” Then I look at Davis, our scores, and lift a brow. “Still beat you, Hotshot.”
It makes his lips curve, and I relish the sight.
“There she is. The Koty I remember.” Davis encircles me, his broad, rough hands slipping over my backside. I gasp as he spins me around to cage me against the machine. My senses are consumed with him—my breasts crushed against his powerful chest, the vibration of the pinball machine, the electric arc of our bodies. Heat and heart and soul.
Davis dips his head, his voice a husky rasp against my ear. “My sexy little trash talker.”
“You’re one to talk.” Brazenness zips through me, and I palm the front of his chest. “I never knew you had such a filthy mouth under this uptight exterior.”
His eyes flash. “Uptight, huh?”
“Oh, very. Davis Montgomery. Boss of brothers. Broody super soldier. Cupcake eater. And—”
Nothing else gets past my lips.
Davis silences me with a kiss so mind-melting my knees nearly go out.
We sway together as I drink in his heady taste, my arms twined behind his head.
The arcade gets louder, the lights brighter. My cheeks flame. But I tune it all out.
I tighten my grip on the man in my arms.
What Resurrection thinks doesn’t matter. What matters is I am kissing Davis Montgomery in public. What matters is Iam alive. What matters are all the tiny glimmers of happy I’ve collected this last month.
Maybe this town is still mine.
And maybe so is Davis Montgomery.
Margaritas drunk: 0.
“Remember how those poolhall margs just hit different?” I ask with a sigh. I gaze longingly as a fishbowl-sized margarita gets delivered to a nearby couple, two straws for the win.
“Remember how they hit you,” Davis says, giving me a full-wattage grin that has me melting.
“The dancing.” I cover my eyes and groan. “I remember the dancing.”
