He’s bad at this game. Like, epically bad.
I don’t know why he keeps playing with me. I get there’s not much to do in the cabin, board games like this being one of the few forms of entertainment, but he’s lost every time we’ve played and it clearly upsets him. He’s grumpy for at least an hour after each game. Yet each night he keeps putting himself through the same misery.
“Not a fan of losing board games, are you?” I ask with a grin.
“Not a fan of losing anything.”
“Funny, because you’ve been doing an awful lot of it lately.”
He gives me a narrow-eyed look for a few moments, then a slow smile lifts his mouth. The look he gives me makes my stomach bottom out, and the smile slip from my lips.
“It’s kind of hot in here, isn’t it?” he asks.
I shrug. My throat is suddenly feeling a little dry.
We have a fire going, so I guess it’s a little stuffy.
I start to answer him when he reaches over his head and grabs his t-shirt and pulls it over his head.
Oh no, not again.
Becks has spent half his time here in a state of undress. I wouldn’t normally complain, except I can never seem to keep my cool. Each morning, when he comes back from his jog, sweaty and shirtless, or I cross his path before he goes to bed in only low-slung joggers, it leaves me tongue-tied and blushing. I usually end up ducking my head and fleeing so I don’t make a bigger fool of myself, but we’re in the middle of our game. A retreat isn’t possible.
“What are you doing?” I ask, feeling my face heating by the second.
His head pops free, his hair appealingly ruffled, and he drops his shirt next to him.
“You know I run hot,” he says, like it’s a perfectly normal reason to undress in front of someone. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Feeling a little like I’m in a fog, I shake my head, doing all I can to keep my eyes from dropping below his neck.
“Good. Your turn,” he says with a smile that shows too many teeth.
Sucking in a gulp of air, I glance down at my tiles, my mind a jumble as I try to put together words with the letters in front of me.
Maybe it’s just subliminal messaging, but the room suddenly does feel a bit heated.
After several minutes of broken concentration, I can only come up with a three-letter word worth five points, one point less than he just laid.
With a huff, I place them on the board. Not my finest move. I’m usually much more?—
I glance up, catching the smug look on his face, and it hits me.
He’s not overheated. He’s trying to throw me off my game. And it’s working!
Of all the dirty ways to win a game.
He leans forward, his biceps bulging when he places them on his knees, to see what I’ve just played.
“Five points. Congrats! That’s twelve points less than your last word,” he says, not even trying to hide the glee on his face.
I shoot him a narrow-eyed glance that only makes his smile brighter.
Overheated, are we? Oh, I’ll help you cool off.
Without a word, I pop out of my seat.
“Where are you going?” he asks as I stomp into the kitchen.
