It was probably static electricity. Happened all the time.Didn’t it? She flung the thought from her head. “Follow-up question, why aren’t we wearing shoes?”
He offered a low chuckle, his glistening abs flexing from the force. You really could play Tic-Tac-Toe on them.
“Oh, that’s ’cause it feels nice. Figured you don’t touch grass much in New York City.”
Who had time for Earthing when you were in a perpetual state of dread? She rolled her eyes, but her smile eked out.
Oh, great, he’s funny too?
“No, but I’ve pet a lot of bodega cats, which I’d argue is better.”
When she wiggled her toes, itdidfeel nice. Crap, if he was going to walk around being right all day, bronzed nipples out in triumph, she needed something stronger than iced tea to drink. “Are you still okay with me recording our conversation?”
“Go for it.”
She crossed to the table, clicked on her digital recorder with her free hand, and turned back to him, expectant. “So, what next? These bags are getting heavy.” And they were burning daylight.
He picked up his four blue bags, eyes twinkling despite the cool shade blanketing them. “By Crawford Rules—which is how we play—each bag in the hole is worth three points. A bag that lands on the face of the board but doesn’t go in is worth one. We’ll take turns. The real fun is that if either of our bags land on the board but don’t go in the hole, the other person can knock it in with their own bag and steal the points.”
Without permission, something warm bloomed in her chest. He looked genuinely excited, which was genuinely…sweet?
“That sounds like sabotage.” She laughed.
He grinned back at her. “Only if you miss the hole. And honey, I never miss the hole.”
He winked, and her stomach dipped. She’d never think of the word “hole” quite the same. Jamie stepped back so she could approach her starting point, which was on the right side of a second slanted board two feet ahead of them.
“Take all the time you need.”
“Wow, somebody’s cocky,” she said, immediately blushing at her word choice.
He furrowed his brow and gripped his chest in mock offense. “Who, me? Never. But…why don’t we make this more interesting. For every shot you make, I’ll answer a question. Anything you want. And for any I make, you’ll answer mine.”
He bit his bottom lip as a sunbeam warmed her inner thighs. At least, she hoped it was the sun. She peered at him, taking in all his sharp edges, and considered shutting this right the hell down and rescheduling for a decidedly lessstimulatinglocation. A warehouse full of glue sticks?
His eyes grew soft and he smiled, all sugarcane-sweet and Southern boy congeniality. “Please?”
Brinton regarded him through a curtain of braids that had conveniently fallen into her face, a temporary reprieve from his magnetic gaze. Rich demanded ajuicyangle, so maybe she had to let down her guard a tiny bit. She blinked away her discomfort at the thought.
“One question.”
“I’ll take it.” He smiled wider, then gestured toward the target. “Try not to overthink it.”
Through her side-eye, she caught him watching her. Taking her in like he wanted the memory tattooed on his brain. She’d never tell him, of course, but it felt good to be seen for once. Even momentarily. She sucked in a breath, cupped one bag under-handed, arm outstretched behind her,and launched it forward. Her eyes widened in disbelief. It sailed straight into the hole.
He rubbed the ghost of golden stubble on his chin, impressed. Frankly, she was too. “Damn, that’s a nice shot.”
She shrugged. “Beginner’s luck.”
He waved his pointer finger in the air, eyes raking over her body appreciatively. “Nuh-uh. I know when I’m being hustled. But hit me.”
She inhaled. “Okay, let’s start with the new album. Is there a title yet?”
He exhaled deeply, as if the question were an anvil he was pushing up a steep cliff. “It’s calledThe Heartbreak Prince.”
“You…don’t seem too happy about it.”
Staring down the infinite stretch of green ahead, he slapped together the stack of bean bags in each hand. “Let’s say it wasn’t my first choice.”
