Page 40 of Right Up His Alley

“Well, aren’t you being cheeky?”

I can’t help but smile. Ezra’s still in a good mood, still a little flirtatious, even after spending the whole weekend painting the alley. It’s a little unreal. I’m more impressed than I want to admit. His energy makes me want to push him this week, see how much more we can get done. Then the sound of my ball spitting out from the return pulls me back.

“Cheeky? Please, if my words are getting you flustered now, imagine what my actual cheeks could do.”

I keep my face blank, refusing to give him the satisfaction of the reaction I know he’s searching for. Yet, I feel my ears warming a little, so I quickly look down, grabbing my ball from the return. I line up my frame’s second shot, focusing on the arrows. I pull back, release the ball, and watch it glide straight down the center until it collides into the head pin, sending the others crashing down.

“See? The first shot is always just a warm up.” I smack my hands together as if I’ve just accomplished an impossible task. And maybe I have, in a way.

Ezra steps up, gently knocking his shoulder into mine as he passes me. He grabs his ball and sets himself up in formation. Letting out a subtle exhale, he sends his ball rolling down the lane with a smooth, confident release. It slams into the pins, sending them all scattering.

A perfect strike.

He turns back, cocky as hell. “Hmm. Mr. Professional Bowler Man, does that mean I don’t need a second turn this frame if I get all the pins down on the first try?”

I groan. “You are incorrigible.”

“I would disagree, but I think I kind of like it?” He smiles, stepping down from the platform.

I shake my head, refusing to provide a comeback, because honestly, I think I like it too. I yank my jersey off and toss it over the back of a chair. The warm breeze from the open doors feels good against my skin, but there’s a part of me that knows exactly what I’m doing. I need to shift the focus, distract Ezra like he’s been successfully doing to me. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, watching for his reaction now. He’s trying hard to focus on the score screen, assessing what numbers he’ll need to score for each frame in order to win.

But I know better.

His eyes flicker to the line of my shoulders, quick and unreadable, then back to the screen. The moment lingers for a fraction of a second longer than it should, and my pulse picks up, a subtle jolt of nerves in my stomach. I step up on the approach, acting casual, but there’s a part of me that’s holding my breath, waiting to see if he’ll bite.

Finally, he lets out a low chuckle, not looking at me, but his voice is steady. “What, getting too hot for you, Truett?”

I’m fighting a grin, but it creeps up anyway. “Maybe.” My tone is more direct than I mean it to be. “All the AC must be going out the open doors… or maybe something else has me hot and bothered.”

Ezra doesn’t answer right away, but I catch the way his jaw tightens, the muscles in his arms flexing as he crosses them over his chest. When I turn back toward him, his gaze flicks between my eyes and my chest like he’s trying not to get caught looking.

But the moment his eyes finally lock on mine tells me everything I need to know.

I lean forward, sending him a single wink. “Do you agree, Ezra? Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

His lips twitch into something that might be a smile, but it’s gone before I can tell for sure. The air between us crackles again, but this time, just like this bowling ball held effortlessly in the palm of my hand, I have him right where I want him.

I swing my arm back, and with a quick follow-through, I send the ball down the lane with a force strong enough to knock every single pin down again.

We go back and forth for the next several frames. Not every roll is a strike or a spare. Ezra’s next shot hooks too early, clipping the side and leaving a stubborn split. I rush mine and send it wide, cursing under my breath as it thuds into the gutter. He leans a little too far into the next throw and overcorrects. I have to pause to retie my shoe, then come back and knock down all but one. Some turns earn us a few points; others are complete misfires. But with each round, the competition gets stiffer.

The tension between us ignites more and more. Sweat drips down my back, clinging to the small hairs at the nape of my neck. I see beads on Ezra too, sliding down his temple, trailing the curve of his throat, disappearing beneath his collar. My mind flashes with thoughts of me licking his neck and him relishing every second.

From what he’s shared with me, he’s never considered himself a bowler, let alone a decent one, but I’m honestly shocked by how good he is. There’s no denying it now, bowling runs in his veins. His skills, and the way he’s downplayed them, stir something deep in me. It’s hotter than anything I’ve experienced before. Especially when it comes to other players.

I’ve never been the type of bowler to dick down other bowlers. I’m just not attracted to them. But with Ezra, I can’t help but shake the urge to drag him to the lane, rip his clothes off, and kiss and suck every inch of his smooth, silken skin. I’d go as far as to let him take me from behind, just so I can feel his breath shudder, hot and heavy, as it brushes against the curve of my ear. Hearing him release any sound with his gravelly, rough tone would make me bust so quickly, all over these damn floors.

“It’s your turn, True.”

True? The way he calls me that makes it sound less like a name and more like something personal. Like he’s holding out his hand, knowing I’d take it, knowing I’d be okay with him being so close.

Why does he have to use a nickname for me? As if he needed one more thing to make me want him this badly.

Shaking my head, I look up at the score and see I’m in my last frame. I’m eleven points ahead. If I throw one more strike, I win the game. I win an invite to Ezra’s family’s BBQ.

I wind back my arm and send the bowling ball down the center of the lane, watching as it rolls smoothly toward the pins. But just before it reaches them, I turn and stare at Ezra. He’s not looking at the ball. He’s looking at me. His smirk is barely noticeable, but it’s unmistakably there.

Maybe he might actually want me at the party. Like he might want me to win this game. But there’s something else in his gaze, something more daring, a gleam that tells me he’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking. He wants me.