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Even if Timothy was interested in more—and he’s not—and if we were willing to risk our friendship—and we’re not—he’s always after someone new and exciting. He’s got a new boyfriend or girlfriend every week. They don’t even last long enough to meet me.
Dating Timothy isn’t an option. He wouldn’t mean to, but he’d end up hurting me and I’ll never put myself in a position where I find my heart smashed into the floor again. We are perfect as friends, unsuitable as more. These little sparks of attraction can’t change that.
When he asks me out tonight, I’ll say no. We’ll stay friends.
The music bleeds one song into another—they all sound the same—and everything except tonight drains away as I dance.
Through a break in the swaying bodies, I catch sight of Timothy at the bar, his hand on Nic’s shoulder as he leans in to say something over the loud music.
We need to go before Timothy and I end up dancing again, so I grab Charlotte and Lexi and we make our way over.
Timothy grins at us, and when he holds his arm out, I slot myself underneath, for science. Just to see if his touch does anything to me.
It doesn’t. No weird horny feelings—until his drink touches me right above my elbow. The glass is cold and wet with condensation, and I inhale sharply. I want him to hold the glass against my neck. Slide it down my spine. Chase it with his hot tongue.
I want him.
Panic slides over me, because what the hell? Tonight, of all nights? AndTimothy? He’s my best friend. I’m not going to be his adventure of the week.
Thank god Timothy’s busy introducing Lexi and Charlotte to Nic. He doesn’t notice when I steal the drink out of his hand. My friends are too busy staring at Nic with wide-eyed wonder to witness the unfurling disaster that is my physical attraction to Timothy.
I slowly drain his entire drink. It’s delicious, which helps.
Maybe this is a transitory thing that will go away tomorrow. I cross my fingers and force myself to pay attention to the conversation happening around me.
My friends are pretty and Nic’s eyes turn predatory for two seconds until Timothy steps on his foot and shakes his head. With a heavy sigh, Nic slips into a more pleasant, less casual-sex-is-how-I-handle-my-problems-can-I-introduce-you-to-my-dick personality.
Timothy takes his empty glass from me, one brow raised like he’s on to me, and sets it on the bar. It’s an act. He’s completely unaware of my crisis. If he knew what was going on in my head, he’d overdramatically faint from shock.
“Let’s go bowling,” he says brightly.
Oblivious. Just the way I like him.
We pour into the bowling alley half an hour later, discarding heels and dress shoes for bowling shoes and ordering cheap beer from the bar. My night is safely back on track—any little sparks I feel for Timothy will take a back seat to kicking his ass.
This place exists in some bizarre world where everyone could be a competitor from the movie Dodgeball. We’re sandwiched between some metalheads and furries bowling with bumpers and ramps. There’s also a group dressed like 1920s gangsters a few lanes down, and a bachelorette party decked out in sashes and penis hats at the other end. A random gorilla wearing a fedora walks by several times, apparently unattached to any of the groups here.
Once we’re in our lane, I turn to Timothy, jabbing him in the chest. “You’re a cheater.”
His smile is impossibly adorable—and guilty. He knows what he’s done.
“Bowling? In this dress?” I motion down my body and the way his eyes follow makes my stomach flutter. “Is that the only way you can beat me?”
His grin turns wolfish as his eyes return to my face. “Maybe.”
“I’m going to beat you if I have to flash my ass to everyone here.” I slip my thumbs under the halter top near my collarbone and give it a gentle tug. “Also, boob tape. Do you think I’m an amateur?”
He laughs, his eyes crinkling softly. “I never underestimate you.”
Dammit. Why did he have to say that? I can’t afford to swoon, I have asses to kick. I pluck my ball off the rack and step up to play.
Five frames in and I’m barely ahead of Timothy. Nic and Lexi aren’t far behind either. Charlotte’s struck up a conversation with a guy a few lanes down, so we skip her turns.
“My evil plan might be working.” Timothy gives me a diabolical grin, pointing at the scores as I step up to take my turn. I flip him off.
A wolf in the next lane lets rip a—you guessed it—wolf whistle as I’m about to release my ball. It doesn’t leave my hand as it should and something in my finger pulls and snaps.
Pain shoots up my arm, my finger throbbing.
