I lift a taunting eyebrow. “Oh, it’s not over yet, Rossi.”
She tightens her stance, ready for me to continue the game. “Give me your best shot, Marco.”
I take it easy on her, letting her rack up the score before I get a few points. With the text she got tonight, I know she needs a smallwin. We’re back to that easy place between us—the one where we don’t have to pretend.
Ever since the Christmas party, when I tried to get her away from Jaxon, things have been uncomfortable between us. I’m not a man who does stupid things. I don’t sacrifice my dignity for just anyone. But if she asked me how much of that embarrassing moment was real, I’d have to tell her the truth:All of it.
I’m a man who would’ve groveled at her feet, begging her to choose me over Jaxon, if I’d needed to. And instead of just owning my stupidity, I did the worst thing possible: I sent her a panicked text afterwards.Mistakes were made. Forget what happened tonight.
Of course she would take my words at face value, and I didn’t attempt to correct her.
Considering the awkwardness from our kiss years ago, the serenade certainly hasn’t made things any easier between us.
“Yes!” she squeals as she scores again, then cocks her chin. “Looks like you’re behind, Bren.” My name rolls off her tongue the same way it did in high school. “I only need one more point to win. You really need to try harder.”
I let out a humorless scoff. “Who says I was actually trying?”
She narrows her eyes and motions to the score. “It’s obvious.”
“I know,” I say, unbuttoning the top few buttons of my shirt because I’ve worked up a sweat.
She tilts her head. I’ve piqued her interest just enough to stall the game. “Then why are you smiling?”
“Because I know something you don’t know.” I toss the mallet between my hands. “I am not left-handed.”
“That’s fromThe Princess Bride,” she says.
“The movie we watched in high school.” A memory surfaces of Scarlett curled up next to me, her feet tucked under her, reciting lines before the characters could say them.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “But you’ve always played left-handed.”
“When I playyou.”
Her mouth falls open. “You mean to tell me that you used your wrong hand during every game in high school?”
I lift an eyebrow. “You want the honest answer, or one that makes you feel better?”
She leans on the table and holds my gaze. “The truth.”
“I played as a leftie, but only because I thought you cared about winning.” I spin the mallet in my hand. “I was waiting on you to figure it out so I could use that quote. Only took you twelve years.”
Her eyes fly wider. “Brendan Marco! Why didn’t you tell me?” She starts around the table toward me.
I quickly back away, hands up in surrender, before she can smack me with her mallet. “You didn’t ask!” I reply with a laugh.
She attempts to scowl, but I don’t believe it. “I’m mad at you.”
“Good.”
“Good?” She halts, looking up at me from under her dark lashes.
I smirk. “Because you play better when you’re mad.”
A mallet comes whirling through the air at me, and I dodge it, barely. It smacks the wall behind me. “You almost took me out with that!”
“That was the idea,” she deadpans, turning back to circle the table.
Even if she wants to clock me with a flying mallet, I don’t want this game to end. The fire in her eyes, the challenge in her pouty, pink lips—all of it is a rush for me.