Inside, it’s everything I hoped it would be. Loud, a little sticky, and soaked in enough nostalgia to smother any lingering nerves.
Rowan makes a beeline for the token machine, dropping a twenty. “We’re going big. No mercy.”
“If you’re trying to seduce me with competitive talk, it might actually be effective.”
He places a handful of tokens into my palm, his smirk borderline haughty. “Good to know. Let’s see what else I can win tonight.”
The air hockey table flares to life, neon lights pulsing along its edges.
“You sure you don’t want me to take it easy on you?” Rowan asks with that overconfident tilt to his head, eyes sparkling with the same mischief that always got him into trouble…and into my head.
I settle into position. “If you go easy on me, I’ll make you regret it.”
He chuckles, sending the puck gliding my way, and just like that—game on.
Rowan scores first, throwing his hands up with a loud, “Yes!” that manages to turn a few heads.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, scoffing as if I’m entirely unbothered. “That was charity. Didn’t want you crying in public.”
“Oh, we’re talking trash now? Is that what this is?”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Rowan.”
And then I get serious. Three goals in less than a minute.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out after the fourth. “Where the hell did that come from?”
I shrug. “Told you I was good.”
He stalks around the table, recalibrating, eyes narrowed. “You played me.”
“Iwarnedyou.”
He points a finger at me. “You look all sweet and studious, but underneath it’s just ruthless competitiveness.”
“I contain multitudes.”
His eyes drop briefly, lingering at my mouth. “Yeah. You really do.”
It’s as if I’ve been holding my breath for six years, and this playful, ridiculous, perfect mess of a night is the first inhale that doesn’t burn.
Maybe it’s just nostalgia. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s the stupid, pulsing lights and the fact that he’s wearing a henley that I’m positive was custom made just for him.
Then he smiles, and my world tilts just a little further in his direction.
seventeen
. . .
Violet
By the time we stumble out of the arcade, my cheeks hurt from laughing, and Rowan’s carrying a ridiculous blue frog plush that’s almost as big as my torso. Naturally, he presented it to me with a mock bow that made my heart do stupid, dangerous things.
The frog is tucked under his arm like it weighs nothing, despite its comically oversized head and glittery bowtie. No man should be able to carry a stuffed animal that absurd and still manage to radiate casual sex appeal, but here we are.
My eyes keep catching on the way his strong fingers curl around its fuzzy blue leg, how those same hands gripped the edge of the air hockey table, how they shook when he told me he wanted to kiss me and I didn’t let him.
I shouldn’t be thinking about his hands. How they’d feel on my waist, fisted in my hair, or anywhere else. But it’s impossible not to when he keeps doing these playful, stupidly sweet things with a grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.