have a heart.” I lock the Jeep and tuck the keys in my purse.
As we walk toward the entrance, I notice Jake slowing his long gait to match my much shorter one. “I totally have a heart,” he argues. “Here, feel.”
Next thing I know, he’s grabbing my hand and placing it inside his unzipped coat. Man, oh man, his pecs are delicious. And I can feel his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers.
“Your heart’s beating fast, Connelly. You worried I’m going to kick your butt in there?”
“Not in the slightest. You already told me you sucked.”
Damn. He’s right. I chide myself for telegraphing my suckiness in advance.
Inside, we encounter another ghost town. The bowling alley consists of ten lanes, and only two of them are in use. At the main counter stands a gray-haired gentleman with leathery skin that hints at too many years in the sun. He greets us with a smile that crinkles the corners of his mouth.
“Evening, folks! How ’bout some shoes?” His voice is so raspy, it sounds like he smokes two packs of cigarettes a day.
We get our bowling shoes, and the old man with the gray ponytail tells us we can take any available lane. We choose the one that’s farthest away from the other patrons—an older couple, and a group of scary-looking bikers who’ve been taunting and catcalling each other since Jake and I walked in. One of them, an overweight guy with a bushy beard, just bowled a strike and he thrusts his arms up in a victory pose.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, motherfucker!” he shouts.
The man behind the counter winces. “Don’t mind those fellas. They’re harmless, but someone needs to wash their mouths out with soap.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “My dad coaches hockey players. I’ve heard worse.”
We head over to our lane and sit down in the seating area to switch shoes. My boots take longer to remove because of all the zippers, so Jake’s done before I am. “I’ll grab some drinks,” he offers. “Any preference? Beer? Soda?”
“Beer’s good. Thanks.” I’m okay to have a beer or two. I’ll nurse them throughout the night.
“Cool,” he says before sauntering off.
I stare at his retreating back and admire his tight backside. God. I can’t believe I’m on a date with Jake Connelly. What is life?
Sighing, I slip into the really dorky bowling shoes, and then walk up to the screen that instructs me to enter our names. On the Player One line, I type Brenna.
For Player Two, I type Little Jakey.
I lock it in, and I’m still grinning to myself when Jake comes back carrying two bottles of Bud Light.
I grimace. “Bud Light?”
“All they had,” he says ruefully. “This ain’t exactly a classy joint.”
“We’ll make do,” I assure him. “Thank you.” I accept the bottle he hands me and take a quick sip. Ick. This is my least favorite beer brand.
“Let me enter our names in the—” Jake stops, noticing the overhead screen. He sighs. “Really? What are you, a five-year-old?”
“No, but it sounds like you are, Little Jakey.”
“I’ll show you who’s little,” he growls.
“What are you gonna do, whip your dick out right here in front of the Sons of Anarchy and that nice old man?”
Jake pretends to think it over. “You’re right. I’ll save that move for later.” He holds out his bottle. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
For the second night in a row, we clink our drinks together. This is all sorts of wrong, and not only because he plays for Harvard. I don’t usually date. I haven’t had a serious boyfriend since Eric, and I haven’t wanted one. And for argument’s sake, even if I did want a boyfriend, Jake is the last candidate I should consider for that position. He’s moving to Edmonton in a few months. What kind of relationship could we even have?
I look around the not-so-lively bowling alley, taking in the sounds and sights. Pins smashing together, the loud chatter of the bikers, the bright lights, the shiny wood surface of the long lanes.
What am I doing here?
“Brenna.”
A hot shiver rolls through me at the sound of my name on Jake’s lips. Which further solidifies my conviction that I shouldn’t be here. I hate how much he affects me.
“You’re overthinking,” he says bluntly.
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “How do you know that?”
“You always get the same look on your face when you’re analyzing something.” He shrugs. “You’re questioning why you’re here.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I told you, we’ve got chemistry and I want to see where it goes.”
I