“Not interested?” His voice rises. “After everything we’ve been through? You can’t just?—"
“I can, actually.” I cut him off, feeling a strange power in the words. "That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Devon runs his hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that used to make me want to smooth it back into place. “Let me in. We can talk about this.”
“I told you, I’m going out tonight.” The bowling bag feels heavy in my hand, a reminder of the evening ahead—an evening without Devon’s drama. “I don’t have time to chit chat."
“With who?” His eyes narrow, focusing on the bowling bag. “Is that what this is about? You’re seeing someone else?"
“This isn’t about anyone,” I sigh, fatigue settling in my bones. “Or rather, the fact that there is no us."
“I don’t understand what I did wrong.” His voice drops, taking on that wounded tone that used to send me scrambling to make things right. “Just tell me what I did.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Stop being dramatic.” The words feel deliciously satisfying, throwing his own frequent criticism back at him. "Isn’t that what you always tell me when I’m upset?”
His mouth opens, then closes, genuine surprise flickering across his features.
“I’ll call you later,” I say, knowing I probably won’t. “I need to finish getting ready.”
Before he can respond, I close the door, sliding the deadbolt into place with a definitive click.
I lean against the door, waiting for the doorbell to ring again, for his fist to pound against the wood. But there’s only silence, followed by the soft sound of retreating footsteps.
“Betsy? Are you still there?" Liana’s voice reminds me that I still have my phone in my hand.
“I did it,” I whisper, a strange mix of emptiness and exhilaration flowing through me. “I actually sent him away.”
"About damn time,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Now go knock ’em dead tonight. The bowling alley awaits.”
I glance at my watch. I have forty-five minutes to shower, change, and drive across town. Just enough time if I hurry. But for a moment, I stand still, savoring the unfamiliar sensation of choosing myself over Devon’s needs.
It feels like the first strike in a game I might actually win.
CHAPTER 6
CONOR
The cool night air hits my face as I stand outside Betsy’s brownstone, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I adjust the collar of my bowling shirt—just the right balance of effort and nonchalance—and rake my fingers through my hair before jamming the doorbell. Thomas shot me that look when I told him I’d take the wheel tonight instead of using the car service, but a man handles certain things on his own.
He wouldn’t understand. Thomas has the kind of marriage people write songs about—twenty years with his college sweetheart, two kids, and still looks at her like she hung the moon. Meanwhile, I’ve spent my thirties in a wasteland of dating apps and first-date small talk that goes nowhere. Until Betsy. God, Betsy Miller with her huge brain, dark eyes, and that laugh that makes my chest ache.
When the door swings open, I forget how to breathe. Her expression transforms—lips parting, eyes widening—like I’m the surprise she didn’t know she was waiting for.The hallway light catches each strand of her dark hair, turning the waves into rivers of amber and mahogany. Her face, framed in this golden halo, makes my fingers itch to trace the curve of her cheek, the soft bow of her mouth. Those eyes of hers—deep brown with flecks of honey near the pupils—lock onto mine, and for a moment, I let myself believe she’s been counting the minutes too.
“Conor?” Her eyes widen, dark lashes fluttering as she grips the doorframe. “I thought Thomas would be—I mean, you came yourself?” Her voice rises with what sounds like genuine pleasure, a warmth that spreads across her features like sunrise. I feel a grin taking over my face before I can stop it, the kind that starts at one corner of my mouth and conquers the rest.
“Figured Thomas deserved a break from babysitting me tonight. That a problem?” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a small silver earring that catches the porch light.
“Not at all,” she says, and her smile—slow, a little crooked, devastatingly real—hits me square in the chest like a physical blow. “Just give me a second.”
She disappears, returns with a small purse and a leather jacket slung over one arm. Her jeans hug curves that make my hands itch to follow their path, and her cute bowling shirt reveals just enough collarbone to make my mouth go dry. My throat tightens, a physical ache spreading through my chest.
“You look...” I search for something that won’t sound desperate, “...incredible.”
Her cheeks flush as she locks her door, yanking it three times to check. “For bowling? You’re easily impressed, Campbell.”
We hit the steps, and she grabs my forearm. Her touch sears through my sleeve, marking territory I’d gladly surrender. Something spicy and dark wraps around us—cinnamon and amber maybe—making my pulse hammer harder. I fight the urge to bury my face in her hair, to claim that scent as mine.
I’m about to fire back when movement flickers at the edge of my vision. A shadow detaches from one of the massive oaks lining the street, a silhouette materializing like ink bleeding through paper. The harsh streetlight cuts across a face with sandy blonde hair, styled too perfectly for this time of night, and a jaw locked so tight that the tendons stand out like cables beneath his skin. His eyes—cold blue chips of winter sky—lock onto Betsy with possessive intensity before sliding to me with naked contempt.
