“Well, isn’t this cozy?” The words come out like ice breaking on a frozen lake, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “Who’s this asshole? Why were you keeping him a secret?”
Beside me, Betsy goes statue-still, her entire body tensing like a sprinter before the gun. Her nails dig half-moons into my arm, five perfect crescents of panic. “Devon?” Her voice drops to nothing, a whisper so fragile it might shatter in the space between us. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to speak to you, and you refused to let me inside.” He advances, expensive Italian shoes crunching gravel. The tailored suit can’t hide the predator stance—shoulders hunched, weight forward on the balls of his feet.
“I’m not required to be available to you whenever you decide you need a shoulder to cry on.” Betsy’s voice hardens. “Tonight, I have plans and do not have time for you. Please, leave.”
I size him up—Devon—tracking the way his hands ball into fists then release, over and over, like he’s squeezing invisible stress balls. The expensive watch on his wrist catches the streetlight as his fingers flex. Something unstable radiates off him like heat from summer asphalt, a shimmer in the air you can almost see. His cologne—something designer and overpowering—reaches me even from six feet away.
“Since when do you push me away?” Devon asks, eyes darting between us like he can’t decide who to hit first, the blue in them gone glacier-cold. A muscle in his jaw jumps beneath stubble too perfect to be accidental. “We need to talk, Betsy. Now.”
I step between them before I even think about it, drawing myself up to my full six-foot-three, shoulders squared under my bowling shirt. My voice drops an octave, rumbling out of my chest like distant thunder. “The lady doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”
Devon’s eyes narrow to slits, his pupils dilating until the blue is just a razor-thin ring of ice. He measures me like a butcher sizing up meat—height, shoulders, the muscle built from years of actual work instead of designer gym memberships. A vein pulses at his temple, his jaw clenching so hard I can almost hear his teeth crack. Betsy makes this sound beside me—half snort, half growl—and moves to my side, pressing against me with deliberate possession, her heat branding my arm. The scent of her fills my lungs, igniting something primal. “Devon, I’m busy tonight,” she says, each word a steel blade. “If you need to talk, call my office tomorrow. During businesshours. Like everyone else who isn’t entitled to my personal time.”
The air between us crackles with invisible electricity, making the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. Devon’s weight shifts forward—knuckles whitening, shoulders bunching beneath his tailored jacket—then rocks back on his Italian leather heels. His eyes dart from my clenched fists to her face, calculating odds like a cornered animal.
“Fine,” he spits through clenched teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he retreats one reluctant step. “Tomorrow then.” As he stalks off down the sidewalk, shoulders rigid with wounded pride, Betsy’s slender fingers find my forearm again. I feel the slight tremor in her touch, like autumn leaves shivering in a cold breeze.
“I’m sorry about that,” she whispers, her voice barely audible above the distant hum of traffic. “I had no idea he would—” “Don’t apologize.” I cover her hand with mine, my palm engulfing her smaller one. “You good?”
The streetlight catches her face as she nods, painting half her features in amber glow while leaving the rest in shadow—like some dramatic movie heroine who’s just escaped the villain. Her smile returns, crooked and mischievous, chasing away the tension that had gripped her moments before. “I am now,” she says, bouncing slightly on her toes. “Let’s go bowling, Conor. I promised to kick your ass so thoroughly you’ll need a cushion for the ride home, remember?”
I laugh out loud. “I can’t wait.”
CHAPTER 7
BETSY
The car ride to Rock and Bowl Lanes passes in a blur of streetlights and shared laughter. I’m still buzzing from the confrontation with Devon, but Conor’s steady presence beside me works like a balm on my frayed nerves. His Audi smells of leather and something distinctly him—sandalwood maybe, with hints of cedar. Clean, masculine, nothing like Devon’s overpowering cologne that always gave me a headache.
“So how good are you really?” I ask, watching his profile as he navigates through Brooklyn traffic. The dashboard lights cast shadows across the planes of his face, highlighting that strong jawline.
Conor chuckles, a deep rumble that I feel more than hear. “Terrible. Absolutely hopeless. But the team keeps me around because I pay for the shirts and the beer.”
"Honesty. I like that in a man.” The words slip out before I can filter them, hanging between us in the warm interior of the car.
His eyes flick to mine for just a second, long enough forsomething electric to pass between us before he returns his attention to the road. “I never saw the point in pretending to be something I’m not.”
The parking lot of Rock and Bowl is already crowded when we arrive, neon lights from the massive sign painting the asphalt in lurid pinks and blues. Bass-heavy music pulses through the walls, vibrating beneath my feet as we approach. Conor’s hand finds the small of my back as he guides me through the entrance, his touch light but present, sending little sparks dancing up my spine.
Inside, the sensory assault is immediate—the crash of pins, shouts of victory and defeat, the unmistakable smell of rental shoes and fried food. Colored lights sweep over the lanes, catching on polished balls and gleaming wooden floors.
“Boss man!” A chorus of voices rises from lane twelve, where a group wearing matching blue shirts with cartoon piranhas emblazoned across the front stands waving. Conor’s team—the Park Slope Piranhas—all smiles and raised beer bottles.
“Sorry, we’re late,” Conor says as we approach, his hand still resting at the small of my back. “Everyone, this is Betsy Miller. She’s the architect working on our new headquarters, and she’s graciously agreed to fill in for Marco tonight.”
A tall woman with a sleek ponytail steps forward, extending her hand. “I’m Jess, head of marketing and team captain.” Her grip is firm, her smile genuine. “Thank god you’re here. The Tribeca Tigers have been insufferable, and we’re down a player.”
I turn toward the neighboring lane where a team inorange and black shirts is huddled in conversation, occasionally glancing our way. “Are they that good?”
"They think they are,” says a lanky guy with thick-framed glasses. "I’m Raj, by the way. Head developer and second-best bowler on the team.”
"Second-best?” I raise an eyebrow.
“After you, I hope,” Jess laughs. "Marco’s our ringer, but he’s home with the flu.”
Conor squeezes my shoulder. “What size shoes do you need? I’ll get them while you get acquainted."
