But the odds, they’re never in my favor.
Case in point, when I push through the gymnasium doors, the Cronies are already seated at a table, not a chair to spare, even without their newest member.
“Where’s Arlene?” I ask as I approach, handing Sophia the keys to the Caddy so I won’t accidentally leave with them.
“On a date,” Grandma Helen says without taking her gaze off the card in front of her. The game hasn’t started, but I suspect she’s using our mnemonic prowess to memorize the squares and gain an edge.
“Wayne of Shady Tree Lane?”
“Nah, she’s out with a new fella tonight,” Wanda says with a pop of her gum, equally entranced with her card as the emcee instructs everyone to please take their seats.
“Bruce,” a few voices add, overlapping one another.
“Banner?” It’s out of my mouth in a wink, but the ladies take their time scowling at me. Not because they get the reference, although Noah nudges me with his elbow, giving me a dude nod I think means I’ve earned his respect.
“I don’t know any Bruce Banner,” Grandma huffs, now onto stacking her bingo markers by color, so yeah, the genetics are strong with us.
“Bruce is one of the new residents,” Sophia says, “A highly in demand bachelor, might I add, and he took one look at Arlene and was smitten.”
“Aww.” I glance at Noah to see how he’s handling the exchange. His features remain carefully placid, save a tiny tick in his jaw, so I give his shoulder a supportive bump. “It’s good for her.”
With the first round about to begin, other attendees encourage us to find a table with extra supplies, and byencourage,I mean they yell at us to get the hell out of the way, so we do.
I’m afraid I’ve been sadly misled about the booze until I see the drink cart, and then I trip my way over giant purses, bags, and a cylinder of oxygen to place an order. Noah follows right behind, asking for a beer while I go native and order a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime juice and gin.
I scan the tables, but there’s only one with empty spaces, the table behind the Cronies.
A sigh escapes but doesn’t magically open more seats, and Noah takes me by the elbow, five long fingers of heat imprinting themselves on my skin. As he guides me toward the empty table, his grip and his stride so confident and firm, I’m acutely aware of all the places we’re touching and all the places we’re not.
Once we reach the table, Noah pulls out a chair for me, settling me in place before taking the seat next to mine. He passes me supplies from the stack in the middle, the right side of his mouth kicking up in a crooked smile as he says, “Looks like it’s just you and me.”
By the fifth game of the evening, Noah can’t get over the fact that I’ve called bingo once already, and he hasn’t even come close.
I can’t stop fiddling with my red, yellow, and blue markers, perpetually nudging the plastic circles so they’re more centered in their squares. Noah’s card looks like he organized his on the San Andreas Fault, but the knock of his elbow against the table is what causes the quake.
He’s so generally like that. Uncontained energy, the vibes I pick up all over the place. Knee constantly bouncing, blue-eyed-gaze flicking to me at intervals. I could almost set my watch and heart rate by it.
With a purse of my lips, I get to rearranging. “I like this game much better than tennis. I actually have a chance of winning.”
“Not this game,” Noah says. “This game is mine.”
“Dream on, Landscaper Man.”
This time, his bump of the table is deliberate. “What’s that again? Better not talk trash when I know your weakness.”
I gasp and get to tidying my card, doing my best to ignore Noah’s laugh and the intoxicating shiver it sends down my spine. Seriously, if my heart thunders any harder, it’ll beat a hole through my chest. “You do? Which one?”
Another laugh; another shiver of electricity.
He leans closer, sucking the oxygen out of my bubble and leaving me dizzy with the scent of fresh-cut grass and his woodsy, masculine cologne. “One big bump and I could scatter your pieces and your focus.”
I twist in my seat, knee nestled extra high on his upper thigh. “One big bump and I could ruin the rest of your night. Do you really want to test me?”
Afraid I’ve bluffed too big, I debate changing my threat to ruining the next five to ten minutes, even though it doesn’t sound nearly as impressive.
“I’m not sure why,” he says, and I’m rewinding our conversation in an attempt to piece together his meaning. “But I really do. Want to test you, that is.”
Since I’ve been extensively trained in good sportsmanship, I decide to rub it in his face that he’s still going to lose, and that devolves into a shoving and giggling match.
