The duckpin lanes are tiny. The balls fit in my hand. The pins wobble like they’re waiting to be knocked over by accident.
Sloane goes first, clutching the ball like it might detonate. Her wind-up is half shot put, half kitchen disaster.
She lets it fly. Three pins go down.
“That’s your approach?” I ask, barely holding in a laugh.
“It worked.”
“Barely.”
“Your turn, hotshot.”
I pick up one of the miniature balls, testing its weight. “The key is follow-through,” I explain, lining up my shot. “You want to keep your arm straight, release at the bottom of your swing—”
My ball hits the gutter before it's halfway down the lane.
Sloane's laugh is immediate and completely unsympathetic. “Oh, that's precious. Please, continue with your expert instruction.”
“That was a warm-up.”
“Sure it was.”
My second shot clips two pins—practically a miracle, all things considered. “Better,” she says, patting my arm with mock encouragement. “You’re really improving.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m enjoying thisexactlythe right amount.”
When it's her turn again, I watch her adopt the same clumsy stance, and something protective stirs in me.
"Here, let me—"
I step behind her, and the world narrows to this: the warmth of her body just inches from mine, the subtle curve of her spine visible through the soft wool of her sweater. My chest brushes against her back as I settle into position, and I feel her go completely still, like a deer sensing a predator—except there's nothing prey-like about the way her breath catches, sharp and expectant.
My arms come around hers, caging her in without trapping her, and the scent of her shampoo—something clean and citrusy—fills my senses. It mingles with the faint trace of her perfume, that warm, subtle fragrance that's been driving me quietly insane all evening. This close, I can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, can sense the way she's holding herself perfectly motionless, as if afraid that any movement might shatter whatever spell we've stumbled into.
My hands settle over hers on the miniature bowling ball, and the contrast hits me like a physical shock—my fingers, scarred and calloused from years of hockey, completely engulfing her smaller, softer hands. The ball feels insignificant between our joined grip, just an excuse for this impossible intimacy in a public place where we should be maintaining distance.
"It's all in the follow-through," I murmur, my lips so close to her ear that I can feel the delicate shell of it warm against my breath. The words come out rougher than I intended, heavy with something that has nothing to do with bowling technique. "Let your arm swing naturally. Like a pendulum."
She shivers—just barely, but I feel it ripple through her entire frame where she's pressed against me. The soft cashmere of her sweater is impossibly smooth under my palms as I guide her arms through the motion, and I have to fight the urge to let my hands drift, to explore the curve of her waist, the graceful line of her shoulders.
Slowly, deliberately, I guide her through the motion, my body moving with hers in a rhythm that feels dangerously intimate. She leans into me—just slightly, just enough that I can feel the full length of her back against my chest—and the rest of the arcade dissolves into background noise. Theflashing lights, the electronic sounds, the handful of other patrons—all of it fades until there's nothing but her warmth, her scent, the soft catch of her breathing that tells me she's as affected by this as I am.
"Like that?" she asks, her voice softer now, breathier, and I can hear the question beneath the question, the awareness that we've crossed some invisible line between playful instruction and something far more dangerous.
"Exactly like that."
We’re not talking about bowling anymore. The ball sits forgotten in her hands as I turn her slightly, just enough that she has to look up to meet my eyes.
“Garrett...”
“Yeah?”
“We're in public.”
“I know.”
