"I'm winning."
By the end of the game, I'm down by over a hundred points. It's not even close.
"Rematch," I demand.
"You glutton for punishment."
"I want a fair fight."
"That was a fair fight. You're just bad at this."
"I'm not bad. You're freakishly good."
She grins. "Flattery won't save you. But fine—rematch. Best two out of three."
I lose the rematch. And the tiebreaker.
"This is rigged," I tell her, gathering the tiles. "You're a hustler."
"I'm talented. There's a difference."
"You said you came in third in some tournament. Third isn't first."
"Third in the national collegiate championship." She stretches, looking insufferably pleased. "I may have undersold it."
"May have?"
"Strategically."
I set down the tile box and study her. She's curled up on my bed like she belongs there, cheeks flushed with victory, eyes bright with mischief. Most women I know would have let me win. Would have softened the competition to protect my ego.
Madison went for the kill.
I like it.
"I owe you dishes," I say.
"And hot chocolate. That was the bet for round two. Pay up, Morgan."
I make the hot chocolate, and I can feel her gaze like a physical weight.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just observing."
"Observing what?"
"The way you move. It's very... deliberate."
"Should I move less deliberately?"
"I didn't say it was bad." She accepts the mug I hand her, wrapping both hands around it. "This is good. What's in it?"
"Cayenne. Espresso."
"Fancy."
She takes another sip, watching me over the rim. "Harper said you were a player."
