“An arcade?” I ask, skeptical yet intrigued.
“An arcade bar,” Gareth clarifies. “Pinball. Skee-ball. Vodka.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I hate vodka.”
“That’s fair,” he agrees, taking my hand. “Hopefully the drinks are strong enough to make us think we’re good at these games.”
“Iamgood at these games,” I correct. “Skee-ball’s my jam.”
He smiles, holding open the door for me. “We’ll see who’s better.”
We step inside the bar, and the first thing I notice are the sticky floors, the neon, and the nostalgia. I know better than to judge a book by its cover, but the outside of this place doesn’t accurately portray what’s inside. The walls are lined with every game imaginable, the bar sitting like an island in the center, wall-to-wall people enjoying drinks and camaraderie.
In the corner, there’s an air hockey table, the couple who were just playing it walking away.
I don’t give it a second thought before grabbing Gareth’s wrist, dragging him to it. “C’mon!”
I feel carefree, like I’ve gone back in time and can just behappy. No responsibilities, nothing to worry about. Just the ability to let go and have fun.
The table vibrates with air seeping through the holes on the table, the bright lights flashing, tempting us to play. Gareth pulls out his wallet, looking down at the machine. It takes credit cards, so he swipes his, and the table spits out the puck.
The sharp clang of the paddles hitting the puck, sending it sailing back and forth across the table, mix with our laughter as we unintentionally take turns scoring on each other. The countdown taunts us—fifteen seconds left before the table shuts off.
“I got this, Archer. Don’t be too sad when I win,” Gareth teases, looking at the black circle that’ll crown one of us the victor of dive bar air hockey. He analyzes it, then rams his paddle into it.
It’s fast, but I’m faster, blocking the shot, the puck stalls and bounces off the side of the table. Gareth groans, but in a split second, I send the puck sailing back down to his end, straight into his goal.
“Yes!” I squeal, and Gareth groans.
Jumping up and down, I clap my hands together. His eyes narrow as he prowls over to me, looking at me like I’m prey.Instantly my excitement morphs into anticipation, and I’m putty in his hands when he catches my hips, pulling me flush against him.
“Good game, Trouble.” He kisses me, hard and fast.
I moan as he sucks my tongue into his mouth, but all too quickly, he releases me, and I stumble as I regain my footing.
“Want a drink?” he asks, the picture of calm, cool, and collected. Like he didn’t just kiss me senseless and send my thoughts straight to the gutter.
I nod. “Yeah. A drink sounds good.”
His hand slips back into mine and he leads me to an open high-top, steadying it as he helps me up onto the stool. His fingertips linger before he steps away, heading to the bar to grab us drinks. I didn’t tell him what I wanted, and I’m curious what he’ll come back with.
Leaning against the bar, he glances over his shoulder, his hair falling over his forehead in a tousled mess, and winks before turning back to the bartender, deep in conversation.
I busy myself people-watching, letting my eyes drift over the different games lining the walls, deciding what to play next. Five minutes later, he returns and hands me a whiskey sour before sliding onto his barstool, a glass full of beer in hand.
“How’d you know?” I ask, taking a sip. Depending on my mood, I either order a whiskey sour or a strawberry margarita on the rocks with a sugar rim—but I don’t recall ever telling him that.
He shrugs, eyes lighting up into something playful. “Lucky guess.” Then, quieter—almost hesitantly—he asks, “Are you having fun, Indy?”
“Of course I am.” I take another drink. “This reminds me of that night at the fair. Do you remember?”
“How could I forget?” He leans back, resting one hand casually on the table. “I think about that night probably more than I should.”
“Our first kiss.” My gaze drops, the memory rushing back. I think about it all the time, too. Of how he made me feel, so cherished and seen.
Then the memory shifts, and I’m brought back to the night everything imploded.
As if he senses the change, Gareth braces his elbows on the table. “What’s wrong?”
