“B-6.”
“I just think we should experience all sorts of things together,” I finish as I check my card. No B-6. Rowan, on the other hand, dabs his top right corner.
“Have any other things on your mind that you’d like toexperiencewith me?” he whispers, and I bite my lip to try and stifle my smile.
“Maybe,” I whisper back.
“G-10.”
I soak one of my squares in red, and Rowan does the same to his in green.
“Care to share with the class?”he asks.
“A-3,” says the caller.
“I think you should have to work for it, no?” I ask.
Rowan’s knee bumps into mine again, and it distracts me enough that I’m caught off guard when I feel the fingertips of his free hand slide under the back of my shirt. Where our coats are hanging on the back of our chairs, it’s likely that no one can see his movement.
“Have I not put in the effort?” His fingers trace over the indentations on my lower back, massaging at the dimples there. For some reason, ever since that first night, my dimples have been an erogenous zone.
He continues, “I feel like Elijah from last night would agree that I have.”
I let out a heavy breath, dotting my paper again as the caller announces G-8.
“You’re teasing,” I complain quietly, and this only spurs Rowan on as his middle finger dips lightly beneath the band of my slacks.
“Am I?”
“This is not good boy behavior,” I chastise.
Rowan’s fingers disappear immediately, and I can feel my body de-tense as I register the loss.
“I’ll be good,” he promises, and with that, he turns to sit straight in his seat and focuses solely on the bingo game at hand.
I find that maybe I’ve made a mistake, because by the third game, neither of us has won a damn thing, and Rowan has made no move to touch me again.
I’m so focused on his lack of attention that it takes Rowan nudging me with his shoulder for me to realize I’m missing everything the caller is now saying.
“You have F-7, Eli,” he mutters, and I dab it quickly.
“Oh, oops.”
Rowan watches me carefully. “What are you thinking about so seriously?”
I peer at him out of the corner of my eye, catching his grin as he turns away to focuses on his paper.
“Asshole,” I say, and he laughs.
“I can’t believe neither of us won a single game,” Rowan groans, leaning his back against the railing of the landing outside my apartment.
I shove my key into the lock and shrug.“I told you, bingo is about luck. No skill involved.”
“But I haveamazingluck,” Rowan counters, and I turn to grin at him.
“Not amazing enough, apparently.” We stare at each other for a moment, and I consider my next move. “You didn’t have to follow me home. I know how to work a GPS.”
“I know,” Rowan responds, pushing off the railing to crowd my space. “But I wanted to.”
