Susan, one ofhisteammates, knocks down all but one of her pins on her third go and he throws up his arms and cheers for her.
“Who cares if we win or lose? It’s playing the game that counts!” Wilson exclaims, putting on an English accent and projecting his voice like some lofty Shakespearean actor. “But youaretwisting your arm at the elbow,” he mutters in my ear.
“What do you mean? Like this?”
“No, like this.” He grabs my arm and holds it straighter.
I try to correct my throw, fling the ball down the woodenalley, and take out every single one of those damn pins. I’m so astonished, and then so elated, that I jump up and down on the spot and cry, “YES!”
Wilson high-fives me, then Davis does too, and I look at Anders with such glee, only to find him already laughing, his face full of affection. I am so full oflikefor him in that moment, and when he doesn’t break eye contact, neither do I.
His head tilts to one side and his eyes seem to darken as his grin fades to a small smile. I feel as though I’m a fly trapped in honey—no, a mosquito caught in amber; unable to unstick myself from his steady gaze.
His attention moves to my lips, and my heart spikes with adrenaline as his eyes snap back up to my face. I catch the blazing heat in them before he winces and looks away.
He jumps to his feet and picks up a bowling ball. It takes me a moment to realize he’s simply taking his turn.
“Time towhoopyour ass,” he says in a light, playful tone.
I force a laugh, but what the hell? Did I just imagine that connection between us? He seems to have completely reverted to normal, while I can barely draw air into my lungs. My pulse is sky-high, slamming under my skin, and he appears completely unaffected.
I do my best to follow his lead, but it’s hard.
We stay for a couple more hours after we finish the game, laughing, drinking, chatting, and eating, until eventually we call it a night and Anders takes us home.
“Want a nightcap?” he asks as he unlocks his door.
“I’m so sorry you couldn’t drink,” I lament.
“I didn’t mind. I was happy.”
“Were you?” I ask. “Happy?”
“Very,” he replies with a smile.
Man, he is so sober.
“Please can you get very drunk now?” I ask, wobbling my way to his leather sofa and falling onto it.
“I’ll do my best. What do you want?”
“Something soft.”
He brings me a fizzy water and a whiskey on ice for himself, and then sits down on the armchair to my right.
“I had such a good night,” I say. “I really like your friends.”
“I’m glad. They like you too.”
“They’re all so interesting.”
“You’reinteresting.”
“Youare,” I bat back, drunkenly.
He laughs and shakes his head, bringing his glass to his lips. He pauses, then lowers his glass again.
“That thing you said earlier, about Bailey being the beautiful one. Didn’t your dad ever tell you that you were when you were growing up?”
