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She steps up acting all serious, picks up her ball, and I watch her form. The way she bends forward gives me a perfect view of what that top’s barely containing, and suddenly I’m thinking about a lot more than her bowling technique.

Her ball rolls smooth and straight, taking down seven pins.

“Well, look at that,” I say, genuinely impressed. “You’re not as bad as I thought either.”

“You were expecting me to fail miserably, weren’t you?”

“Honestly? Yeah. But I’m glad I was wrong. It’s more fun when there’s competition.”

We fall into this rhythm—teasing, competing, actually having fun. It’s not the awkward small talk I expected. It feels natural. Easy. Like we’ve done this before, even though we haven’t.

By the final frame, we’re tied. One shot each.

“If I win,” I say, picking up my ball, “you’re buying dinner.”

“Deal.”

I line up my shot, focus on my form, and release. The ball rolls straight and true, taking down all ten pins.

Strike.

“Boom. That’s how it’s done.” I turn back to her, grinning.

Her mouth drops open in mock shock. “Okay, I see you. But I’m not giving up.”

“Anything easy isn’t fun,” I reply, stepping back to let her finish.

She lines up, takes a deep breath, and throws. Strike. Then another. Then another.

A fucking turkey.

She turns around, hips swaying as she walks back to me with the smuggest smile I’ve ever seen. There’s something in the way she moves—confident, like she just proved a point I didn’t know we were making.

“Holy shit,” I breathe out, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. “Where the hell did that come from?”

She shrugs, but her eyes are sparkling with satisfaction. “Told you I was good.”

“Good?” I let out a low whistle. “That was fucking beautiful. You just schooled me.”

“Did I hurt your fragile male ego?” she teases, stepping closer.

“My ego’s fine. Actually...” I lean against the ball return, grinning at her. “That was kind of hot.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, and for a second, her confident mask falters. Just a flicker, but I catch it.

“Well,” I say, “guess dinner’s on me.”

“Guess so.” She shrugs, but she’s fighting a grin. “You were right though—this was way more fun than I thought.” She leans in to grab her purse from the bench, and that damn strapless top shifts—pulls tight across her chest, skin glowing under the shitty fluorescent lights.

I don’t even try to look away.

Her perfume hits me again—warm, citrusy, threaded with something sweet like trouble.

She straightens and catches me staring.

Doesn’t call me on it.

Doesn’t look away.