Page 25 of Dearly Unbeloved (Spicy in Seattle #3)

SIERRA

I ’m not sure I’ve ever seen Rose look as disgusted as she does when the bored-looking teenager hands her a pair of worn bowling shoes.

“Are these mandatory?” she asks, sighing when the attendant tells her they are.

It’s not not funny, but I stop myself from laughing at her.

When Jazz told us she wanted to go bowling for her birthday, I half expected Rose to say no. I think I would’ve been surprised if she seemed excited about the idea of spending her Saturday in a loud, sticky bowling alley, but she’s here, and she’s not complaining—much.

Jazz is in her element. Apparently, Liam in a bowling shirt has been high on her “to-do” list—and by that, she literally means do.

I really don’t want to think about it, but Liam, being Liam, is wearing a custom bowling shirt in Jazz’s favorite color, with MICHAELSON embroidered on the back.

And Jazz, being Jazz, can’t keep her eyes off her husband.

I may not understand the bowling shirt hype, but they’re cute.

And maybe I would understand if it was Rose wearing the shirt. Instead, she’s wearing a lilac skort and tight white tank, and she’s driving me crazy.

We all pile into our lane, and I can tell she’s overwhelmed right away.

She perches on the edge of the bench, toying with the hem of her skirt and staring at the floor.

I can’t say I blame her. The room is dark, save for the fluorescent-lit lanes, a few spotlights on the ceiling, and the flashing neon lights emanating from the arcade section.

And, though I’m not usually bothered by loud noises, even I can recognize how loud it is.

It’s putting me on edge—not the bowling alley, but how it’s impacting Rose. I can’t shake the urge to comfort her, even though I know that’s probably the last thing she wants. But it’s normal—expected even—for spouses to comfort each other, and we are in public…

“Hey. You okay?” I ask softly, nudging her with my hip, preparing for her to snap at me.

“I’m fine.”

There’s no heat in the words, though she says them too quickly. And I don’t believe her at all.

Rose and I are last up in the lineup of bowlers: Jazz, Liam, Maggie, Cal, Xan, and Kami all go before us.

I like Kami, but she’s god-awful at bowling.

She struggles to pick a ball, then drops her choice before making it to the end of the lane.

It does nothing to diminish her enjoyment, though—she laughs it off, joking with Xan that she hasn’t improved since they were kids.

And Xan takes full advantage, grabbing the ball before it rolls away and standing behind her as she bowls, his hand against the small of her back, giving her tips on her form.

I watch as his thumb brushes the edges of her burgundy braids, a wide smile stretching over his face when she knocks down half the pins. He raises his hand for a high five, but Kami hugs him instead, and it’s like a lightbulb goes off in my head.

“I’ve never done this before,” I say, and Rose turns to me, frowning.

“You’ve never bowled?”

“Nope. Anything I need to know? I just throw the ball, right?”

Her eyes widen. “Please don’t throw the ball. You bowl the ball.”

I do my best impression of clueless.

Of course I’ve bowled before—my dad was obsessed with our local bowling alley’s nachos growing up, and we were there pretty much every weekend until they changed the salsa they used.

“What does that mean?”

“You want to build up momentum when you swing back, then push it through the air.”

I continue my confused facade. “That sounds a lot like throwing it.”

“No, no, it’s like... Okay, watch me.”

There are a few things about Rose Cannon that no one could ever dispute: she loves to be the best at things, and she loves telling people (mostly me) what to do. And both are enough to distract her from how overstimulating this place is.

The most surprising thing is that she’s not a bad teacher—when I’m not being too stubborn to let her teach me, that is. Rose patiently explains what she’s doing as she picks up her ball and takes her position at the end of the lane.

She bowls a perfect strike. Of course she does.

When it’s my turn, she hovers by my side while I look through the balls. I already know I’m going to pick the shiny orange one Maggie used, but I weigh up a couple before asking her which one I should choose.

“Put your fingers there—don’t,” she warns when I open my mouth to make a joke. “Okay, how does that feel?”

“It feels a little loose. Like it could slip.”

“Not that one.” She takes it and glances over the other balls. Her eyes zero in on the orange, and she checks the weight before handing it over. “Try that.”

I slide my fingers into the ball—the jokes really do write themselves. “That feels good. Tight, but not too tight. I feel like I have good control,” I say, rotating my wrist.

Rose follows me to the end of the lane, talking a mile a minute about velocity and angles and a bunch of other stuff that makes no sense to me, but she no longer seems stressed, so it’s working.

I plant my feet, and she adjusts my stance. I do a test swing, and she wraps her arms around me from behind, directing me like we’re in an early 2000s rom-com and she’s teaching me how to play pool.

She smells so good, feels so good wrapped around me, that I don’t want her to let go. But she does, reminding me to aim for the gap between the pins, and I let the ball fly.

Badly. Very, very badly. It rolls along the gutter and doesn’t take down a single pin, because years of bowling practice as a kid didn’t prepare me for how to aim when Rose clasps the back of my neck, her thumb pressing into the clasp of my collar, and murmurs, “You’ve got this.”

I expect her to laugh at my attempt, but she shocks the hell out of me. “Don’t worry. You’ll get them on the next one.”

She squeezes my neck before heading off to retrieve my ball, and I suck in a deep breath. I was supposed to be calming her down, not riling myself up. Fuck. I don’t like how easy it’s become for her to distract me.

“Let’s try again,” she says, her voice soothing.

I swear I’ve unlocked a side of Rose I only ever see in bed—a patient side. Since she mentioned the promotion, I’ve had a few doubts about her in a leadership role at work, but I can see it. She’s a good teacher.

Her hand is glued to my back as I swing the ball.

“Rose?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re distracting me,” I admit, begrudgingly.

“What do you—oh.” She pulls her hand away, and I look back at her to see her eyebrow raised and her lips in a smirk.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!” she argues, but she’s smiling, and she doesn’t seem to notice the lights and sounds and greasy deep-fryer smells surrounding us.

It’s a problem how relieved I am.

I throw the ball— bowl the ball—and take down seven pins. Before I can blink, Rose wraps her arms around me from behind, hugging me tightly.

“Look at you go,” she says, before pressing her lips to my cheek. “Well done.”

“Thanks.” My voice comes out breathier than I’d like, like she’s stolen half the air from my lungs with one kiss on the cheek. I pull out of her arms and turn around, clearing my throat. “You’re a good teacher.”

“I know.” She flashes me a smug smile and a shrug as she walks back to the bench. There she is. I watch her go, wondering when that smug smile stopped bothering me so much.

Jazz skips up beside me, her ball precariously balanced in her arm. “You know,” she begins, her voice low enough that I have to strain to hear her over the crash of pins from the next lane, “I stalked your Facebook page before we hired you.”

“I wish I could say that surprised me, but why do you bring it up?”

Jazz takes her time, bowling straight down the center of the lane and somehow knocking down only one pin. Liam still cheers for her, and she blows him a kiss before turning back to me. “You don’t post a lot, but your parents tag you all the time. I know this isn’t your first time bowling.”

It’s been years since I went bowling with my parents. How far back did she go?

“Okay, it’s not my first time. So what?”

“Nothing. Just…” Jazz trails off, looking past me to where Rose is talking to Kami, looking a lot happier than sh e did ten minutes ago. “It was a good idea. You really understand her in a way I’m not sure anyone else ever has.”

The relief I felt at seeing Rose less overwhelmed is replaced with guilt. This constant emotional whiplash is becoming far too common. I haven’t known peace since the second I woke up half-naked in Rose’s hotel room.