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His eyebrows shot up. “Okay, where did that come from?”

“You spend enough summers with an Abuelo who is ultra-competitive, you pick up a few things.” I lined up my next shot. “The local ambassador’s kids organized underground tournaments every weekend. High-stakes games.”

“This Abuelo sounds like a very interesting grandfather.”

“Yep.” Another perfect shot. “Though my abuela pretended not to know about the tournaments. Just like she never knew about the poker games, the salsa lessons, or that time I helped smuggle a neighbor’s chihuahua past the security guards during a quinceanera, Abuelo Leo made sure we had the competitive edge in everything from poker to beer pong. ”

Flynn’s laugh was surprised and genuine. “There’s a story there.”

“Many stories.” I watched him sink another shot. “Most of them involving schemes with my sisters, questionable decision-making, and... let’s say creative problem-solving.”

“I love me some questionable decisions, and I can be very creative.” Every single word of that dripped with innuendo. Way more than should be possible. Except, of course, for Flirty Flynn.

That’s all this was. Him flirting. Because he could. Because that’s what he did all the time.

A small crowd had gathered to watch us play.

I was aware of the whispers. But I was more interested in the way his shoulders tensed every time someone walked past with a drink, the careful way he positioned himself between me and the rowdier part of the crowd by setting himself on that side of the table.

“My turn,” he said, after I missed my first shot. “Though I’m starting to think I’ve been hustled by a secret beer pong champion.”

“Water pong champion,” I corrected. “And the night’s still young.”

His eyes darkened at that, and something hot unfurled in my stomach. If this were one of my books, this would be where the sexual tension peaked, where the hero and heroine’s playful competition turned into something more .

But before either of us could say anything else, Morris stumbled back over with a pitcher of beer. “Time to make this kiddie game interesting.”

“I said no.” All playfulness vanished from Flynn’s voice. He stepped between Morris and the table, suddenly every inch the linebacker he was on the field. “We’re good with water.”

The shift in his demeanor was so sharp it made me catch my breath. This wasn’t just about being designated driver. This was something deeper, something that put the steel in his voice and the shadow in his eyes.

If this were my novel, this would be the moment where the heroine realized there was more to her love interest than she’d thought. Where she saw past his carefully constructed image to the complex man underneath.

Damn it. I was not allowed to think of Flynn Kingman as a love interest.

“Everything okay?” I asked softly as Morris stumbled away shaking his head.

Flynn’s expression smoothed out, but I caught the lingering tension in his jaw.

“Always.” He picked up the ball. “Ready to lose?”

I studied him for just a moment. He didn’t want to be pushed on what that was all about. He just wanted to have fun.

I could be fun. Okay, not normally, but I’d had more fun with him since the beginning of the semester than I had in the rest of my three and a half years at college.

I held up the ping pong ball and smiled. “Bring it on, Kingman.”

But as we fell back into our rhythm of shots and banter, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just glimpsed something important. Something real.

And that was dangerous. Because real meant complicated, and complicated meant exactly the kind of distraction I couldn’t afford right now.

I sank my next shot without looking. “Your turn.”

I was two shots away from beating Flynn Kingman at his own game when a girl in a crop top stumbled into our space.

“Flynn.” She grabbed his arm, nearly falling over. “I wanna go home. Like, right now.”

Something flashed across Flynn’s face, concern mixed with resignation. “Sasha, where’s your roommate? Weren’t you supposed to?—”

“Please?” Her mascara was smeared under her eyes, but that didn’t stop her from dancing her fingers up the front of his shirt. “I just... want you to take me home.”

And just like that, Flynn’s entire demeanor changed. The playful competitor disappeared, replaced by someone harder, more serious. He set down the ping pong ball and pulled out his keys.

“Rain check?” he asked me, but he was already steering Sasha toward the door, one hand steady on her elbow.

If this were a romance novel, this would be the moment of misunderstanding that drove the characters apart. The scene where the heroine watched the hero leave with another woman and jumped to all the wrong conclusions.

But I wasn’t that kind of heroine. I was the kind who knew better than to get invested in the first place.

“Whatever.” I turned away, ignoring the tight feeling in my chest. “Hey, Hannah, what’s that I heard about Jello shots?”

As I walked away, I heard Flynn call my name. But I was done being the girl who waited around for the hero to choose her.

They never chose me anyway.