Page 89 of The Wrong Game

It wasn’t much, but it was more than she’d shared with me before. And I found out later in the week that it was more than she’d shared with anyone, other than Belle, since he’d passed.

She didn’t talk about him to anyone.

And maybe that’s how I knew there was more to say.

“Hey, you,” Gemma said, sliding her hands around my waist. She leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss me, a lazy smile on her face when she pulled back. “I’m a wee bit tipsy.”

I laughed. “As you should be, birthday girl.” I wiped a bit of ketchup from the corner of her mouth. “I still can’t believe you like hot dogs withketchupon them.”

“And cheese.”

“So disgusting.”

“Hey,” she pouted, poking out her lip in a way that made me want to cuddle her and take her to the bedroom all at once. “It’s good, okay? Just because I don’t like stupid Italian sausages or Polish sausages or whatever.”

“It’s fine that you like hot dogs, but you could at least likeChicago-style hot dogs. Ketchup isn’t allowed.”

“Says the one who wasn’t even bornorraised in Chicago,” she pointed out.

“Exactly. And evenIknow the proper way to eat a Chicago dog. I mean, I’m not judging you,” I said, voice fading. “But you’re wrong. Just so you know.”

She stuck her tongue out.

“You know,” Gemma said after a moment, pointing her finger right at my nose. “You promised me we’d play football today, and it’s almost sunset and you have not fulfilled said promise.”

She hiccuped, and her eyes widened, like that damn hiccup had snuck up on her and she had no idea what the hell it was.

I laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure you could catch a football right now if you wanted to.”

“I could, too,” she argued. “Did you bring one?”

“I always have one in my car.”

“Well, go get it, then.”

And that was all she said to me before she strutted her ass out of the bar. I turned, finding Doc watching me from behind the bar, and he shook his head on a laugh. “That one’s yours, huh?”

“I’m calling all the dibs.”

Doc chuckled. “I’ll hold it down in here. Go find her before she wanders off alone.”

I jogged out after her, stopping by my car out back before finding her in the little lot of grass between Doc’s bar and a local clothing boutique. She stood staring at graffiti art that covered the brick siding of Doc’s, her hands tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. And as I got closer, I noticed her shivering.

“It’s freezing out here,” I told her. She turned, smiling when she saw the football. “You need your jacket and scarf.”

“I’m fine. We’ll warm up. Here,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Hit me. I’m open.”

I cringed, worried about her ability to catch. So I wound up, and as gently as I could, tossed her the ball.

She caught it easily, and immediately scoffed.

“What the hell was that?” She shook her head, lining her fingers up with the white laces. “I know you were a receiver and not a QB, but that was terrible.”

She pulled the ball back behind her, and then threw with all her might, the ball soaring across the little field in a perfect spiral. I snapped my hands up just in time to catch it before it hit me square in the chest, and I fought to keep my jaw from dropping.

“Now,” she said, holding her hands up. “Reallythrow it. I promise, you’re not going to break me.”

I just stood there, gaping, blinking more than necessary before I finally blurted out, “Marry me.”