Page 92 of The Wrong Game

“About as cool as Carlton fromFresh Prince.”

I laughed. “I can actually do that dance.”

“That doesn’t surprise me even a little bit.”

“It’s very entertaining after a few beers. It’s even better when my pants are off.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said with a giggle. “But seriously, this space fits you.” Her eyes hovered over the photo of me, Mom, Dad, Micah and Doc that we’d taken at Christmas a few years ago before she turned to face me. “I really like it.”

I rubbed the scruff on my jaw. “Thanks. You want a drink?”

“No,” she said, immediately shaking her head. “I’ve had plenty. I do, however, want to open these.”

She propped her ass on one of my barstools with a wide grin, tapping the top of one of the boxes I’d wrapped up for her.

“What happened to not wanting me to get you a gift, huh?”

“Well,” she said, dragging the word out matter-of-factly. “You didn’t listen. And now that I know you got me something, I wanna know what it is.”

“Funny how fast that story changed.”

She crossed her arms. “Don’t act like you’re not dying for me to open them.”

I couldn’t argue that, so I just smiled, pushing the first one — the larger one — toward her. “Well, put us both out of our misery then.”

She lit up when the box was in front of her, clapping with an excited squeal before her hands were flying over the box, tearing back the brown parchment paper I’d wrapped it in. When the paper was gone, she eyed the Blue Moon logo on the box before lifting a questioning brow.

“I work at a bar,” I reminded her. “I’m not paying for boxes when I have a shit ton lying around.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t have been mad at beer,” she said, and when she cracked the box open, her brows shot up. “Okay, now I wouldpreferthe beer.”

I covered my mouth to hide my smile as she pulled the first item out, a little orange and blue scrap of fabric that she held between her fingers like it was a dead bug she had to dispose of.

“You’re kidding,” she said, face flat. “Acheerleaderuniform.”

“You love football,” I defended.

“Yeah, I lovefootball. In what world does that mean I also love cheerleading?”

“You cheer for the Bears, and you’re a chick.” I shrugged. “It’s kind of like you’re already one. I just thought you could dress the part.” I paused. “Mainly, for me.”

She scoffed, mouth popping open, but she couldn’t fight back her smile as she threw the little skirt at me. “Pig.”

“I even got it in the Bears colors for you!”

“I’m not wearing that,” she said, pointing to the skirt laying on the kitchen island where it’d bounced off me now. She didn’t even pull the top of the outfit from the box.

A laugh shot out of me, and I circled the island, taking the seat next to her and yanking her barstool until our legs threaded together.

“I can’t believe you don’t like your gift.” I pouted.

“That wasn’t a gift for me,” she said, crossing her arms. “That was a gift foryou. And I’m sorry to say that, even onyourbirthday, I’m not wearing that.”

I chuckled again, but then I grabbed the smaller box, wrapped in the same paper, and slid it toward her. “Fine. Let’s see if I did better with this one.”

She eyed the gift like it was a Jack in the Box and she was cranking the handle. “If that’s a football-shaped dildo or something, I’m leaving.”

“It’s not,” I said through another laugh. Then, I cocked a brow. “How exactly would a football-shaped dildo work, anyway?”