I nodded. “He’s a hopeless romantic. What can I say?”

“Oh,” was all she said in response.

“So, are you going to pay for my food then?” I asked, hoping to lighten the mood once again.

She tried to maintain her annoyed exterior, straightening in her seat, as her chin held its proud stance. But I could see the slightest upturn of her pretty pink lips before an all-out grin broke free.

“Fine. One giant soft pretzel and a Coke. But that’s all you’re getting out of me tonight!”

I smiled in return.

That was just fine with me. There was always tomorrow.

It took about fifteen minutes to get to the bowling alley Cara had found online. She’d spent an unreasonably long time researching it after she’d discovered the sheer volume of places she had to pick from.

“You’re in LA,” I’d reminded her when she showed me the list of places.

“Back home, we had one—in the entire county.”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore,” I had responded, knowing full well she wasn’t from Kansas. But it was a hard line to resist.

The place she’d picked was new, clean, and extremely popular, especially for a Wednesday night. I mostly knew what to expect, having watched TV before. But, stepping inside, I was immediately hit by the smell. Cara explained it was a typical bowling-alley smell—the combination of floor polish, shoe cleaner, and food. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was definitely unique.

Cara seemed to find it comforting.

She also seemed to be giddy over the idea of me having to trade in my three-hundred-dollar shoes for a pair of used bowling shoes. I’d forgotten about that particular part of bowling.

God, how I’d forgotten about that part.

“What size are you?” she asked as we got to the rental counter.

“Thirteen,” I answered.

“Thirteen?” she gasped as the man behind the counter chuckled. “That’s—”

“Huge?” I grinned, suggestively lifting an eyebrow. “Why, thank you.”

“Dirtbag.” She laughed, playfully slapping my arm. Turning back to the employee, she asked, “Can you grab my friend here the circus-clown size and me a seven and a half?”

“Sure thing,” he answered.

“What size shoe does Tyler wear?” I asked as we waited for our smelly shoes to arrive.

“I’m not sure,” she answered passively.

“Yes, you are,” I prodded.

“Fine. An eight. Happy?”

My grin grew. “You have no idea.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” I said as our shoes were delivered.

Grabbing both pairs, she turned swiftly toward our assigned lane, expecting me to follow.

And I did.

I was beginning to believe I’d follow this woman anywhere.

Even into the depths of hell.

And that was where I was surely headed.

Chapter Twelve