“Uh, Jamie, I’m the one who just crushed your nuts with a bowling ball. I think I’m the one who should be asking that. But if you want to explain why you turned into a stage-five clinger and tackled me to the floor, I’d love to hear it.”

He clears his throat, lifting his head slowly. His cheeks are pink again. “Your dress, Bea. It was . . .” He swallows. “Tucked into your shorts.”

A rush of heat floods my face. My shorts are cheeky boy shorts. Half of my butt is visible in them.

Awkwardly, I try to reach back, but I can’t do that with his weight over me. Our eyes meet as I whisper, “I can’t get to it. Can you—” I gasp as his hand slips between my back and the floor, the heat of his touch seeping through my dress. He slides the fabric from the band of my underwear until it flutters around my hip, covering me from anyone who’s looking. Which, as I glance around, I realize with embarrassment is half the bowling alley.

“You’re covered now,” he says. “I fell on you like that because with you on top of me—”

“Everyone and their grandma in the bowling alley could see my butt?”

His blush deepens. “Well, yes.”

Sighing, I pat his cheek. “Thank you for straightening me out. You’re a true gentleman, James. But you’re also heavy. Now, get the hell off of me.”

—

Jamie was lying out of his glorious ass when he said he’s passable at bowling.

He’s a fucking beast.

And I am wildly competitive.

With Jamie in my clutches, I’m Gollum hoarding the One Ring, Emperor Palpatine with Anakin in his grip, Thanos wearing the Infinity Gauntlet.

I am despicable.

“Okay.” I stand on one of the seats by the machine that spits our balls back to us, massaging Jamie’s shoulders like a coach psyching up her prizewinning fighter. “You can do this. You can do this.”

He glances up at me and sighs. “You’re disturbing.”

“Competitive, you mean.” I squeeze harder. “I’m competitive. Eyes on the prize, James.”

Turning back, he sweeps up his ball. Long gone is the prickly bespectacled pear I met. Before me is a man who’s loose and warm, devastatingly invested in this game, and deliciously rumpled.

Jamie is so goddamn fine right now, I’m having explicit thoughts about dragging him into some dust-bunny-riddled corner of the Alley and kissing him into next week. His waves are tousled, an errant bronze lock falling on his forehead. His sleeves are cuffed just past his elbows, a few sexy wrinkles creasing his shirt. Perspiration beads his forehead and I have to stop myself from picturing him sweating, head thrown back in pleasure as he pins me the way he did against the floor but with a mattress beneath me instead.

“Bea,” he says.