Page 70 of First-Time Caller
She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “Are you messing with me?”
I shake my head slowly.
A grin splits her face and it’s like I’ve been plugged into the wall. Like the sun’s been tilted in my direction.
“Where?” she asks, already leaning halfway out of her seat to look.
“Food first.” I press her back with two fingers against her shoulder until she’s upright in her seat. “Then Skee-Ball.”
“Aiden?”
“What?” I grunt.
“Have you always been this bad at Skee-Ball?”
“No.” I glare at the giant flashing zero at the top of the machine. The last ball I tossed went in a completely different lane. The one before that left a dent in the scoreboard that’s currently mocking me. “This is a recent development.”
It’s actually a combination of the alcohol and her feet kicked up on the side of the machine, her long legs a smooth line all the way to the hem of her dress. I don’t think I’ve gotten a single ball past the metal gate.
“You’re not very good,” she says, her lips around a straw.
She crosses and recrosses her legs, and a ball bounces from the ramp to the floor. She slips from her perch at the side of the machine to retrieve it and I stare too long at the way the material of her dress stretches across her thighs when she bends to scoop it from the floor.
I swallow hard and finish my drink in two heavy swallows, averting my eyes to the top of the Skee-Ball machine and the clown face painted there. It’s judging me silently with its unblinking eyes.
I’m the clown. Lucie is as off-limits as it gets. She’s looking for romance. Happily ever after.
Not a beleaguered radio show host with an attitude problem.
“Here,” she says, coming to my side and handing me another ball. She sets her empty drink next to mine and shifts until she’s behind me. She wraps one arm around my middle and laces our fingers together.
My stomach drops to the floor.
“Um,” I say, confused and too aware of her body pressed against my back. “What’s happening right now?”
She huffs and tries to guide my stiff arm in a different position from behind me. “I’m trying to correct your form.”
“My form?”
“Yes,” she says, sounding frustrated. I can’t tell because she’s behind me, trying to arrange my body like I’m a puppet on a string. “Your form is bad.”
“What do you know about Skee-Ball form?”
She peers around my shoulder. In her heels, her temple is almost pressed to mine. If I leaned forward, I could brush my lips over the bridge of her nose.
The tight grip I usually keep on myself is too loose tonight, undone by half a dozen drinks andLucie. I’m staring too long. Thinking about too many things. Coming up with too many excuses.
“I know a lot about Skee-Ball form, thank you very much.” Her palm pats at my side and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my groan in check. “It’s all in the hips.”
Christ.“Is it?”
“Yep.” She drags her palms down my sides to my waist. They’re warm through the thin material of my T-shirt. She urges me forward, her chest pressed to my back, then wraps her arm back around my torso. I can smell her shampoo. The sharp bite of metal that always seems to cling to her. I suck in a sharp breath.
Her face appears over my shoulder again. “Did I pinch you?”
“No.” I can feel the press of her between my shoulder blades. At the small of my back. I want to slip my hand behind me and tug her more firmly to me. I want to drag my fingertips up the back of her bare thigh. I shift my feet and her hand clenches in a fist against the front of my shirt. I close my eyes tight. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
