Page 151 of Bridesmaid Undercover
“Me. And it’s a lot better than all your heavy breathing.”
“I was not heavy breathing,” he counters.
“Uh, does this sound like heavy breathing to you?” I ask right before I slouch and breathe forcefully out of my mouth.
“Jesus Christ, exaggerate much?”
“No, actually. That was one of the most accurate things I’ve ever portrayed.”
To my surprise, he grips both of my arms and forces me to look him in the eyes. “Everly, this is serious. I need you to focus.”
“Why is this so serious?” I ask.
“Because,” he says. “This dates back to our college days, when competition was high and the last person to win a beer pong tournament was me. It was our send-off game, never toplay each other again, but now that we’re back…I can’t lose the title.”
“Oh…” I say. “So, this is like opening up a closed case.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Ken and Polly think they’re coming for the win, but we can’t have that.”
“And what makes you think we’ll end up being partners?” I ask. “Because that’s a lot of pressure I don’t think I’m comfortable with.”
“Trust me,” he says, turning his head around. “I think it’s going to happen.”
“Okay, well. That terrifies me, but if there’s a slim chance that might happen, maybe you can show me a tip or two.”
“I’ll show you everything,” he says and then stands behind me, his chest to my back.
Immediately, I’m filled with warmth at the press of his body against mine.
My mind wants to escape to a moment where this is not Hardy teaching me how to properly throw a ping-pong ball, but where he’s swooping in behind me because he likes me, and he wants to be close. Where maybe he’d turn me around, wrap his arm around my waist, and ask me to dance under the dim lights of the grocery store parking lot.
Unfortunately, that’s not the case.
He drags his hand down my arm, sending a chill all the way up my spine as the pads of his fingers trace over my skin until they reach my hand. Then he gently wraps his fingers around my wrist and raises my hand up.
Softly, he asks, “Are you listening, Everly?”
To every freaking thing…
“Yup,” I say casually, even though nothing about this feels casual.
“Okay, first, I want you to grip the ball with your middle finger, index finger, and thumb. Gives you more control rather than using just two fingers.”
“Okay,” I say as I grip the ball appropriately.
“Next, you have to decide if you’re going to go for a quick shot, like this.” He releases my hand, picks up a ball and then shoots it off, like a fastball straight into a cup, very impressive. “Or with an arch.” He takes another ball and floats it into a cup. Oddly, it’s a bit of a turn-on seeing such accuracy. Ridiculous, I know, but it’s kind of hot. “Let’s see what you’re better at.”
“Probably neither,” I say.
“Remember, it’s all about the wrist.”
“Okay.” I prop my arm up and stare down the cups. “So just…shoot it?”
“Yup,” he answers, still standing behind me.
“Okay.” I let out a deep breath, and then on my mental count of three, I toss the ball like a fastball straight to the front cup—and it bounces back at us, hitting the ground first.
Hardy scoops the ball up. “Not bad, better than I expected actually.”
