Page 150 of Bridesmaid Undercover
“They did. They seemed pretty serious about it.”
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath and then looks out the window. “They can’t win.”
“It’s their party. Might not be a bad thing if they win.”
Hardy shakes his head. “No, they can’t.” And then to my surprise, he opens the car door and is out in a matter of seconds.
Confused, I scramble to follow him, taking my almost empty pint of ice cream with me.
“Where are you going?” I call out.
“You’ll see,” he says, heading right back into the store.
“You know,when I was thinking about what I was going to do tonight, this wasn’t it,” I say as I stand four feet away from my open car trunk that’s lined with aluminum party cups half filled with water.
“Never should have brought it up,” he says as he holds a ping-pong ball in hand. He lifts his arm, and, with a slight flick of his wrist, he tosses the ball toward the trunk, and lands it in a cup—the eighth one in a row. He’s one away from completing the pyramid.
“When you make this next one, are you going to be satisfied that the old man still has it?” I ask.
He glances in my direction, completely unamused. “No, when I’m done, you’re up next.”
“What do you mean I’m up next?” I ask. “I’m not playing tomorrow.”
“The hell you’re not. You’re an honorary bridesmaid, which means you need to play. Also, I’m not running the risk of you ending up as my partner without any training.”
He turns away from me and sinks the last ball.
“Training? Do you really think you can train me in a grocery store parking lot?”
“I can. Now come here.” He tugs on my hand and places me in front of him. Then he grabs some of the floating balls and brings them over to me. He’s shed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves—and completely lost his mind.
He hands me a ball. “Let me see you shoot without any proper training first.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yes, really. I’m being serious, Everly, so if you can match my seriousness, I’d appreciate it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, and I arrange my face into a scowl. “Is this better?”
His nostrils flare, but then he says, “Much.”
“Okay.” I shake out my arms, stare at the cups, and then lift my arm. “Here we go.” I cock back my wrist and shoot the ball. “Alakazoo!”
The ball pings off the top of the trunk door and then right back at us.
Hardy scoops it up like a professional, and then with a deadpan expression, he asks, “What the fuck was that?”
“Uh, I tossed the ball.”
“No, what was thealakazoo?”
“Oh, that was my added flair. Pretty nice, huh?”
“It was horrible.”
Hands on my hips, I turn toward him. “Uh, pardon me, there was nothing horrible about that. Actually, it was quite charming.”
“Says who?” he asks.
