I tap my chin, exhaling deeply. “For starters, I won’t mow your lawn.”
“Totally understandable.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “Also, since I live in the Village, I don’t have a lawn.”
“How convenient.” I snag several darts from a table, and he takes some too. I point one at him. “Here’s another favor on my no-go list. I won’t grab a mattress on the street that says ‘free’ and help you drag it into your apartment.”
He sets a hand on his heart. “I promise I will never ever ask you to haul any nasty, disgusting, bedbug-infested object from the curb into my home.”
I go full Alexis from Schitt’s Creek, making a cute little aww sound, then tap-dance my fingers up his chest. “You are, like, the sweetest guy ever.”
His eyes drop to my hand on his pecs. For a few seconds, his gaze seems to match mine. There’s a tiny flare of heat in it, but then it disappears so quickly I think I’ve imagined it.
I yank my hand away like I can erase that minuscule touch.
He clears his throat. “Continue. What are your other favor deal-breakers?”
“I won’t be your Scrabble partner. I know that’s hipness sacrilege when retro board games are the height of cool, but Scrabble bores me.”
“Ouch. Does that apply to Words with Friends too?”
“Obviously. Both suck.”
He exhales forlornly. “As a Words with Friends lover, that line in the sand hurts. But I’ll take it on the chin. And I’ll offer you this final proviso too. If you don’t like the favor once I tell you, you can trade it in for a karaoke song of my choice.”
“So I have nothing to lose except being subjected to Rush’s ‘Tom Sawyer’? Earworm of all earworms. All right. I’ll accept your wager.” I offer a hand for shaking.
He takes it. “Smart woman. But that is not my favorite song.”
I smirk. “I guess we’ll never know what your favorite is, since I’m going to crush this game.” I give a playful shimmy of my hips as I flash him a let’s do this smile.
Treating Ransom like I would one of the other guys makes it easier to deal with that cocky grin, those see-inside-me eyes, and that sculpted-by-the-NHL body.
Ransom is a pal is a pal is a pal.
With our wager in place, I take aim with a dart and let it fly toward the board. I wince in frustration when it barely grazes the outer ring, the sharp point stabbing the edge.
“You know the goal is that bull’s-eye in the middle, right?” Ransom asks dryly.
“Gee, thanks. Appreciate the tip.”
“I’m helpful like that.” He takes his turn, firing a dart straight down the line and notching it squarely in the center.
He smirks.
After a whistle of appreciation, I say, “That was beautiful, and I hate you.”
I fire the next dart. It scrapes the edge of the board and falls listlessly to the floor with a sad thump.
“Oh, bummer for you,” Ransom says, not bummed in the least.
I roll my eyes and pick up the little weapon. “There is still time for me to stage a comeback.”
We fire away a few more rounds until he easily wins the game, then I cross my arms and tap my toe. “Fine. You won. I guess I’ll have to take you shopping for your sister’s birthday, since I bet you detest shopping. That’s the favor, right?”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “I don’t hate shopping. And that’s not the favor.”
“We’ll hit the boutiques tomorrow morning at nine just for fun, then.” I wiggle my fingers. “For now, tell me what you want.”
He licks his lips, drags a hand through that thick, dark hair I bet is as soft as a silky cat’s, then exhales like he’s prepping to dig down deep. “Do you happen to know anyone who’s a sucker for animal charities and who also maybe likes to help people too?”
“Hey. Don’t call me a sucker,” I say, but I’m smiling because he knows there is only one answer to his question. I do know someone. I am that someone.
“My bad. Wrong word.” He pats his chest. “Someone who’s a total pushover like me.”
“You’re forgiven. And yes, I might know someone who fits the bill.”
“Good. Because I have a charitable proposition for you.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.” I’m jazzed now, excited in a whole new way. This is my passion—I work to give.
Because I don’t have to work.
Which, on paper, sounds awesome. But, in reality, the reasons for it hurt like hell.
“The annual player’s charity auction is this weekend,” he explains. “The one for all the sports teams in New York.”
That piques my interest. I’d followed the auction last year on Twitter because the pics set my social media feed aflame. Well, they were of hot athletes in suits and tuxes. Who doesn’t need a fire extinguisher with all the sparks lit by that imagery? “The one where players pick different causes and compete to raise money for them?”
