I nod in acknowledgment. “The most competitive.”
Bright red hair snags my gaze as Teagan returns to the bar.
It’s game time, and I need to go set up a play.
2
Teagan
Here’s the thing New York City has done to my generation.
It’s made us connoisseurs of quirky Sunday Funday events and propagated them to every day and night of the week.
Fancy midnight mini-golf? You’ll find it in Manhattan.
Jonesing to make your own cheese? Why not make some wine with it too? You can definitely do both in Brooklyn.
You can even have a party where you make mittens, cover them in glitter, then compete to eat as many cupcakes as you can while wearing your new mittens. Head to Queens for that messy fiesta.
The city is a mélange of millennial activities. Some are eye-roll inducing, but they’re not all pointless. We have all experienced our fair share of shit in our lifetime—some more than others—so sooner or later, we desperately need some fun to drown out the drumbeat of bad news.
An oddball outlet for stress has become necessary for mental health.
Including mine.
That means, tonight, we don’t stop at laser tag.
We can continue the celebration of Bryn’s awesomeness at karaoke or choose darts or shuffleboard instead.
In the hallway, I tap out a quick reply to Nancy Fenester, one of the trustees who approves all my requests for fundraising, to let her know I’ll have a list for the third quarter soon. That sent, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and return to the bar, ready for our next activity.
Ransom is solo at the table. The hockey hottie tips his forehead to the dartboard.
“Favor of my choice if I beat you at darts,” he says, sliding right back into our competitive banter.
That’s how we are.
At the glitter-mitten party, we bet on who could make the most garish mittens. I won. At mini golf, we threw down greenbacks over who’d make the most holes in two. He nailed that odd victory.
But this wager has me curious and then some. Because a favor is a brand-new currency.
“A favor? What kind? As Sandy and Danny would say, tell me more.”
“It’s a good favor. One you’ll like,” he says, a little teasing in his tone.
“Tell me more now, then,” I say, pointing to the floor in a demanding gesture.
He shakes his head. “Only if I win.”
I shoot him an I’m not crazy look. “I’m not signing up for a favor if I don’t know what kind.”
He gives me flirty eyes. The gold flecks in his hazel irises twinkle with Ransom mischief.
Wait. Is he hitting on me? He can’t possibly mean sexual favors. Can he?
My traitorous body wouldn’t mind him laying one of those on me. Or two of those.
Or maybe stop counting and just go all night long.
After all, Ransom’s frame defines “chiseled,” and his face is the prime example of masterfully carved. His warm eyes probably grace the Wikipedia page for “soul-searing.” He’s the most tempting possible temptation the goddess of temptation could have placed in my path.
But there’s that little matter of how he’s never shown a bit of romantic interest in me.
Isn’t this a skeezy way of making a move though? Because . . . ew. “This isn’t, like, some Indecent Proposal thing, is it?”
He blinks, then flinches as the dots connect. “What? No. Are you kidding me? Fuck no.”
Okay. While I didn’t want him to be propositioning me, I didn’t want him to recoil at the idea either. “Fair enough.”
“Because that’s tacky, Teagan.” His tone has shifted to earnest, his gaze intent, and his use of my first name underscores that the clarification is important to him. “I’m not going to bet you for sex, because that’s fucking disrespectful. I have sisters. I was raised to treat women right.”
And . . . I’m going to pretend I totally never thought he would proposition me. Especially since I’m not supposed to picture the horizontal mambo with him anyway. I punch his shoulder and keep a lighthearted tone. “I know. I was only teasing.” And hell, that was super convincing, even to my ears. I expect an Oscar to come my way soon.
“Good,” he says, then resumes our usual bantering. “Anyway, you’ll like this favor.”
I arch a skeptical brow. “How can you know that if you won’t tell me what it is?”
“Because if you know, then it’s no fun. And you like fun.” His expression says Am I right, or am I so right?
Damn him.
Because he is both those things. “True, but I don’t want to commit to darning your stinky, unwashed-for-weeks socks.”
He pulls a what do you take me for face as we make our way to the dartboard in the corner of the bar. “Please. I have a laundry service. I’d never ask for a favor that lame. And to ease your mind, why don’t you tell me some of your off-limits favors?”
