Page 33 of Elusive

JT pays — rather than my date doing so, going on the list I’m already compiling — and we head toward our lane.

I must say ‘What now?’ with my face — I’ve been told it often speaks for me — because Bellamy snickers and helps me out. “Step one, sit down and change your shoes.”

Makes sense. “I knew that, was just about to,” I lie, feeling quite the jackass. “Um, is there some top-secret, “Brotherhood of the Bowlers Members Only” trick to putting these things on?” I’m grunting, all my shoving and attempts at contortion failing.

Bellamy flits her eyes left, right, then leans in and whispers, “yes, but don’t ever let them know it was me who told you, or they’ll revoke my membership. The key is… you have to get your actual shoe size.”

“Psstt… fuck right off, I did that. I said ‘eight.’ I wear an eight. And lookie there,” I point to the number on the back of the shoe, “I’ll be damned, it’s a fucking eight!”

“Guess they run small.” She shrugs. “Or it’s just you. Mine fit fine. Either way, no biggie. Quit being such a sourpuss and go exchange them.”

“Be right back,” I grumble, putting my perfectly-sized shoes back on.

“We’re gonna go pick out our balls while you’re at it,” JT says.

I lift an arm over my head in acknowledgement, already trudging my way back to the counter. And while dragging ass, I give myself a talkin’ to. This was my idea — dating, not bowling— so no one else is to blame, or deserving of my foul mood, and I need to flip the switch on bitch-mode.

Besides, every great love story had to have started somewhere. Who’s to say my destiny isn’t destined to blossom in a bowling alley?

“Can I please get these one size bigger?” I ask, forking over the incorrectly marked pair.

The problem is — I wander back to my thoughts — I don’t want a great love story. I want to have mind-blowing sex with Sutton, say, once a week, then bid him adieu until next time. And perhaps, now that it’s been brought to my attention, a dog. Nothing more. Nothing complicated or risky. Nothing I don’t deserve. That is my destiny.

But of course, despite knowing the path I’m meant to travel, I had to veer off course and take aliking to the one guy on the planet all up in his “feelings.” Okay, maybe not the only one, or even close, seeing as how every man I know is ate up with the fucking feelings. My father? Mad about my mom, at first sight, blinded for life. Uncle Dane? Madman. Or, as Aunt Laney calls him, Caveman. Indeed, one-of-a-kind, and more than in love with his wife. Zach, Judd, JT… the same… feelings, feelings, feelings. And my favorite real-life fairy tale of them all: Uncle Evan. Thought Aunt Laney broke his heart, until Aunt Whitley came along and showed him what holding his whole heart in her hands, having the power to truly break it, really meant.

It’s all their fault; trying to infect me with their sappy examples.

Well, I’m not having it. Not happening. Can’t happen. I refuse to allow it.

“Miss? Your shoes?” The attendant reminds me what I’m here for, giving me a questioning look.

“Sorry, thanks.” I snag them and rush away, but as I near our lane, my steps falter, an unnamable sensation slithering its way up my spine. No JT or Bellamy in sight — how long can it possibly take to pick out a friggin’ ball — but there is a new arrival; huge guy, back to me and hunched over, placing his ball on the rack thingy. With a really nice ass.

No big deal — his presence, not his ass… it’s a pretty big deal — or need to stand here like a socially-inept idiot until they get back; I’m perfectly capable of introducing myself to someone. I take a few steps toward him, wiping the sweat off the hand I’m about to extend on my jeans, and he turns around… that unnamable sensation suddenly making perfect sense, and getting named — anger. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Well hello to you too,” he laughs, smirking at me. “My name’s Sutton Ellis and I’ll be your date this evening. I enjoy concerts, horseplay in swimming pools, impromptu backyard baseball, beautiful brunettes with sass for days… and bowling. You?”

It’s no easy feat, but I manage not to smile, or laugh, reminding myself that I’m mad. Livid. This is treason. Conspiracy. Absolutely unacceptable.

And so damn hard to resist.

He’s just so… Sutton. Smart, gorgeous, charming… and a sneaky bastard. I use that feature as my fuel to jump back on track, and the defensive. “I’m gonna-”

“Bowl.” He crowds my space, finding my hand with his and bringing it up to his mouth for a kiss. “You’re gonna bowl, Boss.”

“You mean Hot Shot.” I realize too late I’ve whispered.

“I do?” He cocks his head, leveling me with a humored, flirty grin.

“Yeah. You only call me ‘Boss’ when we’re about to attack together,on the same side. We are so not on the same side right now. ‘Hot Shot’ is for banter, sarcasm, and fighting. This is a ‘Hot Shot’ moment. We. Are. Fighting.”

His grin spreads… beautifully, dammit. “Since we’re fighting, I probably shouldn’t admit this, but, you’re right, Hot Shot. And don’t mind admitting thispart at all, like hearing that you pay such close attention.”

“Don’t read too much into it.” I aim for a dismissive tone and roll my eyes. “I have ears, you talk out loud, doesn’t take a lot of effort.”

“About that…” he inches closer, eyes hooded. “I’m a reader. Like to read, in fact. Love to fill in the parts the author doesn’t tell you outright.”

“Swear to,” I shake my head, “you are the deepest dude in the world. Always with the talking, thinking, and now reading? You wear me out.”

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