Page 55 of Wrong Score

“I do it all the time,” I counter.

“Well, not tonight. I’m delivering you to your doorstep myself.”

I roll my eyes, falling into step beside him. “I suppose there’s no point in arguing with you. Plus, you still owe me your wish.”

He smirks, leading me to the car idling at the curb. “If you’re a good girl and get in the car, I’ll tell you what it would’ve been… if I celebrated birthdays, which I don’t.”

“This isn’t a bargaining chip,” I argue. “I already won the wish with my wicked pool shot. Even if I’m a bad girl on the way home, you still have to tell me. A deal is a deal.”

“You’re right. A deal is a deal,” he concedes, opening the door for me. “And I never doubted you’d make it.”

We climb into the car, and the driver, an enthusiastic Bex fan, launches into a lively conversation about his hockey career. I steal glances at Bex throughout the ride, marveling at the way he patiently answers every question.

When we pull up to my building, Bex steps out, opening my door and offering his hand to help me out. I take it, the contact sparking something in my chest.

“I’ll walk her up,” he tells the driver. “Keep the fare running. I won’t be long.”

I shouldn’t let him trouble himself walking me up, but I don’t stop him either. Part of me wants to experience this moment—to have Bex walk me to my door, like something out of a movie. And he still owes me a secret anyway.

Inside, as we wait for the elevator, I glance at him. “Just a warning. If my neighbor Hans comes out griping about the noise, just smile, okay? I like his dog.”

“You like his dog?”

“Yeah, and he lets me watch him sometimes. Don’t ruin a good thing for me.”

He raises a brow. “Is this the neighbor you said I have a lot in common with?”

“Yep.”

The elevator dings, and we step inside. For a moment, the air feels charged, like something unsaid is hanging between us. But I let it go, focusing on the sound of our steps echoing down the hallway.

Chapter Nineteen

Bex

Riding up the lift car with Rowan to her apartment, there’s an anticipated silence between us. We stand close enough that I feel the faintest brush of her shoulder every now and then, but I keep my hands firmly in my pockets.

What am I even doing here? Walking her to her door like this is some kind of date. I’ve never been one for romantic gestures, but there’s something about Rowan that makes me want to… linger. Maybe it’s her laugh. Or the way she looked at me earlier tonight, like she saw straight through the layers I’ve built around myself.

When the elevator dings, she steps out first, leading the way down the hall to her door. She fumbles with her keys, muttering something under her breath that I don’t quite catch, and I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. She’s nervous. It’s endearing.

The door opens, and I follow her inside, immediately hit with the unmistakable sense ofher.The space feels warm and lived-in—a mix of cozy clutter and deliberate placement. Framed prints hang on the walls, alongside what looks like magazine articles. Her work.

I linger near the door as she drops her keys on a small table, watching as she straightens a stack of books almost out of habit. There’s something intimate about this, stepping into her world.

“Nice place,” I say, my attention caught by a framed article on the wall. I step closer, scanning the title.

She follows my gaze, a small, proud smile playing on her lips. “That was my first big break after college,” she says. “I won a contest for an art piece I wrote about. My sister framed it and sent it to me. Guess I’m a little sentimental.”

I nod, studying the piece again. “It’s an accomplishment. Not many get to frame it on their wall. You should be proud of it.”

“I suppose you're right,” she agrees, leaning against the wall as I take in the rest of the space. My eyes drift over her small collection of art and prints, noting the way they’re thoughtfully arranged but somehow incomplete.

“You could use something big on this wall,” I say. “A proper statement piece—something that grabs attention, takes up the space it deserves.”

She quirks a brow, a small grin tugging at her lips. “I thought you didn’t care about art.”

“I don’t care much for it but I grew up attending art galleries with my mum. Turns out some of it stuck.”

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