Page 8 of Playing Games

Ace texted me fifteen minutes ago to check in and make sure I didn’t need a lawyer or bail money and to tell me that he and Julia were heading to Frat Row to check out a party for a couple of hours before calling it a night. And Lexi, though grouchy, has followed me without complaint from the moment we came to a pizza agreement outside the locker room of Dragon Stadium.

I’m hopeful we’ll have a breakthrough if I just keep trying, but so far, her ice has maintained an impressive resistance to thawing.

I lead the way across the courtyard, slowing slightly as two girls pass, smiling and giggling in my direction. Normally, I’d give them a quick nod or a smile back, but my mind is somewhere else—on the radiating body of my hostage, Lexi Winslow. She’s oblivious to the entire interaction, her expression locked in laser-focus like she’s running through every possible scenario for this pizza plan in her head.

Lexi is a puzzle. Sharp, beautiful, and stubborn as hell—a combination that has fascinated me from the moment I laid eyes on her last fall. She’s different, that much is obvious, but it’swhat makes her so magnetic. Her mind works at a pace the rest of us can’t touch, and when she starts rattling off facts like she’s Google come to life, I can’t help but admire it.

We’re steps from the entrance to Graham when she screeches to a halt, stepping out of reach completely.

“I thought we were getting pizza.”

“We are.”

She narrows her eyes. “No. I know all three pizza places on Dickson’s campus, and none is within a third-of-a-mile vicinity of here.”

I laugh, which earns me a glare. “Okay, it’s not anofficialplace, so to speak, but it’s a place. There’s a guy from Chicago who makes deep-dish pizza in his dorm room and sells it on Saturday nights. It’s the best you’ll ever have.”

Her face scrunches in absolute horror. “Hisdorm room?”

“Yes. Here in Graham. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“That’s good. Because it sounds like an FDA violation and a call to the New York Department of Health.”

I smile. “It’s not a restaurant. It’s just a…hobby.”

“Does he have a Home Processor Exemption from Article 20-C?”

“Uh…I doubt it.”

“Then he needs to be registered with the state under New York cottage food laws.” Her voice is pure exasperation, and I can’t help but laugh.

“How do you know that?” I ask. “Did you used to have a food business?”

She shrugs. “I just know a lot of things.”

No argument there. “What else do you know?”

“About New York food law? Or life in general?” she asks, blinking at me. “Because in general is a very broad question that would take me hours to answer.”

I smile, completely intrigued. “I’ve got hours.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m worried they’ll get stuck. “You said I owed you pizza, not hours.”

“Why can’t it be both?”

“Probably because of the food poisoning we’re both sure to have after the first. Do you know if he even follows the 140-degree temperature regulation? And gloves. Does he wear prep gloves?”

I grin at her, a little awestruck by the sheer level of detail she applies to everything. “Why don’t we go inside, and you can find out for yourself?”

She hesitates, clearly weighing the pros and cons. Her face is so expressive when she’s deep in thought—brows furrowed, lips pursed slightly—and I swear, she has no idea how beautiful she is in these moments.

“Because,” she says finally, “if I go inside and find out he doesn’t, it’ll be a complete waste of time and energy. Not to mention the dangers of going into a random building with a virtual stranger.”

“I’m no one’s stranger. I’m Blake Boden.”

She snorts, and I’m pretty sure it’s the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile from her all night. “Interesting take on reality.”

“I’m just saying, if you need witnesses for my hypothetical crimes, you’d have no trouble rounding them up.”

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