Page 54 of Something to Someone

The arcade he took me to had a little bit of everything. In the car, my stomach was making it known how hungry I really was, so we first stopped at the restaurant inside. And Ryder was, yet again, right. The mozzarella sticks were straight out of my dreams. We ordered—and ate—two baskets worth and shared a pizza.

Then we took our drinks and hopped from game to game. Ryder was a million times better than I was at Skee-Ball and basketball, but I had him beat on anything that required driving and my favorite, air hockey.

I looked up at the score and smiled. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Shooting my arms in the air in celebration, Ryder looked rightfully dejected. He’d scored once to my ten. Mercy rules shouldhave applied after eight, but I enjoyed the victory too much.

“We need to switch sides or something,” he said, setting his mallet (yes, I had to Google the name of it after I won the first game) down on the edge of the table.

I picked up my margarita and took a sip as I shrugged. “We can switch if that makes you feel better,” I said. Ryder retrieved his own drink, and we both walked around opposite sides of the table. “But it’s going to be even worse when I kick your ass from this side, too.”

He set his drink down on the conveniently placed table and narrowed his eyes. “Who knew you were so goddamn competitive.”

I rolled my lips and picked up the mallet and disc. “It’s a sickness.”

“No, what’s a sickness is how much you gloatafteryou win.”

I shot him my best “who me?”smile and dropped the disc on the table. He fumbled for his own mallet and rolled his shoulders a couple of times, bouncing up and down like he was preparing for an Olympic trial. I rolled my lips to hide my widening smile. He was so serious it almost made me want to concede a few points.

I didn’t, but he still scored enough to make it a closer game. When he did score, he always celebrated like he had actually won an Olympic medal—asking passersby if they saw what he had done or jumping up and down while pumping his arms in the air. There were a few whoops sprinkled in there, too.

And maybe part of me would have been embarrassed if I wasn’t having such a good time. He was fun and exuded a light that I wanted to experience. It was warm and felt good against my skin.

I won the last point by banking the disc off the side and managing to sink it directly into the goal. Dropping my mallet, I tried not to gloat, as he’d accused me of. I picked up my drink and stepped around the table. Ryder met me in the middle.

I stuck out my hand for him to shake. “Good game.”

But he ignored my offering and growled low in his throat as he wrapped his arm around my waist and pressed me to him. Without hesitation, he stooped and kissed me soundly. He was unbothered by anyone else, and I wished I could be that relaxed. But there was a nagging voice in the back of my head that said we were bound to get caught being so affectionate out in the open. Not even the dim lights or pounding music over the speakers were enough to hide us.

I didn’t have the strength to pull away, though. Soft yet firm lips brushed mine, and my free hand squeezed his bicep.

We pulled away just before it became too much for such a family establishment.

“Why does your competitiveness turn me on so much?” he asked, and I could no longer ignore the definite hardness pressed against my hip.

“Ryder, I think everything I do turns you on at least a little bit.”

His smile widened, and I matched it. “You’re right.”

“As always,” I quipped which earned me a pinch to my side. I yelped and tried to jump back, but he grabbed my hand and laced our fingers together.

“Let’s sit at the bar for a while,” he said, and I nodded. Both of our drinks were nearly empty, and being the competitive assholes we were, we’d expended a lot of energy trying to beat one another.

We chose two seats at the end of the bar where Ryder swiveled the barstool for me to sit. “You keep doing things like that, and it starts to feel more like a date,” I said. He took his seat and waved to the bartender who was headed our direction. He ordered us another round and sat back. I raised one eyebrow at the other obvious example of date-like behavior.

“So, you’re saying I need to act like an asshole?”

“Yes, exactly. Let me struggle getting onto the barstool, order my own drinks, pay for my own food.”

He took the final sip of his whiskey and leaned back in his seat. His navy-blue T-shirt pulled tight over his chest, and his legs spread just enough to make me want to slip between them.

“Not going to happen, but thanks for the feedback.”

The bartender returned with our new drinks and retrieved our empty glasses. I was mid-sip when Ryder asked, “Is that how Scott treated you?”

Tequila nearly came out of my nose at the abrupt change in subject, but I managed to choke it down. It burned, and my eyes watered as I set my glass on the bar top.

“What are you talking about?”

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