Page 26 of Love is a Game

And Finn—he’s Brady’s clone. It’s uncanny. That messy, snow-white hair, the wide, goofy grin. Even the unmistakable bright blue eyes that used to land Brady any girl he wanted.

Not that I didn’t do just fine, too. Never had trouble pulling chicks. I scored more than my share of one-night stands and girlfriends.

My gaze drifts across the table to Pen.

And then there was always her…breaking my heart when she dated other guys, soothing my soul when I got her back. Except, I never really had her. Not entirely. Because Pen’s more elusive than a snow leopard on a mountainside at dusk.

I watch on as she accepts a top-up of wine, picks at the pickled green bean salad, and shares her favorite thrift shop venues with Misha. They rave about Fab Scrap in New York. Then Pen’s face lights up as she describes a mall in Sweden where everything for sale is either repurposed, recycled, or sustainably and organically produced.

“Amazing! That’s my kind of place,” Misha asserts excitedly.

Then the blonde woman directly opposite catches my eye. “Are you in fashion, too?” she wonders as she passes the beets. “I saw you guys hanging out together by the bar when we arrived.”

I return her friendly smile. “You could say that. But I can’t claim the design or green credentials of those two.” I tilt my head toward Pen and Misha. “I’m just in it for the money.”

She lets out a throaty laugh. “A pragmatic businessman! I like it.” Her smile deepens. “Someone has to keep the economy chugging along, right? My family’s in the shipping industry, so we got hit hard by climate regulations in recent years. I mean, good on those who strive to be sustainable, but small companies are drowning in compliance costs while the giant corporations barely feel it.”

I nod sympathetically. “So it’s just the big players left standing?”

“Pretty much.” She swirls her wine. “They’ve got the cash to retrofit fleets, invest in alternative fuels, lobby for their interests—all that. Meanwhile, family-run operations like ours are either shutting down or getting swallowed up. It’s not really about sustainability. It’s about who can afford to stay the course.”

She shakes her head, dimples flashing. “But business talk at dinner is so tacky. Tell me something else about yourself—uh?”

“Tuck,” I say, reaching out a hand as she does the same.

“Odette.” Her grip is firm and lingering. “So where do you hail from, Tuck?”

Before I can answer, Pen leans forward, cutting across the guy between her and Odette. “Oh, don’t let the flash haircut and linen shirt fool you. Tuck’s born and bred in good ol’ Blue Mountain Lake.”

Odette blinks at the sudden interjection. “Huh. It’s such a tourist town, I figured most people here tonight were from elsewhere.”

I study Pen. Wide, exuberant eyes, glowy skin, loose gestures. She can usually hold her liquor, but something about tonight—the cocktails, the wine, the day’s emotions—has her more wound up than usual.

“I live in New York,” I say, catching Pen’s gaze. “But my parents are still here, so I get back regularly.”

“Tuck’s great like that.” Pen flutters her lashes, all mock innocence. “Reliable, solid, very family-oriented.Relationship-oriented,” she adds, her tone just a little too pointed.

“Thanks, Pen,” I say dryly. “Maybe I’ll let you update my Tinder profile.”

Odette raises a brow. “Oh, so…you two aren’t together?”

Pen props her elbow on the table, her wine glass tilting dangerously. “Tuck’s just ‘helping me through’ my mother’s recent death.”

The table quiets.

Odette shifts uncomfortably. “Oh…I’m so sorry—”

Pen waves a hand, the gesture sweeping wider as Misha and a few others murmur condolences.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she insists. “I just meant, Tuck’s a great guy. Single guy. On-the-market kind of guy.” She gives Odette an exaggerated wink. “So if you’re into those attributes, well…life’s short. Then we die. I sure got that memo this week.” She lifts her glass. “Seize the moment!”

Fuck.

I catch the waiter’s eye and tilt my head toward Pen. “Some iced water for the table?” I say smoothly. “And more bread?”

Luckily, our dinner companions take Pen’s outburst in stride—maybe out of sympathy, maybe because she’s now badly quoting song lyrics.

“When you get that kind of news, what can you do?” She shrugs. “You gotta go ‘skydiving…Rocky Mountain climbing…’” she struggles through, humming the familiar tune well off-key.

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