Page 67 of Love is a Game

Mia told me to follow my creativity wherever it leads. But any designer—any artist—needs structure. Parameters. A framework to push against. When the sky’s the limit, it’s harder to find the tiny threads of inspiration that weave into something bigger. Without boundaries, there’s nothing to pushtoward.No tension to shape the vision. And right now, I’m grasping at air.

I glance over the table. Despite its oversized dimensions, it feels cramped with eleven of us squeezed around it. Or maybe it’s just me…boxed in by wedding talk that only reminds me how much is riding on Mia’s dress. And how much I’m neglecting the tasks that are piling up back home.

Because it’s not just the wedding dress that has me on edge; it’s my entire business. Every day I spend away from my studio, the work stacks higher, deadlines inch closer, and the risk of falling behind grows.

And yet, here I am. Stuck between funeral arrangements, Mom’s empty house, and the nagging guilt of indulging in long lunches and karaoke nights, no matter how fun they might be.

I envy the lighter conversation happening down the table. Brady and Harvey are relentlessly teasing Finn about thinking “Led Zep” was a guy named “Ed Zeppelin”. And Vivian and Nora are discussing fermented soda recipes for the restaurant.

That takes me back. Nora’s been brewing her own concoctions for decades. When we were kids, we had to master the art of opening her particularly volatile grape soda without setting off a fizzy explosion.

Kind of like my life right now:volatile. Bubbling away like some oversized cauldron of emotions, threatening to spill over at any moment.

The funeral is two days away. And in between arrangements, I’ve been meeting with the women whose lives my mother touched through her volunteer work at Safe Haven.

Women who arrived there after fleeing abusive relationships with kids in tow. Women who found themselves pregnant and alone, with no resources and nowhere to turn. Women who made the impossible choice to give up their babies, hoping to give them a better future.

So Tuck’s wrong. I’m not taking the idea of having a baby lightly. Not even close. I’ve seen firsthand what happens when someone doesn’t have support, when the difference between raising a child in a safe, loving environment or barely surviving comes down to circumstance.

And yet, in my sleep-deprived desperation last night, I somehow agreed towhat? Some ridiculous scheme where Tuck gets to influence my decision? And to stay in this town for another week? The thought elevates my anxiety even more.

Then again, I need time to settle Mom’s estate. Realistically, I wouldn’t be leaving just yet anyway. So what the hell? I get sex and pancakes on tap for a bit longer. There are worse fates.

As if sensing my shifting thoughts, Tuck’s thigh presses against mine.

The cramped seating does have its perks: tiny, charged moments of contact, the occasional bump of elbows, a lingering glimpse of his freshly shaved jaw, the light mass of fair chest hair visible at his collar. Even his damn earlobes are distractingly perfect.

“Pen?”

I blink. “Huh?”

Tuck’s mouth tilts into a knowing smirk. “Still got an appetite?” His deep, rasping voice drags over my skin like a slow burn. “Can I…offer you anything else?”

“Oh.” I sit up straighter. “I’m, uh, saving myself for dessert.”

“That right?” His gaze darkens, amusement flickering beneath something deliciously more dangerous.

My pulse stutters.

His hand finds my thigh, fingers just resting there, warm, possessive. And it’s all I can do not to shift, not to let him know exactly how willing my body is to give him whatever he wants.

Then, with a jolt, I notice Brady’s eyes flicking between me and Tuck, a perplexed look on his face. Then Nora rises to collect plates, and I spring up too, nearly toppling my wine—and in my rush, jamming Tuck’s hand against the table with my knee.

“Ow.” He groans, flexing his fingers.

I glare at him like it’s his fault I’m this flustered, then snatch his plate away.

“I was still eating that—”

I ignore that, quickly following Nora and Susan to the kitchen, our arms stacked high with bowls of slim left-overs and empty plates.

“I’ll get coffee started?” Vivian offers, joining us.

“Yes, but maybe more wine first?” Nora suggests, already moving toward the fridge. “Harvey, open something, won’t you?”

At the sink, I settle in beside Susan, and we fall into an easy rhythm—rinsing, stacking, passing dishes into the dishwasher.

Through the open window, laughter drifts in from outside. Brady has recruited Finn and Molly to help clean the grill, their teasing and banter carrying on the breeze.

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