Page 27 of Love is a Game

Then she frowns. “Whatever. You get the idea.”

The Texan guy jumps in, crooning smoothly: “I loved deeper, and I spoke sweeter, and I gave forgiveness I’d been denying…” He places his hand to his heart as he reaches deep. “And he said, someday I hope you get the chance to live like you were dying.”

There’s a smattering of applause for his deep-voiced rendition, and he tips his head graciously.

“We played Tim McGraw at our wedding.” His wife leans in. “Not that one, of course!” she clarifies. “Another of his songs, ‘The Rest of Our Life’.It was our first dance.” Her smile softens. “Right, honey?”

“We sure did, baby,” he says affectionately.

I smile at them, figure I can leave them to their canoodling. But apparently not.

“You know, I had totally given up on love,” she tells our end of the table. “I was so done. Then three years ago at the Livestock Show—there I was, manning the Honolulu Hog Spud stand all alone. And this guy—” She nudges him. “He keeps coming back for more.”

“I ate, like, five before I got the nerve to ask her out,” Tex says, bashfully—not what I expected from a guy who looks like he could wrestle a feral pig into submission without breaking a sweat.

“And the rest is history.” She laughs, squeezing his arm.

“Well, you know what they say—when you stop looking, that’s when it finds you,” Pen chimes in.

I smirk. “Quite the cliché queen tonight, Pen. Not like you to let sentiment override your cynicism.”

She swivels toward me, eyes flashing. “Well, you’d know all aboutclichés, wouldn’t you, Tuck? Since you’re a proponent of the ultimate one.”

I lift a brow. She’s riled up, and apparently, I’m the target. And I know better than to deflect. In some cases, the only way with Pen is head-on.

“Oh?” I challenge. “Enlighten me.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “That men and women can’t have any kind of close relationship unless it’s of a romantic nature. Howveryprogressive of you.”

A slow murmur of interest ripples through the table. She’s making a scene. And I have a feeling she’s just getting started.

Thankfully, we’re interrupted by Brady introducing the next course. He details the lineup of shared plates, rattling off the origins of each dish as waitstaff move efficiently around us. And Pen, momentarily distracted from maintaining her voodoo glare in my direction, turns back to her conversation with Misha.

But soon enough, she’s on the move. She rises from her seat, meandering past Brady, who’s now deep in discussion with a waiter. She says something as she passes, just enough to make him glance up and grin.

Then he clocks me. His eyebrows lift with concern.

I’m already on my feet and nod a response—on it.

I follow Pen into the passage leading to the restrooms.

She gives me a haughty look, attempting to stride ahead. But before she can slip away, I catch the crook of her arm and tug her firmly against the wall.

Her glassy eyes flicker up to mine.

“Pen, what are you playing at?”

She gives a slow, lazy smile, lifting a finger to tap the top button of my shirt. “What areyouplaying at, Buster? Must be fate, huh? She’s just your type.”

“You’re way off,” I say, gripping her elbow as she sways slightly. “We were just making conversation.”

She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “Tall, honey blonde…neutral black and cream outfit, statement watch…bet she’s got an MBA.”

“Oh, keep going. This is really turning me on,” I deadpan. “You think I’m that shallow? That I have a checklist for women like I’m picking out a new car?”

Her gaze drags over my face, then my chest. Her fingers skim lower.

“Well…you turn them over with about the same regularity.” She pauses, then smirks. “Actually,no. I think you keep your cars longer than your girlfriends. Being with you, Tuck, is a very precarious business. Not exactly a long-term gig…”

---