Page 33 of Love is a Game

Then his attention snaps away as a delivery arrives. His easy demeanor vanishes.

“I needed this at eight this morning, not mid-afternoon!” he chastises the supplier, irritation bleeding into his voice.

There’s a rushed apology, and just like that, he shifts back into friendly mode—his voice lighter, his posture looser. And his energy lifts even more when Vivian and Finn walk in.

I can’t help but smile at the cozy scene. Plus, seeing Finn, fresh from school, brings back a rush of memories—Brady, Pen, and me at that age, thick as thieves.

“So, what did you learn today, Finn?” I query.

Finn slouches onto a stool, exhaling like he’s grappling with the weight of Middle East politics or the unpredictability of global financial markets. “That girls don’t like you sticking up for them. Next thing you know, theyallturn on you, and it getsrealugly.”

Vivian pauses on her way to the kitchen. “For context, Finn felt compelled to tell his girlfriend Molly’s friend, Erica, that she needs a personality transplant.”

Finn huffs. “Well, yeah, because she never lets Molly finish a sentence without talking all over her. Anyway, now they’rebothpissed at me.”

I pat him on the back, smiling at Brady. “Guess someone else needs your boundless fatherly wisdom.”

Brady shakes his head. “Nah, I think Finn already knows what to do. Right, kid?”

Finn sighs dramatically. “Apologize to Molly.” He slumps forward. “Itriedto, but it’s also like…she says this stuff about Ericaall the timeto me. That Erica gets serious FOMO, never listens, loves the sound of her own voice. Isn’t it better to just say that upfront instead of bitching behind her back?”

“Nope,” Brady says resolutely as I do a slow head shake.

Finn groans. “Argh—women!” He dumps his school bag and trudges after Vivian into the kitchen.

Brady watches him go. “Molly’s his first serious girlfriend, it’s a steep learning curve.”

“Not sure it gets any easier,” I say wryly.

Brady looks at me with genuine concern. “You cut up over the Stella thing?”

I give a slight twitch, which he reads too accurately.

“Hmm, yeah, that’s not it.” He narrows his eyes like a psychic, fortune telling. “Someone else on the scene, I’m guessing. How’s that playing out? You get pretty ruthless when it comes to getting what you want.”

I lean back. “Don’t you need to get back to tossing pans or something?” I nod toward the kitchen, where his staff has started to gather.

Brady smirks but doesn’t push. “Yeah, probably. But we need a real catch-up. Sunday? You’re sticking around, right—till the funeral at least? You can’t skip town before seeing my olds.”

“Of course, I’ll go see your parents,” I answer. “How’s the farm? They still got all those random rescues?”

“You know it.” Brady grins as he rounds the bar. “My tour groups lap it up—picking fresh produce and petting rehabilitated Alpacas—what’s not to like?”

I leave Brady to get back to his prep and head to the house, putting in a couple of hours of work myself before chatting with Mom and Dad when they get home. They’re in good spirits, swapping stories about their students, but my mind is elsewhere.

Pen’s been gone for hours. And I try not to overanalyze it, but last night felt different. There was something in her behavior I couldn’t pin down. Alternatively avoiding me, baiting me, and flirting with me. Then I tried to push her toward something real, something more than these rushed, reckless encounters in public places. I wanted her to come home with me. To stop pretending this was just some casual thing. To finally move forward.

And now, in the cold light of day, a tinge of something unpleasant creeps in. She just lost her mother, for Christ’s sake. And I chose now, of all times, to push for more.

Maybe Brady’s right. I can be ruthless about getting what I want, when I want it. Timing be damned.

I’m not even sure where that drive comes from. It’s not like I grew up in a cutthroat world. My parents found fulfillment in teaching—steady, meaningful work they excelled at. They weren’t chasing titles or paychecks, just doing what they loved. I was never that academic, but I always needed to be working toward something. Achieving. Earning. Proving myself.

My first real venture was at fifteen, printing and selling Blue Mountain Lake merchandise. No competition, plenty of tourists, and a sharp instinct for profit. I cleaned up at the markets that summer, getting my first taste of what it felt like to build something from nothing.

When Pen set her sights on moving to the city to study at the Fashion Institute, there was no way I was getting left behind. I put in the work, got my grades up, and applied to college. I did my Master’s at NYU—business, with a focus on fashion and design. Basically, learning how to turn creativity into profit.

Pen was relentless, hell-bent on getting in with a renowned designer to sharpen her skills. I took a different path, testing businesses I could scale. Selling merch at music festivals and markets, later moving online. Always tweaking, strategizing, and refining until I cracked the code—the right demographic, the right sales methods. From there, it was a numbers game. Offshore production was the logical next step, leveraging lower costs and higher margins.

---