Page 47 of Love is a Game

Then Brady pulled us together for photos—his oldest friends, reunited.

And that’s when I got my first clue that the ice princess had thawed.

She planted a pointed heel smack-bang in the center of my foot—her spiked, patent-red stiletto sinking painfully into my handcrafted Berluti shoes.

Then she flicked her hair over her shoulder and pretended it never happened.

The night unfolded.

From across the circular marble bar, in a room that looked straight out of a Baz Luhrmann movie set, I watched her shut some guy down with a single, withering glance. Whatever weak line he’d mustered, it clearly hadn’t landed. His shoulders hunched, his head dropped, and he slunk away in silent defeat.

I took my shot. Sidling up beside her, I threw a glance at the departing casualty.

“Let me guess,” I mused. “Was it: ‘It’s hot in here—or is that just you?’ Or maybe the lame one about falling from heaven?”

She didn’t look at me right away. Just hitched a half-smile at the bartender as he slid a dirty martini her way. Even that—her friendly gesture to a stranger, made jealousy flare in my chest.

Then came the sigh. Low, resigned.

“Listen, Tuck—”

“Oh, so you do remember my name.”

Her kohl-darkened eyes lifted irritably to me.

“Oh yes.Allof them. Where should we even start? Withtraitor?Ruthless opportunist?Selfish asshole?”

She paused, taking a slow, deliberate sip, as if the vodka might inspire further insults. “Huh. Maybe your name was an acronym all along:Traitor. Unscrupulous. Cold-hearted—”

“Okay, okay, I get the idea,” I interrupted, secretly pleased she was speaking to me at all instead of upending her drink in my face.

She studied me a moment longer, eyes slitted in assessment. “Knucklehead.”

Though she seemed less satisfied with theKoption.

“I’ll take it,” I said, as I flagged down the bartender for a beer.

It was as if the world had shifted—dimensions expanding beyond the usual length, width, and time into some new, charged reality. A world where Pen was standing next to me again, warping everything dull into something neon bright.

She scanned the glitzy room.

Then, to my surprise, she muttered: “Let’s blow this popsicle stand—I got the wheels, and you got me in high gear, baby.”

I froze, my beer halfway to my lips, processing her words.

She exhaled, shaking her head. “Relax, Romeo. That washispick-up line.”

I nearly choked. “No way.”

“Oh yeah.” She lifted a manicured finger and signaled the bartender for another. “And would you believe it’s far from the worst I’ve heard?”

“I believe it,” I said, leaning on the bar. “How about: ‘They say dating is a numbers game—so can I get yours?’”

She pointed her glass at me in dry confirmation. “Yup. At least a dozen times.”

“Tragic.”

Pen propped her elbows on the bar top behind her, crossed her ankles, somehow turning casual elegance into something lethal.

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