Page 45 of Vicious Games

I shrug. “Why not? Especially when I’m so good at it.”

“You really are,” Lucky groans, still clutching himself. “Damn, you got me good.”

He then starts to laugh, and as color slowly returns to his face, I surprisingly find myself laughing with him as opposed to at him.

“I’ll be walking funny for days.” He chuckles.

“Well, you deserved it.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah, you did. You always do. Why do you insist on constantly pushing my buttons?”

“Why do you make it so easy for me?” he counters with a grin.

God help me, but the sparkle in his chestnut eyes and that easy smile makes my irritation thaw—just a little.

Okay. So… Lucky is handsome. I mean, drop-dead, stupidly, unfairly gorgeous kind-of-handsome. But usually, his looks are instantly ruined by the fact that he acts like an elitist dick all the time.

Right now, though? Seeing him crouched over in pain but still managing to smile kind of makes his pretty features stand out even more.

“Want me to run back inside and grab you some ice?” I offer, arching a brow.

“Is that your way of saying you’re sorry?”

“A person should only say sorry when they genuinely regret something,” I reply easily. “And I don’t regret kneeing you in the nards. Like I said, you deserved it.”

“Is that what they teach you in nun school?”

“There isn’t a ‘nun school,’ you moron,” I scoff. “It’s called a convent.”

“Whatever.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I highly doubt they teach you to punch people like it’s your favorite pastime.”

“Only you, Lucky.” I flash him an ear-to-ear grin. “I only ever punch you.”

“And knee.”

“Yes. And knee.” I giggle as he finally manages to straighten up, using the tree for balance.

“I guess I should be honored that I’m the only one who brings out this side of you into the light.”

“Consider yourselflucky,” I say, emphasizing the word.

He groans. “Was that a pun? ‘Cause that was awful.”

“I thought it was pretty good.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He shakes his head before draping an arm over my shoulders. “Help me back inside.”

“You really can’t walk on your own?” I ask, adjusting to his weight.

“I doubt I’d even make it back crawling,” he grumbles. “That was one hell of a knee.”

I hesitate for a second but finally say, “Sorry.”

His head snaps toward me, eyes dancing with amusement.

“Don’t say you’re sorry if you don’t mean it. Your words, not mine, remember?” His mouth tilts into a slow, lazy grin—the kind that tightens something in my chest.

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