Page 26 of The Dating Game

This makes me smile, but I hide it by looking away, then make no comment to indicate having heard her.

“My turn now?” I ask instead.

“Yup.”

I think for a few seconds then say, “Third-degree burn or poison ivy?”

“Wow, this game got dark quickly.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to gauge where your comfort zones lie.”

“By asking if I’d rather be in pain or be itchy?”

“Exactly.”

“Third-degree burn. I hate being itchy.”

“Really? But third-degree burns leave scars. A burn could permanently mar you.”

“First off, poison ivy can scar you too if you itch it too much and second, outward beauty isn’t everything.”

Again, she’s surprised me. I lose my train of thought as I glance her way to see a fierce expression on her pretty face. I haven’t known her long, but I get the feeling Brooke Garza has scars that run deeper than anything visible to the naked eye.

“True,” I say roughly. “I’d pick poison ivy myself. I don’t like pain.”

“Really? That surprises me given your propensity for hurling yourself out of planes,” Brooke comments.

I chuckle. “As I told you that day, skydiving is pretty safe. I’ve jumped over 200 times and never gotten hurt.”

“So you say,” she huffs. “But I bet you had to sign some sort of NDA with your brother stating that you would never disclose the truth of your many, many skydiving related injuries.”

I laugh again. Brooke is pretty funny. And, unfortunately, humor is something I’ve always been attracted to in women.

Which means I need to be careful. Time to get this date back on track. I point to a sign up ahead that marks various trail distances. “Food court stop is only half a mile away. Race ya!” I don’t wait for her response, just take off pedaling like I’m the 10-year-old I borrowed my helmet from.

Chapter 9

Brooke

Ican’tgetaread on Will. One minute I’m thinking, two months with this guy won't be so bad, and then the next I’m wondering where the fun, sexy guy I went skydiving and sang with went because quite frankly this new version of Will is kind of obnoxious.

But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not losing my bet with Sydney this time. So whatever version of Will I get, I’m just going to have to deal with it.

Unless of course I die on this bike ride home. A distinct possibility given Will’s tendency to ride at speeds Lance Armstrong would call fast.

And that’s only a slight exaggeration.

Or at least it feels true to me.

Thankfully I have a full stomach now, so that’s giving me some energy to push forward. At the food truck place Will told me to get as much as I wanted, which was a nice change from guys who act like they’re worried I may eat too much and ruin my figure—seriously, I’ve had those very words said to me before. Though some guys take the more subtle approach, asking, “Are you sure you want to eat that?”

Message received.

Man. My legs are dying. They were already tired from a full day of dancing, so this bike ride may officially turn them into jello.

I’m calling it. I refuse to try and keep up with him anymore. He’s already slightly ahead of me. Does it make a difference if he’s even further in front of me?

I slow my speed considerably and my legs sigh in relief. Bike riding is meant to be leisurely and enjoyable. For me anyway. I know some people use it as a workout, but dance is my workout space. I have no desire to make biking into one too.

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