Page 60 of The Dating Game

“Great,” he finally says, his voice overly gruff. “I knew you couldn’t argue with your own words,” he jokes. “How about we meet at the courts during free time tonight? The kids all have to stay on the church campus, so we don’t need to directly supervise them.”

I nod. “Sounds good,” I agree. I choose not to mention that it wasn’t his words that changed my mind; it was his touch on my elbow. Surely teaching someone to serve a volleyball requires more of that type of touching.

And that I am totally game for.

Chapter 23

Will

“We’regoingtostartwith underhand serving,” I tell Brooke later that night. It’s free time for everyone, but the teens are all required to stay in the church or on church grounds. Luckily, a lot of them opted to watch the movie playing inside and most of the others are on the soccer fields, having played volleyball last night. That means we don’t have spectators to make her nervous.

Or to stop me from doing something stupid. Like kissing her pretty little mouth till neither of us can breathe from the intensity of it.

Heat courses through me at the thought, but I chug some of the water I brought and pull myself together. Because even without spectators I’m not going to kiss Brooke. I’ve decided not to cross that physical boundary because I need to have at least one boundary in place with her. Otherwise I’m going to end up totally and completely wrecked once she’s finished her two months with me.

Not to mention, I’m leading this mission trip full of impressionable teenagers. I should try to set a good example and, you know, not make out with one of the other chaperones.

“Underhand serving sounds good,” Brooke agrees, eyeing the ball in my hand with trepidation.

“Yeah, it’s much easier. You don’t have to worry about getting a good toss for one. The ball just stays in your hand. Here, I’ll show you.” I position the ball in my left hand and swing my right arm,connecting the underside of my fisted hand with the ball and sending it soaring over the net.

“You certainly made itlookeasy,” Brooke says a little grouchily. “But I’m skeptical about whether or not I’ll be able to achieve similar results.”

“Maybe not on your first try, but with a little repetition we’ll get you there.”

“In time for Friday?” she asks. “Because that’s serving day.”

“Let’s just focus on right now,” I suggest, bypassing making any promises. Brooke laughs, seeing right through me.

“Here I thought you were going to offer me a money back guarantee.”

“Are you offering to pay me for this?” I ask raising an eyebrow at her.

“Depends on the currency,” she says, and just when I think she’s flirting with me she blushes. “Wow, did not mean that to sound so suggestive! I meant I could pay you with services.” Her blush intensifies. “Oh goodness. Not likeservicesservices. I meant like baked goods or dance lessons. Not that you need dance lessons. Or any other services that I could offer you. Oh gosh. It’s amazing I can keep talking with my foot inserted so far into my mouth.”

I grin. “It’s a good look for you.”

“Oh give me a dang ball,” she growls, and I grab one from the bin of balls we brought out with us, still chuckling to myself.

Fueled by her annoyance, Brooke approaches the ball without fear. Or much concentration. She swings and connects, but her body wasn’t lined up correctly so she shanks it hard to the left.

There’s a beat of silence then she declares, “That was a mulligan. I can do this.”

After five more mulligans, she finally turns back to me. “Okay, so perhaps I’m going to need further instruction.”

I grin. “I like apple pie.”

“What?”

“If you’re still offering baked goods in exchange for helping you get the ball over the net, then I thought you should know: I like apple pie.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “You really think you can still help me? After that display?” She gestures to where all of her failed attempts are piled in the sand, all of them well out of bounds of the court and still on our side of the net.

I grab a ball and step toward her. “Like I said: I like apple pie.”

Her eyes trace my movements, measuring the shrinking distance between us, then snap up to my face.

“Apple pie,” she repeats, sounding a little breathless. “Got it.”

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