Page 249 of Scoring the Player
I peck him on the lips. “Yeah, I’m good. You think she knows about the watch in the Shadow Round?”
He grins. “I don’t know. You should ask he?—”
“Hey Maya,” I call out, racing away.
CHAPTER 62
SALEM
“Bowling?” I guess.
My back presses against the seat as he steps on the gas and switches lanes. “Nope.”
“A Broadway musical?”
“You’re never gonna guess.”
“Wow.” I slow nod. “Someone’s smug about planning date night.”
He leans forward, his arm slung over the steering wheel as he checks the side window. “How much you wanna bet I’m about to make you lose your shit?”
I snicker. “All this hype for a date that requires”—I stare down at the plastic bag he popped into the supermarket for before we got on the bridge to Manhattan—“a bag of fruit.”
“Aight.” He turns down Prince Street, and three blocks later, the GPS tells us we’ve arrived.
“Our date’s in SoHo?” I ask as he grabs a rare free spot and parks.
“Yeah.” He turns and clasps my cardigan, pulling me closer. “Remember this moment of doubt, fucker.”
When I lean in for a kiss, he pulls back.
“Come on,” he says, plucking up his coat and the grocery bag from the back before reaching for the car handle.
I look around after we climb out as I button my peacoat. “Besides two town houses, most of the street is filled with industrial lofts.”
“Look all you want. You’re never gonna guess,” he says, locking the car.
Looking both ways, he crosses the street heading toward one of the town houses.
“Blue, hold up,” I call out following him.
He keeps walking, throwing a—“Move it, Jones”—over his shoulder.
“Wait, can we just?—”
“You get one guess,” he says, spinning around, “and two hints. In one minute, I am going to ring that bell.” He points to the upscale-looking town house. “That’s hint number one. Hint number two is this.” He opens the bag and sticks it out for me to see.
“Huh?” I stare at the fruit again and then over at the wide red-brick town house with its high stoop and slender columns framing the door. “I’m so confused.”
He grins. “Good.”
I glance down at the cobblestone street as he climbs the stairs and rings the bell.
He twists around. “Get up here.”
I shake my head but start moving.
The door opens, and I freeze mid-step as I stare up and gasp. Not a quiet, gentle gasp but a full-throated, belly-expanding, audible-from-five-houses-down gasp.
