Page 82 of The Games We Play
I turned slowly, narrowing my eyes at the screen.
Mac was leaning against the bar now, his arms braced on either side of the camera. Relaxed. Watching me.
“Did you do this too?” I asked, cocking my hip and pointing toward the fridge with a raised brow.
“Maybe,” he said, that maddening grin tugging at one side of his mouth. “Does it make it more of a crime if I opened your fridge after breaking in?”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t fight the warmth spreading through me. Turning back to the fridge, something else caught my attention—a white to-go container, carefully placed on the center shelf.
The logo gave it away instantly.
It was the only Italian place in town. Also, coincidentally, the only decent pizza, too.
“Mac…” I said slowly, pulling the container out and setting it on the counter. I angled the camera so he could see more than just my face now.
“If this is what I think it is…”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, his voice full of that low, teasing drawl.
I popped the lid.
Chicken Parmesan.
Golden-fried chicken, blanketed in marinara, smothered in cheese, and laid gently over a bed of angel hair pasta—my favorite. My cheeks lifted into a grin as a quietoh my Godslipped from my lips.
“How’d I do?” he asked, clearly pleased with himself as he watched me practically drool over the container in front of me.
“You didverywell,” I said, already reaching for a plate.
As I dished the food and slid it into the microwave, he leaned in a little closer to the screen.
“So I guess you can’t really be mad about the whole breaking-and-entering thing, right?”
I shook my head, glancing over my shoulder with a smirk. “If this is what you do when you break in, I’ll leave the door wide open.”
“At least I didn’t throw glitter all over your stuff,” he said with a wink.
I narrowed my eyes. “I never confirmed or denied that it was me who did that.”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” he replied with a slow nod. Mac tilted his head just slightly, that dimple showing up again. “Still… I do wonder who else would draw a giantPon my dashboard.”
“Could’ve been Patrick,” I said with a shrug, biting back a grin.
Mac arched a brow. “I don’t know a Patrick.”
“Maybe it was an upside-down lowercased,” I teased. “Ooo,Dudley!” I pointed at the camera, eyes wide with mock realization.
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it with one fluid flick of his lighter. The flame illuminated his features for a heartbeat—strong jaw, focused eyes—before he exhaled a slow stream of smoke into the air. He leaned forward to grab an ashtray, placing it beside him with practiced ease.
“Something tells me no,” he said, voice low and amused. “But it was still funny. Even if the guilty party refuses to come forward.”
To Mac’s credit, he’d taken it like a champ. Not that I would’ve cared if it pissed him off.
He started texting after that. Showing up more. Then there wasthatnight at The Tequila Cowboy—when he pulled me over the bar like he couldn’t wait another second to get me alone to start the conversation.
I blinked, pulling myself out of the memory fog and looked up at the screen. “Thank you,” I said softly.
Mac nodded, taking another drag of his cigarette. “No problem, Pen. Wasn’t a big deal.”
