Page 33 of Play the Last Track
The drive is quiet. Since I have no idea where we are going, I scroll through a playlist on my phone. I have the terrible habit of playing a song, then changing it halfway through. I don’t want to miss out on playing a good chorus or a catchy hook just because we are only on the road for fifteen minutes.
‘Better’by Khalid fills the cab, and I hum along quietly to the lyrics. When I realize that my humming has turned into gentle words, singing along with the artist, I cringe and force myself to stop.
I feel Flynn’s eyes on me, boring into the side of my head before he stares back at the road, but he doesn’t say anything. I go back to humming as the chorus plays again, but I suppress the urge to sing the words. I look down at my phone and add the song to the playlist I keep calledRecordings.
I’m about to skip to the next song when Flynn turns into a parking lot in front of a bowling alley.
“Really?” I laugh, looking out my window up at the giant pins and bowling ball boards that make up the sign. “This is your big date idea?”
“Yep.” He parks the truck, hopping out and rounding the hood before I can even unplug my phone from the car. He opens my door and holds out his hand. I slide my palm against his. “I’m going to kick your ass, Murphy.”
When was the last time I went on a date?
Before Grant? Maybe. Definitely not during Grant. He wasn’t really a date kind of guy. He was comfortable with me. He didn’tput in the extra effort of date nights or flowers. I got used to it. I got comfortable with it.
Staring up at the bowling alley’s brightly lit sign, my stomach does a little flip, and my heart skips a beat. I’m … excited.
Flynn closes the car door as soon as I’m out of the truck and sticks out his arm. I hesitate, looking around for people. There isn’t another soul in this parking lot with us. No one is milling around outside the entrance or walking along the sidewalk.
Do I still need to take his arm if there is no one watching us? Do I want to?
Yes. I do want to.
I reach out and slide my hand into the crook of his elbow. He tugs me closer to him, and I laugh when he starts to pull me toward the entrance like an excitable child. Whenever he’s out and about, Flynn operates like he hasn’t got a care in the world. He laughs and smiles, and he acts like a kid sometimes. Then, when he’s at home, he’s calm and collected. He always does his washing on Tuesday unless we have a sunny day. Then he’ll break the schedule, so he can hang the laundry on his clothes line that he said he installed himself. He doesn’t like cooking, but when he does, he cleans up immediately after he’s done.
He holds open the door to the bowling alley for me, and we walk inside. The place is bustling, almost all the lanes are full, and the music that plays overhead is so loud I can barely hear myself think.
“I haven’t been to a bowling alley in so long,” Flynn says, leaning down to say it right next to my ear so I can hear him. There’s such joy, such excitement in his voice. I have to smile and laugh along with him.
I’m starting to realize there are two sides to Flynn Reed. There’s his public persona, and then there ishim.
One at work, and one at home.
I wonder how many people get to see both? Probably not too many. Maybe Scott, maybe Ivy. Possibly his parents, too. But as I watch him lean on the counter, talking to the young, star-struck teenager behind it, I suddenly feel lucky to be included in the few.
***
“How are you doing that?” Flynn whines as I take another bow.
I laugh and shake my head at his disbelieving look. I just bowled my third strike in a row. A total and utter fluke, obviously. Was I going to let on to Flynn that my performance tonight was likely just beginner’s luck? Absolutely not.
“It’s raw talent.” I shrug, smirking at him.
“You’re cheating.” He shakes his head, looking up at the scoreboard where I am a good thirty points ahead of him. “You have to be.”
“How can I be cheating? I don’t think cheating is even possible in a public bowling alley.” I laugh, patting Flynn gently on the shoulder and walking toward the small table in the middle of the seating area. Another young teenager is placing two large pizzas onto the table. I pick up the soda that was brought earlier and take a sip, my stomach growling as I eye the pizzas. Flynn comes up behind me, slipping a hand around my waist and pulling my back to his chest.
“Thanks,” he says, nodding to the teenager. I glance up at Flynn only to see that he’s staring right back at me. Suddenly, my chest tightens, and I let my gaze drop, only for a moment, to his lips. Mymouth feels dry, and I suck in a breath. I feel Flynn’s fingers tighten against my waist before he lets me go.
He steps away, and I silently mourn the loss of his warmth.
Damn it.
I am the one who said we shouldn’t be so touchy-feely in public. I am the one who wants the ground rules. Yet, here I am, thinking about whether his mouth still tastes like spice and red wine, or if that was just in Italy. If it was, I really want to find out what he tastes like now that we’re home.
Flynn takes a seat on the small plastic chairs, and I sit next to him. Our thighs squish together.
Why am I torturing myself?
