Page 37 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
“Just bad losers and people who put pineapple on pizza.”
“Well, you’re safe on both counts.”
As I pull ice cream from the freezer and start gathering toppings, I can feel her watching me move around the kitchen. It should make me nervous, but instead it feels natural, like this is something we’ve done dozens of times before.
Like maybe we could do it dozens of times in the future, if I don’t find a way to screw this up.
16
Rematch
Harper
Istareattheboard in mock outrage, my winning streak officially ended. “You cheated.”
Cole leans back against the couch cushions, hands behind his head, wearing the kind of smug expression that should be annoying but somehow just makes him more attractive. “I just played better.”
“You used my method on me,” I say, reaching for my wine glass. The pinot grigio he opened is smooth and crisp, and I’m already feeling that pleasant warmth spreading through my chest that comes from good wine and even better company. “That’s cheating in my book.”
“Show me where in the rulebook it says stealing your strategy is cheating,” he challenges, eyes dancing with amusement.
I take another sip, letting the wine loosen the competitive fire that’s been building since he made his winning move. “Rematch. Right now.”
“You sure you want to lose twice in one night?” he asks, but he’s already reaching for the dice.
I narrow my eyes at him. “If I lose again, it’s only because you distracted me with your fake nice-guy routine.”
“Fake?” His brows fuse together. “I’ll have you know this,” he points at himself, “is one hundred percent not a nice-guy routine.”
“We’ll see about that.”
He laughs—a real, low sound that settles somewhere warm in my stomach—and starts resetting the board. I watch his hands as he organizes the pieces, noting the efficient way he moves, how he automatically straightens everything into neat rows even though we’re just going to mess it up again in thirty seconds.
This round is even more competitive now. We trade jabs between moves, me teasing him about the intensely serious expression he gets when he’s strategizing, him pretending to analyze my every decision like we’re playing for the world championship.
“You’re making that face again,” I point out when he spends a full minute considering his next move.
“What face?”
“Your concentration face. Very intimidating. I can see why opposing teams find you scary.”
“I’m not scary. I’m thoughtful.”
“Same thing in hockey, right?”
Another sip of wine makes the edges of everything feel softer, the room warmer. I’m relaxed in a way I haven’t been in weeks, the stress of classes and life and overthinking every decision melting away under the influence of good wine and easy conversation.
I notice things I missed during dinner—how his forearms flex when he leans forward to move a piece, the way his dark blue t-shirt pulls across his shoulders when he reaches for something. He’s got the kind of build that comes from years of serious athletics, but he wears it casually, like it’s just part of who he is rather than something he’s trying to show off.
He’s focused on the board now, brow slightly furrowed as he calculates his next move, and I catch myself staring at the clean line of his jaw. There’s something inherently attractive about watching someone who’s good at things, even something as simple as a board game.
His eyes—darker up close than I noticed at the restaurant—flick up to meet mine for half a second before dropping back to the game. The brief contact sends an unexpected pulse of awareness through me, steady and warm.
“Your move,” he says, and I realize I’ve been completely distracted.
“Right. My move.”
We both reach for the dice at the same time, and our fingers brush in that accidental-but-not-really way that makes my pulse jump. He doesn’t move his hand right away, just lets the contact linger for a beat longer than necessary before sliding the dice toward me with a small smile.
