Page 22 of The Player (Close Quarters 5)

“I want us to work together.”

Of all the things hecouldhave said, that’s not what I was expecting.

I blink. “How could our work possibly cross over?”

Rowan looks surprised by my reaction. “You don’t think board games are artistic?”

“Of course I do.”

He nods. “And what hangs in a gallery?”

“Yeah, I get that but...don’t all you hoity-toity art types like weird modern shit that looks like something a three-year-old could do while simultaneously making you question your own existence?” I can tell the second the words have left my mouth that I’ve offended him a little.Oops.

“You thinkthat’swhat art is? Wow. My mother would turn over in her grave if she heard that... A chance to postulate on our own importance.” He shakes his head.

“Well, you did just use the wordpostulatein a sentence,” I say with a shrug. “Unironically, I might add. So please excuse me if I don’t accept the whole art-isn’t-douchy thing.”

Sorry not sorry.

“Art is an experience. It’s meant to make youfeelsomething. And yes, sometimes it makes you think. But it’s also something that you can share with others...like a game. It’s a shared experience.”

We round the corner onto 21 Love Street. It’s getting darker outside now, the horizon shifting from shades of gold and orange to dusky lavender blue.

“Those two things are not really the same.”

“Not on the surface, perhaps. But I think with what I saw at the convention yesterday, there’s plenty of art in games.”

“I’m not disputing that, it’s just...”

“What?”

This is going to be one of those times where my blunt personality ends up pushing someone away. But if Rowan thinks we can work together, then I want my feelings on the table. “I think our customers are very different. Yours are happy to pay more than most people’s tertiary education for an overhyped lump of Play-Doh and I have to battle to justify why a year of blood, sweat and tears is worth sixty bucks.”

“Will you give me a chance?” he asks. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Rowan Lively ask for anything. He seems like the kind of guy who could snap his fingers and make any wish materialise. “Tomorrow, come to the gallery and let me give you a proper pitch of my idea.”

I look at him—reallylook at him. Is he playing some kind of game? Is he trying to pick up where we left off yesterday afternoon?

Or is he sincere?

My gut instinct with men isterrible, which any of my girlfriends can tell you. I never pick the right guys and I always end up getting hurt. That’s why yesterday was supposed to be about the physical and nothing else. But I know Rowan. I live next to him. I have to see him in the elevator and the mailroom and hear him banging around—pun totally intended—next door.

That’s not risk-free.

But something in my gut tells me to give him the chance he’s asking for. Or maybe it’s not my gut telling me anything, maybe that feeling is coming from somewhere lower. Somewhere that’s been aching ever since I sank down to my knees in front of him.

But whatever it is, the compelling feeling is strong.

“Fine,” I say with a nod. “Tomorrow, one chance.”

“You won’t regret it,” he replies with his trademark cavalier smile.

Yeah, I’m not so sure about that.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rowan

I’MFINISHINGMYworkday when I hear female voices floating up into my office from the gallery below. Emery is here.

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