“Like what?” I deftly slip my fingers from his as I skip ahead of him and up onto the curb on the other side, determined not to let this “friendly” date become anything too friendly.
“Like bowling with a side of corn dogs and French fries.”
“Bowling,” I repeat, wrinkling my nose. “Do you bowl?”
“I do not. I have never bowled.”
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “Never? Not even when you were a kid?”
“Not even when I was a kid.”
“Well, then I say yes. Yes to bowling.” I’m always encouraging my friends to try new things, and nothing is less romantic than bowling.
Sounds like a win-win, if I ever heard of one.
I turn left, heading toward Bliss River Bowl, a slightly saggy building next to the Feed Store a street over. “I totally forgot the bowling alley was over here,” I say, a spring in my step.
This might actually be fun. It should be easy to keep my mind off the past while doing something we’ve never done together.
“I swung by this afternoon to check it out,” Mason says. “It’s got 1960s charm and only a slight foot odor stench, mostly overpowered by the decades of grease soaked into the walls.”
“Yummy.” I smile. “Speaking of foot odor, I’m going to have to buy some socks from the vending machine. If I’d known we were bowling, I wouldn’t have worn sandals.”
“Don’t worry, I brought socks for you,” Mason says.
I blink. “You did?”
“I did.” He pulls a pair of thin white ankle socks folded neatly in half from his back pocket. “I stopped by the store on my way to your house.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the socks as we reach the door to the bowling alley, feeling vaguely uncomfortable for some reason I can’t quite pin down. “That was thoughtful.”
“I’m full of thoughts.” He reaches past me to open the door, leaning close enough that his breath stirs my hair as he adds, “Lots and lots of thoughts.”
I look up, my heart beating faster when I realize our lips are only inches apart. His eyes are even more intense this close, so clear and blue and completely focused on me that I’m betting he can see straight through my cool façade to the secretly frisky horndog within. It’s been months since I’ve been with anyone. A lot of months.
That’s the only reason Mason is making me sizzle like this.
Because I’m basically starved for sexy times. Right?
Willing my stupid heart to stop pounding and my face not to give me away, I say, “The only thoughts I have are about how badly I’m about to kick your butt at bowling.” I duck under his arm and into the decidedly footy-smelling lobby, throwing over my shoulder, “I was on a league when I was seven.”
“You’re kidding.” Mason joins me at the end of the line for admission and shoe rental. “I didn’t know that about you.”
“It was a daddy daughter league, but I played with Pop-pop. Pop-pop loved to bowl. It was his old man crack.” I wink. “He taught me all his tricks.”
“Sounds like I’m in trouble,” Mason says, heaving a dramatic sigh as we reach the front of the line.
I give the man behind the desk my shoe size and wait while Mason pays before starting toward the lanes. It’s quiet for a Sunday night, but there are still a good number of people out for a game.
I do a quick scan of the patrons, relieved not to see anyone I know. I don’t want to have to explain what I’m doing with Mason to any of my friends. I haven’t told anyone except my sisters about our bargain—not even Lisa. I don’t want my best friend fretting over me while she should be enjoying her honeymoon, and I don’t want to deal with the backlash from the people who have hated Mason for years on my behalf.
Better to get this week of “getting to re-know” each other over as secretly as possible and then go back to my life.
My busy, active, fulfilling life, with not a whiff of Mason in it.
Which does not make me sad. At all.
Mason and I play ten frames—Mason rallying after a few disastrous rolls, proving he might not be hopeless as a bowler, after all, though I do beat him by a good thirty points—and then head to the snack bar for a grease feast.
It isn’t gourmet by any stretch of the imagination, but the food is good for what it is. We chat over corn dogs, jalapeño poppers, and the bowling alley’s take on a side salad—iceberg lettuce and dry shredded carrots drowned in Italian dressing—keeping the conversation light. I learn that Mason passed his boards early and I tell him about the weddings I have coming up in June. Mason talks about the practice he’ll be joining in Atlanta, and I tell him how lucky it is that Aria moved home just days before my old pastry chef quit.