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Relief floods through me, followed quickly by gratitude. Of course she wouldn’t let me drink on an empty stomach. I set theempty cup aside, hoping my face doesn’t betray the deception, and take my next shot. It clips the rim of his cup before spinning away.

Shit.

Brandon doesn’t even pause. His second shot lands in my front right cup with surgical precision.

“Getting rusty, cupcake?”

The nickname hits differently now, my fingers trembling as I reach for the cup. “Just getting started.”

But I’m not. Three shots later, I’m down to my last cup, while Brandon still has four.

The carbonation from all the ginger ale makes my stomach feel full, and the adrenaline of the game clouds my head, making the lights overhead blur into streaks of gold as we continue. Maybe it’s not alcohol, but the high of being this close to Brandon, of finally letting myself want him, is more intoxicating than any beer could be.

My shot bounces off his last remaining cups.

Would losing even be bad?

He picks up the ball, and his eyes never leave mine as he lines up what could be the winning shot.

The crowd holds their breath, me included.

This is it. If he?—

Brandon lowers his hands, weighing the ball in his palm.

Why did he stop?

“So,” he says. “Do you want to adopt a puppy or send him back to the shelter?”

What?

Does he mean…

He’s asking if I want him?

Really want him. Not just for our arrangement, not just for the physical stuff, but all of it. The messy parts, the broken pieces, the 3 AM memes, and the cold bathroom floors.

That stupid, infuriating man.

He’s giving me a choice. A real one. Stay or leave. Keep him or let him go.

This is bigger than beer pong. Bigger than a kiss or a restaurant. This is Brandon Milton laying himself bare in the middle of a crowded rooftop, asking if I’m ready to stop running.

“Keep him,” I say, my voice barely carrying over the crowd. “I want to keep him.”

Brandon’s eyes darken, and the ball drops from his fingers, bouncing across the table and rolling off the edge. But neither of us moves to catch it.

“Say it again.”

“I want to keep you.” The words come easier this time, breaking through a wall I’ve been building since that first beer pong game in college. “All of you. The messy parts, the broken pieces?—”

He’s around the table before I can finish, his hands cupping my face. The crowd erupts in cheers and whistles, but all I can focus on is the way his thumbs trace my cheekbones, how his breath fans across my lips.

“You sure about this, cupcake?” His eyes search mine. “Last chance to back out.”

“I don’t run from a bet.”

“I didn’t win.”

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