Page 6 of Game On
The girls all cheer as we gather around a high table, forming a semicircle while Gabi shuffles the cards. As she explains the rules of the game to me—how it’s notorious for its abilityto unearth secrets—it seems like a simple way to get to know some of my new teammates.
A few innocuous rounds pass by, and soon enough, it’s my turn. I’m laughing at the girls calling out my name as I draw the card, but my heart sinks as I read the question aloud. “Never have I ever been in love.”
A lump forms in my throat as memories of Jamie flood my mind. His laugh, his smile, the way he’s looked at me since we were in secondary school together—it all feels like a punch straight to the gut.
Bone-deep exhaustion weighs on me suddenly, and the noise of the bar starts to make my head hurt. Packing in the morning, the drive from Oxford to Heathrow, the wait before my flight. Nine hours in the air, adjusting to the six-hour time difference—it’s a lot to process. My body feels like it’s running on empty, my emotions magnified by fatigue and alcohol.
The girls around me are confessing, some taking sips of their drinks while others opt to pass. I try to focus on their stories, but those images of my ex linger in my mind.
Needing a break, I excuse myself and begin my journey through the crowded bar, weaving in and out of high tables and groups of people dancing. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before I step onto the outdoor patio. It stretches along the side of the building, illuminated by a cluster of hanging lights.
From this vantage point, I can still spot my new teammates through the open windows.
But out here, the night air is warm, and it carries the faintscent of blooming flowers. It’s much quieter than it was near the bar. There’s more space to breathe, tothink, although that’s the last thing I’m looking for right now.
I lean against the railing, rubbing at my temples in an attempt to shake off the exhaustion and melancholy. And that’s when I see him: a tall man standing alone by the edge of the patio. He’s staring into the night, a beer bottle held loosely in one hand.
He has this rugged, all-American look about him: dark hair that’s slightly tousled, gray eyes framed by thick lashes, a perfect strong nose, and a tiny mole by his upper lip on the right. His T-shirt is pulled tight across his broad chest and shoulders. Muscular but lean.
Now that I’ve had a closer look, I think he might be one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen. And that’s not just the bourbon talking.
On an impulse fueled by desperation, and a little tipsiness, I waltz right up to him. He glances down at me, one brow cocked, and takes a silent sip of his beer. It’s as if he’s daring me to speak.
I open my mouth, then snap it shut, a rush of self-consciousness flooding my system. But then, bolstered by a surge of bravado, I blurt out, “You’re very tall, you know.”
He smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you’re very forward.”
“Sometimes.”
“Andyou have an accent,” he adds, tipping back another slow sip.
“Thank you for noticing.”
“Are you …”
“English?”
“English,” he parrots, a hint of amusement in his deep voice. “And what’s a girl from England doing here at Sidetrack?”
“Having a drink,” I say, trying to match his casual tone. “Or two.”
“Only natural.” His response is smooth, his accent distinctly American with a touch of a Southern drawl.
“Why are you all alone?”
He raises a thick, petulant brow. In his eyes, there’s a charged sort of interest, like he’s scanning me from head to toe without even moving his head. “You have no filter, do you?”
“Well?” I press, undeterred.
“Needed some air.”
“Ditto,” I say, not breaking eye contact.
He glances at me, a playful challenge in his eyes. “So, English girl with no name, you make a habit of approachingvery tallstrangers in bars?”
“Only the ones who look a bit lonely.”
He chuckles, the sound deep and throaty. There’s a flutter in the pit of my stomach, a nervousness I can’t explain. One I haven’t felt in years. “And here I was, thinking I was enjoying the solitude.”
