Page 36 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
I grin and head to the hall closet where I keep the board games. “Patience.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting until I get back.”
I come back with an old, slightly battered box that’s seen better days but still holds some of my favorite memories from college. Harper takes one look at it and starts laughing.
“A board game? Seriously?”
“Not just any board game,” I say, setting it on the coffee table with more ceremony than it probably deserves. “The best board game ever created. Loser does the dishes.”
She arches an eyebrow, settling onto the couch across from me. “What if I win?”
“Then I do the dishesandmake you dessert.”
“Deal.” She leans forward, studying the board as I set it up. “Fair warning—I’m extremely competitive.”
“Good. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”
We sprawl on opposite ends of the couch, the board spread between us on the coffee table. She is competitive—sharp-witted and strategic, teasing me mercilessly when she gets ahead and calling out my bluffs with the precision of someone who’s clearly played this game before.
“You’re cheating,” I accuse when she makes a move that’s technically legal but definitely bends the spirit of the rules.
“I’m being creative.”
“That’s exactly what a cheater would say.”
She laughs, the sound bright and unguarded. “Prove it.”
I lean closer to point out exactly how her interpretation of the rules is questionable, and our knees brush once, then again. Neither of us moves away. She smells like something clean and warm with just a hint of vanilla, and I have to force myself tofocus on the game instead of the way her lips curve when she’s trying not to smile.
“Your move,” she says, and I realize I’ve been staring.
“Right. My move.”
Midway through the game, she makes such a ridiculously bad bluff that I can’t help calling her out on it. She starts laughing so hard she has to cover her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with mirth.
“That was terrible,” she gasps between giggles. “I can’t believe I thought that would work.”
The sound hits me somewhere deep in my chest—warm and genuine and completely unguarded. I find myself studying the faint flush in her cheeks, the way her hair falls forward when she leans over the board, the curve of her mouth when she’s trying to suppress a grin.
My focus keeps slipping from the game to her, cataloging details I have no business noticing. The way she tucks her feet under her when she gets comfortable. How she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking. The little victory dance she does in her seat when she makes a particularly good move.
“Checkmate,” she announces twenty minutes later, leaning back against the couch cushions in triumph. “Looks like you owe me another dessert.”
“Guess I do,” I say, but I’m still watching her instead of moving toward the kitchen.
For a moment, the air between us feels different—heavier, charged with the kind of awareness that makes you suddenly conscious of how close you’re sitting. She’s looking at me with something that might be curiosity, might be interest, might be nothing at all. But it’s enough to make my pulse pick up.
The smart thing would be to get up, make the promised dessert, keep things light and friendly. The smart thing would be to remember that this is only our first real date, that rushing things is how you screw up something that could be good.
But looking at her now—relaxed and laughing, competitive streak on full display, completely herself in my living room—I don’t feel particularly smart.
I push off the couch with a smile that I hope looks more casual than it feels. “Alright. Let’s see if you like ice cream sundaes.”
“I’ve never met a sundae I didn’t like.”
“Good to know.” I head toward the kitchen, hyperaware of her following behind me. “Any allergies I should know about?”
