Page 44 of The Rival (Looking to Score 2)
I’ve never been in a friends-with-benefits situation before. The movies I’ve seen usually end with the characters catching feelings and finding their happily-ever-after together. In real life, with a public figure, no less, I’m playing a dangerous game.
I have feelings—all sorts of feelings. I just can’t tell where they start . . . my libido or my heart?
We find the theater with a few minutes left to spare. It’s a historical building, with old movie posters lining the paneled walls and soft jazz playing in the background. Alex pays for the tickets, and even though we’re both pretty stuffed, I still buy us a large bag of popcorn to share. It takes some convincing before Alex pockets his wallet.
It’s not a date if I don’t let him pay for everything, right?
The movie Alex chose for us is a black-and-white monster flick from the fifties. When the monster’s first victim is dragged off into the steaming swamp to die offscreen, I can’t help but break into a fit of giggles. And with Alex whispering in my ear the whole time, the laughter doesn’t stop until long after the credits roll.
“It would take hours, you know, just to get in costume,” I say as we walk back to the car. “They didn’t have the option of CGI, so you can only imagine how heavy all the gear was. I’m convinced the ‘monster walk’ originated just because it was impossible to walk normally with all that crap on.”
“You know a lot about old movies.” Alex chuckles, opening the car door for me.
“My dad was a film buff.” I grin, proud of the nerd I am. “He taught me everything he knew.”
Alex nods, squeezing my shoulder with a kind look in his eye.
I never in a million years thought I’d be comfortable enough with someone to share such personal details about my life. I could never talk to my ex about my dad, besides the one time I briefly explained why he isn’t around anymore. Dale always changed the subject if I reminisced, so eventually I learned to keep my memories bottled up, because why share them with someone who didn’t respect my dad’s memory?
But Alex brings out the vulnerability in me. Better yet, he actually listens and wants to know.
On the car ride back to the cabin, we swap stories about our childhoods. To my surprise, Alex admits that he didn’t start playing hockey until middle school.
“My mom thought it was too violent. I argued that it doesn’t really get bloody until you’re in the big leagues, which didn’t help. She finally let me try out for the team when I was in seventh grade.”
“I hope she’s supportive now.” I giggle, because it’s absurd to think that this mountain of muscle almost didn’t play the sport that’s earned him millions, all because his mom said no. It’s kind of sweet, actually.
“Oh, she still thinks it’s too violent.” He smirks. “But she definitely sees the value now that the family’s debt-free.”
I’m suddenly reminded of the time at the store with the man who couldn’t afford groceries for his family. How Alex came to the rescue and paid the bill, no questions asked. “You’re a very generous man, Alex Braun.”
There’s that hint of color brightening his cheekbones again. Like I said, way too fun.
Finally, he says, “In a world like this, someone has to be.”
I snag one of his hands from the steering wheel and give it a squeeze. For the rest of the ride, we hold hands in comfortable silence.
When we pull into the drive, Alex stiffens. “Did you leave any lights on?” he asks, his voice more serious than it’s been all night. The cabin practically glows, all the windows lit up.
What the . . .
“I . . . no, I don’t think so. But I know I definitely locked up.” I swallow, my anxiety mounting.
Did someone break in while we were in town? Is Saint here? Suddenly, our summer of fun is at the mercy of being snatched away from us.
It’s then that I notice the silver pickup truck parked at the side of the house.
“Stay here. Keep the car running.” Alex’s arms flex as he grips the steering wheel. He’s in full-on protector mode now, watching the house for signs of danger. He gets out of the car and stalks up the driveway toward the front door.
“Anyone in there?” he calls out with a hard edge in his voice. If I were a burglar, I’d be running for the hills already.
In a bizarre turn of events, an older woman wearing glasses peeks out the front door with a look of interest. “Oh, hello. Are you the caretaker?”
“Yes,” I yell, leaning out the car window. Who the heck is this woman?
To make matters even stranger, an older gentleman pops his head out the door too. “Have we got guests, Cindy?”
