Bad Cruz(37)

I have a lot more to offer you than empathy, if you’d just descend from the cloud of self-pity you’re stuck in.

“Aren’t you two married?” a confused teenager in the crowd wondered aloud, scratching a pimple open on his cheek.

“My life is not perfect,” I said, blocking the puck she sent my way. Damn. She had some moves on her. I forgot how fun she was to be around when we were actually…well, left to be our real selves.

“Of course it is.” She let out a throaty, sexy laugh. “Why’d you dump poor Gabriella? Did you not like the test drive?”

“We wanted different things,” I said curtly.

“What do you want?” Tennessee asked, trying to distract me and slide that puck into my hole.

You, I thought bitterly. I want you.

But I didn’t have nearly enough alcohol in my system to say it, and anyway, I wans’t sure I really, truly wanted her. I mean, I wanted her, but in the same way I wanted four cinnamon rolls. It would feel good to have, but might kill you afterwards.

“Not sure.” I leaned a hip against the air hockey table instead, making a show of getting bored. And, while I was at it, sent the puck straight into her hole. It landed inside in a clean strike. She groaned, hanging her head down as I continued, “I always figured when I found her, I’d know. Four-two to me, by the way.”

She grabbed the puck and placed it on the table again, delivering the strike of a woman possessed by the devil. “You’re getting a little old.”

“Aren’t you nearly thirty?” I asked conversationally. “Did you know that any pregnancy of a woman thirty-five and above is called geriatric pregnancy?”

“You’re a real smooth talker, aren’t you, Mr. Weiner?”

People chuckled around us. I had to remember we had an audience. It helped with keeping my heartrate—and that thing inside my pants—in check.

I won another round, making it five-two to me, and wasn’t in the mood to offer her some grace in a form of letting her win a round.

“You’ve always hated me,” I accused. “Why?”

“That’s bull.” Her mouth hung open in outraged shock. “You’re the one who always looked down on me. Even before I started dating Rob.”

“How so?”

“Who is Rob?” someone asked.

She put the puck back on the table, sent it my way, and nailed it straight into my goal.

Fine. Maybe I was a little distracted.

“Five-three to you.” She winked at me suggestively. “And I once overheard you telling him you thought he and I had nothing in common and that he shouldn’t ask me out. You said girls like me are a lot of work.”

I didn’t want to tell her I had told him that because I’d had a horse in that race.

“And you were.” I shrugged, putting the puck back in its place and starting another round.

“You wouldn’t look me in the eye after I started dating him. You couldn’t bear that he didn’t listen to you, could you?”

Yeah. That’s what it was. Sure.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” I sent the puck spinning again.

“Guess so, but that thing everyone called a mistake?” She held my gaze, stopping the game for a few seconds. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I wouldn’t replace him for anything in this world.”

“Good for you.”

I slammed the puck with my striker and won again. “Six-three.”

I had one more round to win before I put her in a sensible dress and flat shoes. I was probably the only man on Earth who wanted to see the woman he desired dressed like a senior librarian, and not because of some kinky fantasy.

“So how are you going to handle an actual pair of jeans? And I don’t mean the Daisy Dukes kind. Is your body allergic to fabric?” I wondered.

“It’s allergic to nonsense. That’s why you give me hives.”

“I love our love,” I cooed sarcastically.

She made gagging sounds. But she was still here.

“Don’t chicken out on me,” I warned.

“A bet is a bet.”

With that, I delivered the final strike. I straightened my posture, an unbearably smug smirk decorating my face.

“Seven-three.”

The crowd around us clapped and whistled, cheering for me. Tennessee’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out of it. She looked genuinely confused.

“You lose,” I drawled. “Again. You should be getting used to it by now, shouldn’t you, Mrs. Weiner?”

The jest was peppered with a wink, designed to give her a chance to throw another verbal curveball my way. I was even fully prepared to let her have the last word. But she didn’t take the bait. Instead, she squared her shoulders, stepped back, congratulated me on my win, her voice quivering around the words, and ran away.





She wasn’t in the stateroom when I got back from nursing two whiskeys and a headache at the bar. It was eleven-thirty, and even though going to bed early and letting her prowl the ship and sulk like the crazy woman she obviously was was tempting, I couldn’t do it.

I groaned as I traipsed out of my room, stumbling upon Mr. and Mrs. Warren, who’d just returned from the casino, looking lush and unfairly lucky.