The Risk (Briar U #2)(54)

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, motherfucker!” he shouts.

The man behind the counter winces. “Don’t mind those fellas. They’re harmless, but someone needs to wash their mouths out with soap.”

“It’s all right,” I tell him. “My dad coaches hockey players. I’ve heard worse.”

We head over to our lane and sit down in the seating area to switch shoes. My boots take longer to remove because of all the zippers, so Jake’s done before I am. “I’ll grab some drinks,” he offers. “Any preference? Beer? Soda?”

“Beer’s good. Thanks.” I’m okay to have a beer or two. I’ll nurse them throughout the night.

“Cool,” he says before sauntering off.

I stare at his retreating back and admire his tight backside. God. I can’t believe I’m on a date with Jake Connelly. What is life?

Sighing, I slip into the really dorky bowling shoes, and then walk up to the screen that instructs me to enter our names. On the Player One line, I type Brenna.

For Player Two, I type Little Jakey.

I lock it in, and I’m still grinning to myself when Jake comes back carrying two bottles of Bud Light.

I grimace. “Bud Light?”

“All they had,” he says ruefully. “This ain’t exactly a classy joint.”

“We’ll make do,” I assure him. “Thank you.” I accept the bottle he hands me and take a quick sip. Ick. This is my least favorite beer brand.

“Let me enter our names in the—” Jake stops, noticing the overhead screen. He sighs. “Really? What are you, a five-year-old?”

“No, but it sounds like you are, Little Jakey.”

“I’ll show you who’s little,” he growls.

“What are you gonna do, whip your dick out right here in front of the Sons of Anarchy and that nice old man?”

Jake pretends to think it over. “You’re right. I’ll save that move for later.” He holds out his bottle. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

For the second night in a row, we clink our drinks together. This is all sorts of wrong, and not only because he plays for Harvard. I don’t usually date. I haven’t had a serious boyfriend since Eric, and I haven’t wanted one. And for argument’s sake, even if I did want a boyfriend, Jake is the last candidate I should consider for that position. He’s moving to Edmonton in a few months. What kind of relationship could we even have?

I look around the not-so-lively bowling alley, taking in the sounds and sights. Pins smashing together, the loud chatter of the bikers, the bright lights, the shiny wood surface of the long lanes.

What am I doing here?

“Brenna.”

A hot shiver rolls through me at the sound of my name on Jake’s lips. Which further solidifies my conviction that I shouldn’t be here. I hate how much he affects me.

“You’re overthinking,” he says bluntly.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “How do you know that?”

“You always get the same look on your face when you’re analyzing something.” He shrugs. “You’re questioning why you’re here.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. I told you, we’ve got chemistry and I want to see where it goes.”

I blow out a breath. “It won’t go anywhere, Connelly, so get that idea out of your head. The only reason I’m here is because you bullied me into a date.”

“Keep telling yourself that, babe.”

Do I feel a little bit tingly when he calls me babe? Yes.

Do I like the sensation? Not at all.

I take a desperate gulp of my beer and then set the bottle down on the ledge. “All right. Let’s do this thing.”





18





Jake





Brenna is a terrible bowler, but she’s damn fun to watch. She saunters up to the foul line in those abysmal shoes, her hips swaying and her ass looking phenomenal in those tight, black jeans. I’m an ass man, and I can’t take my gaze off her backside.

Despite the fact that she sucks at bowling, she gives every frame one hundred and ten percent. Concentration creases her features as she swings her arm back, rotates her wrist, and releases the bright pink ball. Her timing is off and her follow-through is nonexistent, but for the first time in six frames, the ball moves in a straight line.

Brenna cheers happily as her ball careens toward the jackpot. At the last second it veers, knocking over four pins instead of giving her the strike.

“So close!” she wails.

Then she turns around and she’s never looked more beautiful to me. Her cheeks are like two red apples, her eyes are sparkling, and she performs a cute little dance as she shimmies off the shiny floor.

“I’m getting better!” she exclaims.

“Nowhere to go but up,” I agree, and then I get up and bowl a strike.

“I hate you,” she announces when my score appears on the screen.

I’m beating her in the ass-kicking of the century, but I don’t think she truly cares. To be honest, I’m not paying much attention to the score. Usually I’m competitive as fuck, but tonight I’m just happy to hang out with Brenna. It’s been ages since I’ve been on a real date. Last night’s dinner party doesn’t count, because neither of us had much fun. And the cognac at the bar afterward doesn’t count either, because we did more kissing than talking.