The Singles Table (Marriage Game #3)(4)

“She might as well ask me not to breathe.” Parvati gave a dismissive snort. “Look where we are. It’s alpha central. I’m not going home alone tonight.”

“Don’t you get enough at the hospital?” Zara protested. “Every day you text me about some intern you’ve dragged into the break room for a little ‘R and R.’ It’s very inconsiderate. Who do I have at work for an afternoon quickie? A partner who wears Yoda ski hats and carries a custom lightsaber? Another partner who wears bike shorts and Rollerblades around the office? A delusional investigator who pretends he was in the CIA? Or Mole Boy, who only ever leaves his cubicle in the dark of night?”

Parvati shrugged. “You chose to work there.”

“It wasn’t really a choice. I was desperate. No one else would hire me.” After dozens of rejections and an offer from her mother’s friend that she was loath to accept, she’d almost given up any hope of finding a firm where she truly belonged until she’d seen an opening for a personal injury lawyer at a small boutique firm. Tony Cruz and Lewis Lovitt didn’t care that she’d been let go from two big-city law firms. They were looking for associates who didn’t fit the traditional mold, people who could think outside the box and were willing to take risks. By the end of the interview, she knew she’d found her place.

“How about I just check the hipster out for you?” Parvati said. “That’s what good friends do.”

“I don’t want your sloppy seconds. The last time you checked out a guy for me, he couldn’t walk for days. Besides, I need to focus on the game.” She eyed her camo-clad teammates. “Some of these dudes look pretty serious. I have a feeling they aren’t planning to just run around and have a few laughs . . .” She trailed off when a dark shadow blocked out the sun.

“Time to change, ladies.”

The stranger’s deep, penetrating voice rumbled through Zara’s body. Rich and full, it was the kind of voice that made lawyers spill milkshakes and babble incoherently as they thrust sticky business cards into celebrity hands.

“Is there a problem?” Parvati made a show of inspecting her weapon while Zara tried to untie her tongue. Although she couldn’t see the dude’s face, he was tall—at least six-two—and powerfully built, the top of his coveralls unzipped and tied around his narrow waist. His black T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and magnificent pecs as if it had been painted on his muscular body. One thick, deeply tanned forearm bunched and flexed as he unholstered his weapon in one smooth practiced motion.

He waved vaguely in their direction. “Not if you want to be covered in painful bruises.”

“I’ve been kicked by horses, bullies, and even by my piano teacher,” Zara said. “I’ve also been stung by a wasp, pecked by a goose, and swarmed by ants. I’ve broken an arm, a finger, and a toe, and I dislocated my shoulder on a trampoline. A little pain isn’t going to slow me down.”

Seemingly satisfied by Zara’s commitment to winning at all costs, the dude angled his head in Parvati’s direction, dipping it ever so slightly, as if inviting a similar assurance.

Parvati fixed him with a stare. “I don’t bruise easily.”

“Unlike me,” Zara interjected. “My ex gave me a small love bite one night, and I had to wear two scarves to work because it looked like someone had been chewing on my neck.”

Silence.

“We’re not together anymore,” she said quickly, assuming he was appalled by her ex’s behavior. “Although it had nothing to do with the hickey. Who doesn’t like a reminder of a great night?”

Clearly not Mystery Man, because he shook his head. “Not only will your dress leave you vulnerable to weapons’ fire, it will hamper your ability to run and hide, thereby lowering our chances of success.”

Well, that was one less potential hookup she had to worry about. He was probably one of those uptight alpha CEOs who had made his first billion by the time he was thirty and owned a jet, a fleet of sports cars, a fancy penthouse, and maybe even a red room of pain.

“Have you considered that my dress might be an asset? I could strip down in the forest and distract the opposing team.” She checked her paintball pod, opening and closing it with a loud click. “Just so we’re clear . . . the bride wants the dresses so we’re wearing the dresses.”

“Actually, the dresses were Stacy’s idea,” Parvati said.

Zara poured the paintballs into the hopper and turned away from the officious bastard with the bedroom voice. “Then I’ll shoot her first and him second.”

If Mystery Man had any further comments, he was forced to keep them to himself when a middle-aged man in a military-style camo vest called the two teams together to go over the rules. Keep your mask on. No climbing trees. No shooting at the head. It’s all about teamwork. No physical contact. After a few quick pointers, he sent them into the forest for their first game, capture the flag.

“Everyone, pair up.” Mystery Man, seeping alpha maleness, quickly took charge when everyone started talking at once. He pointed at people in pairs. “You and you. You and you . . .” He pointed to Parvati and a frail twiglike woman in a yellow satin dress, who gave a betraying blush. “And you and you, sweetheart.” He paired off the rest of the team with a few more condescending terms of endearment for anyone in a dress.