Page 85 of Scoring Lessons

He faked a shiver. “Scary.”

“I hate you,” I huffed.

“I love it when you’re mean to me.”

I flipped him off without a word, and a woman next to me gasped as she blocked her child’s eyes and shot me a glare while she walked to another booth to get away from us.

His laugh turned mocking, and I tried to shove him, but the asshole was too strong and remained in place.

“Here. I’ll teach you.” Wesley set down his own rings and moved to stand behind me, close enough that I went very still. “You’re flicking your wrist at the end. That’s why it’s spinning off.” He reached around and picked up my hand, adjusting my fingers around the ring. “Hold it flat. Like this.”

I was holding it flat. Or I thought I was. It was getting difficult to concentrate on the ring when I could smell the crisp scent of his cologne and feel the way his chest was a solid line of warmth at my back.

“Okay.” My voice came out even, which was an achievement in itself.

“Now, when you release”—his arm guided mine forward slowly—“don’t use your wrist. Let it go straight.” His hand barely grazed my wrist, yet my body thrummed with electricity like his touches were the only thing capable of lighting me from the inside out.

He was talking quietly, close to my ear, the way someone did when they didn’t want other people to be privy to a conversation. Which was reasonable. Totally normal.

But here I was, trying my hardest not to make it weird. Trying not to read too much into whatever charged energy was bouncing between us.

He didn’t step back immediately. He stayed there for a half second longer, and I had the distinct impression he was aware of every inch of space between us the same way I was. The warmth from his breath hit the column of my neck, and my body broke out with involuntary goosebumps. But then he dropped his hand and moved aside as if none of it had happened, and I hated how much I missed the closeness between us.

“Try it.”

“It’s not going to work,” I groaned then threw the ring. It dropped clean over the bottle with a soft clink.

The booth attendant looked mildly surprised. Wesley stood next to me with his arms crossed without a word, but the mirth oozing out of him was too strong to miss.

“Don’t,” I warned without looking at him.

“I didn’t say a word.” His tone was filled with amusement.

“I can read your mind.”

“Wow,” he mocked. “Does the government know about your talents yet?”

“Copying my jokes isn’t cute.”

“Who says I’m joking?”

I settled him with a glare as I picked up the next ring and threw it. It worked again. Dammit. I hated when he was right.

When I managed to win three in a row, Wesley casually leaned closer to me. His mouth hovered over my ear, the warmth of his breath hitting my neck again. “Such a good student.”

The beats of my heart skyrocketed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His shrug was casual. “If I have to explain it, I’m clearly not doing my job right.”

We both know he didn’t need to. And I hated how much I liked the double-meaning compliment.

We found the Skee-Ball lanes around the corner, and that was where things deteriorated.

“Ten bucks,” Wesley said, picking up a ball and testing the weight of it in his palm.

I scoffed. “I’m not betting you ten dollars on Skee-Ball.”

“Why not?”