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.