Nora Roberts - Blood Brothers

“No, but I’m willing to bet any amount of money that having sex with Hugh Jackman would, for me, beat out the feeling of knocking down ten pins with one ball.”

“Okay. But I’m willing to bet-let’s make it ten bucks-that when you throw a strike, you’ll admit it’s up there on the Thrill-O-Meter.”

“First, it’s highly unlikely I’ll throw anything resembling a strike. Second, I could lie.”

“You will. And you won’t. Change your shoes, Blondie.”

IT WASN’T AS RIDICULOUS AS SHE’D ASSUMED IT would be. Silly, yes, but she had plenty of room for silly.

The balls were mottled black-the small ones without the three holes. The job was to heave it down the long polished alley toward the red-necked pins he called Duck Pins.

He watched as she walked up to the foul line, swung back, and did the heave.

The ball bounced a couple of times before it toppled into the gutter.

“Okay.” She turned, tossed back her hair. “Your turn.”

“You get two more balls per frame.”

“Woo-hoo.”

He shot her the quick grin. “Let’s work on your delivery and follow-through, then we’ll tackle approach.” He walked toward her with another ball as he spoke. He handed her the ball. “Hold it with both hands,” he instructed as he turned her around to face the pins. “Now you want to take a step forward with your left foot, bend your knees like you were doing a squat, but bend over from the waist.”

He was snuggled up right behind her now, his front sort of bowing over her back. She tipped her face around to meet his eyes.

“You use this routine to hit on women, right?”

“Absolutely. Eighty-five percent success ratio. You’re going to want to aim for the front pin. You can worry about the pockets and the sweet spot later. Now you’re just going to bring your right arm back, then sweep it forward with your fingers aimed at the front pin. Let the ball go, following your fingers.”

“Hmm.” But she tried it. This time the ball didn’t bounce straight into the gutter, but actually stayed on the lane long enough to bump down the two pins on the far right.

Since the woman in the next lane, who had to be sixty if she was a day, slid gracefully to the foul line, released, and knocked down seven pins, Quinn didn’t feel like celebrating.

“Better.”

“Two balls, two pins. I don’t think that earns my bootie dance.”

“Since I’m looking forward to your bootie dance, I’ll help you do better yet. More from your shoulder down this time. Nice perfume,” he added before he walked back to get her another ball.

“Thanks.” Stride, bend, swing, release, she thought. And actually managed to knock down the end pin on the other side of the alley.

“Overcompensated.” He hit the reset button. The grate came down, pins were swept off with a lot of clattering, and another full triangle thudded into place.

“She knocked them all down.” Quinn gave a head nod toward the woman in the next lane who’d taken her seat. “She didn’t seem all that excited.”

“Mrs. Keefafer? Bowls twice a week, and has become jaded. On the outside. Inside, believe me, she’s doing her bootie dance.”

“If you say so.”

He adjusted Quinn’s shoulders, shifted her hips. And yeah, she could see why he had such a high success rate with this routine. Eventually, after countless attempts, she was able to take down multiple pins that took odd bites out of the triangle.

There was a wall of noise, the low thunder of balls rolling, the sharp clatter of pins, hoots and cheers from bowlers and onlookers, the bright bells of a pinball machine.

She smelled beer and wax, and the gooey orange cheese-a personal favorite-from the nachos someone munched on in the next lane.

Timeless, all-American, she mused, absently drafting an article on the experience. Centuries-old sport-she’d need to research that part-to good, clean, family fun.

She thought she had the hang of it, more or less, though she was shallow enough to throw a deliberate gutter ball here and there so Cal would adjust her stance.

As he did, she considered changing the angle of the article from family fun to the sexiness of bowling. The idea made her grin as she took her position.

Then it happened. She released the ball and it rolled down the center of the alley. Surprised, she took a step back. Then another with her arms going up to clamp on the sides of her head.

Something tingled in her belly as her heartbeat sped up.

“Oh. Oh. Look! It’s going to-”

There was a satisfying crack and crash as ball slapped pins and pins tumbled in all directions. Bumping into each other, rolling, spinning, until the last fell with a slow, drunken sway.

“Well, my God!” She actually bounced on the toes of her rented shoes. “Did you see that? Did you-” And when she spun around, a look of stunned delight on her face, he was grinning at her.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered. “I owe you ten bucks.”

“You learn fast. Want to try an approach?”

She wandered back toward him. “I believe I’m…spent. But I may come by some evening for lesson number two.”

“Happy to oblige.” Sitting hip-to-hip, they changed shoes. “I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”

“All right.”

He got his coat, and on the way out shot a wave at the skinny young guy behind the shoe rental counter. “Back in ten.”

“Quiet,” she said the minute they stepped outside. “Just listen to all that quiet.”

“The noise is part of the fun and the quiet after part of the reward.”

“Did you ever want to do anything else, or did you grow up with a burning desire to manage a bowling alley?”

“Family fun center,” he corrected. “We have an arcade-pinball, skee-ball, video games, and a section for kids under six. We do private parties-birthday parties, bachelor parties, wedding receptions-”

“Wedding receptions?”

“Sure. Bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, anniversaries, corporate parties.”

Definitely meat for an article, she realized. “A lot of arms on one body.”

“You could say that.”

“So why aren’t you married and raising the next generation of Bowl-a-Rama kingpins, pun intended.”

“Love has eluded me.”

“Aw.”

Despite the biting cold, it was pleasant to walk beside a man who naturally fit his stride to hers, to watch the clouds of their breath puff out, then merge together before the wind tore them to nothing.

He had an easy way about him and killer eyes, so there were worse things than feeling her toes go numb with cold in boots she knew were more stylish than practical.

“Are you going to be around if I think of some pertinent question to ask you tomorrow?”

“’Round and about,” he told her. “I can give you my cell phone number if-”

“Wait.” She dug into her bag and came out with her own phone. Still walking, she punched a few keys. “Shoot.”

He rattled it off. “I’m aroused by a woman who not only immediately finds what she’s looking for in the mysterious depths of her purse, but who can skillfully operate electronic devices.”

“Is that a sexist remark?”

“No. My mother always knows where everything is, but is still defeated by the universal remote. My sister Jen can operate anything from a six-speed to a wireless mouse, but can never find anything without a twenty-minute hunt, and my other sister, Marly, can’t find anything, ever, and gets intimidated by her electric can opener. And here you are, stirring me up by being able to do both.”

“I’ve always been a siren.” She tucked her phone back in her bag as they turned to the steps leading to the long front porch of the hotel. “Thanks for the escort.”