He took me to an arcade. It was noisy and crowded and almost a worse place than the bar to hold an interview. There was no way I’d be able to record anything in this din. I had a hard time disguising my disappointment.

“Trust me,” he said when we walked in.

I just stared at him, my heart sinking. I had gotten two more emails from my editor-in-chief asking for an update, making that a total of three emails I had ignored from him. I felt guilty, but before walking into the arcade, I had felt confident that I would be able to get something tonight that I could send them tomorrow. Now I wasn’t so sure.

If this had been a date, or a night out with friends, I would have been in heaven. There was something so comforting about the atmosphere around us, of kids feeding quarters into machines, all hoping to win the piles of prizes behind the counter—stuffed animals, MP3 players, and other things that were probably cheaper if they were straight-up bought in a store, but way less satisfying than if they were won at the arcade.

There had been an arcade next to my mom’s favorite bar, so I knew the environment well. It felt familiar. Safe. Quarters were something she could give me, so every time she wanted to have a night out, she’d give me a bag of quarters and send me to the arcade until it was closing time. For months I had my eye on a big pink stuffed unicorn. I didn’t have many toys and that stuffed animal seemed like the most magical, beautiful thing I had ever seen. The idea of owning it seemed impossible, but also within my reach if I worked hard enough. And that’s what I did. Every single time I went there I played to win the unicorn. While the other kids cashed in their tickets for smaller, more quickly satisfying trinkets, I kept my tickets in a bag underneath my bed. 1,000 tickets. That’s what the unicorn cost. It took me six months, but I got it. And it was still in my bedroom back in my mom’s apartment in Houston. She was allowed to get rid of anything else I owned, but she knew that she couldn’t touch that unicorn.

“Let’s make a bet,” Nathan said to me, shaking me out of my memories.

“A bet?”

“Yeah, a bet.” There was that wicked smile again. “If you win, you get something you want, and if I win…”

“I just want this interview to go well,” I interrupted before he could tell me what he wanted. I knew what he wanted. Because I wanted it too. And that was a bad idea.

“I already promised I’d be honest with you,” he said.

I gave him a dubious look and he held up his hands.

“OK, OK, I also promised a place that was better than the bar. But trust me, let’s spend an hour or so here and then go somewhere quieter. I’ll be much more relaxed.” He lifted his pinky. “Pinky swear.”

I hooked my pinky with his, hoping this swear was worth something to him.

“One hour,” I told him.

“Two,” he countered.

“One,” I stood firm.

“Fine,” he said, looking around at the machines. “Pick something you want to wager.”

“I already told you what I want.”

“You’ll get your interview. Something else.”

“I don’t want anything else,” I told him. Which was sort of true. I didn’t want anything that was possible in our current situation.

“Liar,” Nathan said, looking over his shoulder at me. “I saw your suitcase.”

“My suitcase?” For a moment I was confused.

“In your hotel room,” he explained. Oh, my stupid broken suitcase. I felt my face heat at the memory of it. Bet that someone like Nathan never had to worry about his suitcase completely breaking apart in the lobby of a fancy hotel. Bet he never had to worry about his suitcases at all. Just another reminder of what everyone else had and I didn’t. “Looks like you could use a replacement,” he said.

“And you’ll get me one?” I asked.

He wagged his finger at me. “If you win.” When I hesitated, he gave me a smile. “I’ll even let you pick the game.”

Clearly he had plans for this bet. Too bad he didn’t know that when it came to arcade games, I was not one to admit defeat. Too many of my nights had been spent among these brightly colored, bell-ringing games.

“And what do you want, Mr. Ryder?” Even though I was confident in my abilities, I needed to know what kind of bet I was getting myself into. Skee-ball was my game of choice, but I hadn’t played in years. Still, I was sure I would make a pretty decent opponent. But I didn’t want to make any promises I couldn’t keep.

“Hmm.” He placed a finger against his cheek. “Perhaps I just want a favor.”

“A favor?” My eyebrows went up. “What kind of favor?”

“One to be determined at a later time,” he said. Clearly he was confident he was going to win. I wasn’t surprised. Nathan Ryder didn’t strike me as someone who was used to losing.

I shook my head. “That sounds awfully vague. Not a fair trade at all.”

“I promise it won’t be more complicated than a replacement suitcase,” he told me.

I wasn’t sure I believed him, but the way he smiled at me made it hard to resist. Everything about him made him hard to resist. And I never backed down from a challenge. Especially one set in an arcade. Nathan didn’t realize it, but he had just made a very foolish bet.

“Deal,” I said, holding out my hand.

He smiled and took it. His fingers were warm and soft, not really what I expected from a ballplayer. There were calluses there, of course, but they felt well worn, not sharp and rough against my skin. I did my best not to imagine them on other parts of my body. We exchanged a firm shake.

“Pick your poison,” he said, gesturing towards the machines around us.

This time I was the one who smiled as I pointed towards the skee-ball machine.

* * *

I was used to taking my time with the game. Having been left in arcades for a good portion of my childhood, just me and a bag of quarters, kept me from rushing each turn. There was nothing worse than reaching the end of my bag and realizing that my mother would probably still be at the bar for another several hours. I had learned to stretch out my fun, which in the end, had made me better at the game.

“Two out of three?” Nathan asked as he filled my hands with quarters.

“Whatever you want,” I told him as we headed to the machine. I was eager to get my interview, but I was also looking forward to winning. Somewhere between the handshake and the quarter machine, I had already determined my victory. I had already begun thinking about the kind of suitcase I would make him buy me.

He raised his eyebrows at me, clearly picking up on my newfound confidence. “Would you prefer three out of five?”

“If that will make you feel more comfortable.” I gave him a cheeky smile.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “Kicking your butt is going to make me feel very, very comfortable.”

I just shrugged. Better to let your opponent psyche himself out. Focus on the game, Hall, I told myself as he began feeding quarters into the machine.

“Ladies first.” He stepped aside to let me go.

“Thank you.” I gave him a little bow and grabbed the first ball in the shoot. It had been a few years since I had played, but with my fingers wrapped around the wooden sphere, it was all coming back to me. I considered my options. I could start by playing badly, give him a false sense of security and then kick his butt just when he was starting to get sloppy with confidence, or I could just play the way I always played and win that way.

I tossed the ball lightly up and caught it. I always preferred to play my best. Especially when it came to skee-ball. So I took my shot.

Nathan let out a low whistle as the ball jumped smoothly into the twenty-point hoop.

“You’ve done this before,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” I glanced back at him. “I’ll be gentle.” I made another shot and watched thirty more points get added to my score. But when I reached for the next ball, he got there first. As he handed it to me, he caught my gaze.

“Who said I had any interest in you being gentle?” he asked, his voice low and sexy.

Feeling a blush rise in my cheeks, I turned away from him, flustered, my mind filling with all the non-gentle things I would and could do to him. In my haste and state of distraction, I neglected to aim and immediately found my ball bounce embarrassingly onto the board without scoring any points. I whirled to face him.

“That’s cheating,” I said. “Not fair!”

But he just shook his head at me. “All’s fair in bets and skee-ball,” he countered with a wicked grin.

* * *

He was going to regret making a bet with me in about three, two, one, I thought as I neatly sunk my last ball in the fifty-point pocket. Even if I hadn’t made it, I still would have crushed him, but there was something satisfying about making that difficult shot on my last turn. Especially since Nathan had done his best to distract me during the entire game.

I had to hand it to him. He was competitive but not a dick about it. I had known enough guys who, once they realized they were going to lose, started playing dirty. And Nathan had been playing dirty, but in a way I had a hard time having a problem with.

He hadn’t said much more after that first sexually charged comment; instead he focused his attention on distracting me in other ways. Each time it was my turn, he made the point of grabbing the ball first so he could hand it over, his fingers dragging against mine in a way that was anything but innocent. Each touch gave me a thrill, from the gentle brush of his hand against the small of my back, to the unnecessary, yet completely intoxicating bump of his shoulders against mine as he stood closer than he should as I made each shot. By the time I scored my last points, I was a bundle of tension, waiting for our next not-so-innocent interaction.

I looked back at him and he was staring, mouth open, eyes open, in astonishment. When he finally seemed to realize he had officially lost, he blinked and looked over at me.

“You’re a hustler!” he accused with a smile. He put his hands on his hips.

I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore how much I wanted those same hands on my hips. I could hardly breathe I wanted to touch him so much. “How can I be a hustler if you’re the one who suggested the bet?”

“You’re a really good hustler,” he retorted, looking back at the skee-ball machine as if he could figure out my secrets by staring at it.

“Well, it better be a really good suitcase.” I stepped back, putting some much-needed distance between us. I would also have welcomed a cold bucket of water at that moment. Everything about him was making me hot.

He, on the other hand, seemed completely calm. “Of course.”

I thought about the email I had gotten that morning from my editor with the request to send a first draft of an interview I still hadn’t done. That put a damper on my desires. Nothing like the fear of failing your first big assignment to keep your hormones in check.

“Besides,” I said. “You’re the one who claimed that everything’s fair in bets and skee-ball.”

He groaned. “I knew I was going to regret that.”

“Not my problem,” I told him, looking around the crowded arcade for a place we could talk. “And now,” I pointed to the food court which seemed to be the least populated area and was half-outdoors. “Now, I think it’s time for our interview.”