Playing For Fun

by Tracey Alvarez

  A deep ‘V’ appeared on Shaye’s forehead. “You grew out of that.”

  “Evidently not. Turns out Harley’s whole bad-boy, commitment-phobic indifference is a major turn on.”

  “Huh.” Shaye sat back in her chair.

  “It was only after I caught Ford with his hand on Julia’s ass did I think, ‘You know what? It’s not Ford’s hand I want on my ass, it’s Harley’s.’”

  “Again. Huh.”

  “Nope.” Holly turned her lips down in mock-sadness and shook her head. “I thought I liked-liked Ford, but turns out there’s no chemistry, after all.”

  Shaye looked crestfallen. “Really? Not even a tingle in your happy place?”

  “My happy place can’t even muster up a half-assed twinge.”

  “Del even looks at me a certain way and my happy place goes all sparkly and excited. I want you to find a guy who makes you sparkly and excited, Hol.”

  Said with total earnestness. Holly wanted to cringe into a ball before the universe zapped a lightning bolt in her happy place for lying about its reaction to Ford. She tingled like she’d jabbed a fork in a toaster.

  “I know you do,” Holly said. “I want what you and Del have, too. Someday.”

  Shaye’s gaze immediately softened, a dreamy smile ghosting her lips.

  “Speaking of you and Del…MacKenna’s been asking if you two have finally agreed on a date.”

  Dreaminess faded to a wince. “Piper’s convinced she’ll look like an elephant seal in a muumuu if I make her wear a bridesmaid’s dress before the baby’s born.”

  “All the more reason to have the wedding sooner rather than later.”

  Before Holly moved to Invers would be ideal. That way, it’d give her a chance to settle into her new life without being drawn back into old, comfortable habits by returning to Oban for Shaye’s wedding. A clean break.

  “Even better—what about one of those destination weddings in Rarotonga? You and Del in sarongs and leis on a sunset beach. I can totally see that,” she said.

  Shaye’s mouth twisted. “Getting everyone to Raro for a weekend would be a nightmare.”

  “But think how convenient it would be to have the wedding before the summer upturn…much easier for you guys to stay on for a honeymoon afterward.”

  “True,” Shaye said. “But I haven’t even decided which wedding theme to go with yet.”

  “Theme? Didn’t you settle on Disney Princess when you were eight?”

  Shaye waved a dismissive hand. “Har-de-har. Now I’m thinking maybe hippie chick with wildflowers in my hair on the beach. No—can that, too much like Piper’s. Or simple Grace Kelly elegance with white lilies and teacup candles leading up the aisle in church…”

  Holly tuned Shaye out as she continued to narrate more updated versions of the “dream wedding plans” laid out in excruciating detail in Shaye’s journals when they were teenagers.

  “What do you think?”

  Holly’s turn to stare at Shaye, having lost track soon after teacup candles and what sounded like a Big-Fat-Gypsy-Arabian-Night’s mashup.

  “I think you should elope to Vegas, and get an Elvis impersonator to do the nuptials.”

  “That sounds like your dream wedding, not mine.”

  Not that Holly had a dream wedding list, but if she did, a pomaded Elvis shaking his hips to Teddy Bear would be in the top three. Though the odds of anyone sticking around long enough to marry her weren’t something she’d place a bet on in Vegas. Or anywhere else. People moved on. Sometimes they moved with someone; sometimes they left by themselves. And sometimes you had to leave. Either way, me, myself and I were the only trio who stuck around.

  From behind the serving counter, Simon hollered Holly’s name.

  “That’s me. Well, think about what I said.” She stood before Shaye could start poking at Holly about her near qualification into the cobweb club—Oban’s tongue-in-cheek name for women who hadn’t had sex in, well, long enough for cobwebs to develop.

  Shaye’s eyebrows pinched inward, a small, baffled smile appearing on her face. “It’s almost as if you’re in a hurry for me to tie the knot.”

  Holly picked up her purse and slung it onto her shoulder. Expecting a phone call to announce her nomination in the next Golden Globes, she adopted a cheeky grin. “Faster you and Del get hitched, faster I get my first Godbaby to spoil.”

  Shaye’s eyes bulged. “That is not part of our two-year plan.”

  “Plans change, sweet,” Holly said, and headed for the two coffees-to-go sitting on the countertop.

  A flash of memory—Ford’s druggingly delish kisses and his big hand fisted in her hair—imprinted on her brain. Holly shoved it aside and grabbed her coffee.

  Sometimes change could unexpectedly kick your ass. Ask her how she knew.

  Chapter 10

  Quiz nights at Due South always drew crowds, but especially during the winter when the long southern nights challenged even the hardiest introvert to find company over a cold brew in a warm pub.

  Holly drained the last of her pinot—courtesy of Emily fulfilling her promise—and placed the glass on the tray of empties West was loading up.

  “Busier than usual,” she said.

  West slid another lemon, lime and bitters in front of his wife and stacked her empty on his tray, offering Holly a sharp grin. “Enough that I’m once again reduced to tending bar with Kip and Carly. You know why, right?” He cut a pointed glance to the end of Holly’s table where Ford and Emily sat close together.

  Emily, in a honey-colored skirt and cream cabled sweater, looked good enough to eat. And Ford, the checked shirt hugging his broad shoulders and chest, bagging just a little over his flat stomach, bent his head toward her. As if considering whether or not to take a bite.

  Holly fixed her smile, praying West was too enamoured with his wife’s expanding belly to notice Holly’s faked good humor. “Yep, I’ve ousted Mrs. Taylor from her spot as Oban’s matchmaker. Go me.”

  Something in her tone must’ve raised a red flag as West turned away from their empties-covered-table with a curious, crooked-eyebrow stare.

  Feedback screeches from the sound system as quizmaster Rhonda McCullum tapped on the mic saved Holly’s bacon.

  “Five minutes, folks. Now’s the time to head to the bar for a refill if you need one.”

  Perfect excuse to grab another pinot to dull the visual burn of Emily murmuring something in Ford’s ear that made him smile.

  “Holly?”

  Emily’s voice from the other end of the table froze Holly in an ungainly, half-standing-up-half-sitting-down position.

  “Are you sure it’s okay for me to join your team tonight?” Emily asked.

  “More than okay,” Erin said from beside Emily, jumping in before Holly could reply. “We’re down one already with Carly working tonight.”

  “Oh, I’m glad.” Emily beamed at Erin then switched her smile to Holly. “I didn’t want to step on any toes.” She touched Ford’s arm. “Ford offered for me to be on his team, but that would mean one of his regulars pulling out, and that’s not fair.”

  “It’s cool,” Holly said. “We’re counting on you to help us stomp all over the Thunderbirds.”

  “I hope you’re a good loser then, Ford.” Emily’s husky laugh drew the attention of a twenty-something male tourist at the table behind them, and the dude’s eyes lit with silent appreciation.

  Holly’s spine stiffened as the same light gleamed in Ford’s eyes.

  “I’m up for the challenge,” he said, smiling at Emily.

  Holly excused herself—not that Emily or Ford seemed to notice—and made a bee-line for the bar.

  Returning with a fresh pinot a few minutes later, Holly averted her gaze from the Thunderbirds’ table, where Ford presided at the head. She sank into her chair and picked up the pen, scribbling their team name and members’ names onto the quiz paper. Compelled her attention to remain on the listed trivia categories and not on the prickles scampering
up and down her spine from being watched. Probably her imagination.

  Rhonda sat on the stool in the corner of Due South, where Ford often performed, and picked up the mic. She ran through the basic rules with her usual sardonic humour—much to the amusement of the small gathering of tourists, who sucked up the eccentric atmosphere of the crowd with enthusiasm—then dove into the first round.

  Current Events.

  Holly and her team worked together like poetry in motion. No, like a kick-ass group of all-female avengers. Whispers flew back and forth, debating the second question, then they quickly agreed upon an answer without ego getting in the way. The Madame B’ovaries ploughed through answers for Animals, Geography, and History, with Holly’s pen flying. Emily appeared to gain the other women’s approval by contributing but not dominating the answers.

  Holly headed to the bathroom while the first half scores were being tallied. She’d made the move after a glimpse of Ford heading toward their table. So much for Mr. I-Can’t-Flirt-With-Women. Apparently, that didn’t extend to stunning brunettes who could wear white without ending up with food and wine stains spilled on their boobs.

  Ford had gone back to his table by the time Holly returned from splashing cold water on her flushed cheeks. Rhonda announced that the leader board showed the Thunderbirds and Madame B’ovaries had only five points between them—with Holly’s team currently in first place.

  Normally, Holly would be crowing like a rooster, but as she sank into her seat, Emily deep in conversation with Erin and Bree, Piper and Kezia also with their heads close together, Holly was hollowed out. Empty. But before she could blow her pity-party noise-maker, Rhonda started the next quiz section.

  “Sports.” Kezia tossed her long, dark curls and gave her husband seated at Ford’s table an imperious glance. “Ben thinks I don’t listen when the guys come over to watch the big games. We’ll show him, sorella, won’t we?”

  Piper rubbed her hands together. “Hell, yeah.”

  Nine questions in, the women had lost confidence.

  “What four tournaments make up the Grand Slam of Tennis?” grumbled Erin. “Who the hell came up with that stinker?”

  “Her boss.” Bree tipped her wine glass in Kezia’s direction. “Principal know-it-all.”

  “Last one for sports,” Rhonda said. “Who was the highest paid New Zealand sportsman in 2014?”

  “Russell Coutts, America’s Cup winner. Gotta be,” Piper said immediately.

  “Are you sure?” Erin’s mouth twisted in concentration. “That’s pretty obvious. What about that motorsports guy, Scott Dixon?”

  Kezia wriggled on her chair. “Oooh, oooh. Maybe it’s Richie Mc-Awesome.”

  “I dated Richie,” Emily said conversationally. “When we were students at Lincoln University.”

  Five pairs of eyes, including Holly’s, locked on Emily.

  Kezia spoke first into the stunned silence. “Mio Dio. You were a lucky girl. The man is an All Black legend.”

  Beside Emily, Erin nudged her with an elbow. “Tell us, was Richie a legend in the sack, too?”

  “Oh, he was incredible,” said Emily. “Such an intense guy. When he looked into my eyes it was as if I was the most important thing in the world to him—even more important than rugby.”

  Tiny flutters in Holly’s stomach spread outward.

  “Wow. You two must’ve been serious,” Erin breathed.

  Emily waved a dismissive hand. “I’m pretty sure he would’ve popped the question in the near future, but I couldn’t bear for him to give up his dream of playing for the All Blacks.”

  “You broke it off?” Kezia’s voice was quietly incredulous. “With that chunk of hotness?”

  Emily’s gaze zipped left, and she scratched the crease of her nose. “Yes. It was for the best.”

  Piper angled her head to the side, catching Holly’s gaze. The slight shake of Piper’s head and her hazel eyes turning cop-flat confirmed Holly’s own sceptic leanings.

  Holly leaned out of sight of Emily and mouthed “lying”?

  Piper’s mouth turned down briefly, with a slight lift of her shoulders.

  “Next section, TV and movies,” said Rhonda. “Final one, folks. Every point counts.”

  Holly shook off her unease and concentrated. This was the one section they had a good chance of beating the Thunderbirds in.

  They were killing it, and then down to the last question.

  “In the TV series Doctor Who, who is River Song’s mother?” asked Rhonda.

  Loud whoops from the Thunderbirds and the sound of back-slapping, with Bill Westlake saying, “You got this one, right, Komeke?”

  Holly pasted on her best sportsman-like smile and turned her gaze on Emily, who suddenly appeared busy sipping her wine.

  “Girls, Emily here is our secret weapon for sci-fi geekdom,” Holly said.

  Erin, who’d happened to spot Emily draping the Doctor Who scarf around Ford’s neck that afternoon, caught on. “That’s right,” she said. “You’re a Whovian, too, aren’t you?”

  A pale-pink flush started to join the dots between Emily’s pretty freckles. “I wouldn’t say that…”

  Holly’s heart took a sickening tumble into her gut.

  Oh. Shit. The woman really was a liar.

  “But Emily.” Holly pitched her voice at a non-confrontational level. “You were telling Ford how you rarely miss an episode. You must know the answer.”

  Chin trembling below tightly sealed lips, Emily reached for her wine. A clink of glass against glass, a sudden dull thunk and claret spilled from Emily’s toppled glass in a red tide, splattering over her white sweater and puddling in her lap.

  She shoved away from the table, wine pitter-pattering to the floor. “I’m so clumsy. Sorry, sorry.”

  Erin and Bree passed her cocktail napkins and made sympathetic noises. Emily dabbed at her ruined sweater and kept her eyes downcast.

  “Come with me.” Erin touched Emily’s elbow. “I’ll take you to the kitchen, and our friend Shaye will fix you up with some white vinegar.”

  “Thanks,” Emily said. “I’ll just run upstairs and change; the wine’s soaked right through.”

  Emily and Erin left, leaving Holly, Piper, Kezia and Bree exchanging glances.

  Bree tapped the quiz paper with one perfectly manicured nail. “Do you know the final answer?”

  Holly huffed out a sigh and scribbled it down. “I’m not a super-fan like Emily claims to be, but I know. Dammit.”

  She slid the paper across to Bree, who left their table to hand it in to Rhonda.

  “You need to talk to him,” Piper said. “Before Emily gets back.”

  “And tell him what?” Holly looked from woman to woman, as if hoping by some miracle they’d volunteer to take her place. She lowered her voice. “That we suspect the first nice girl he’s met could be fudging the truth about herself?”

  “Fudging?” Piper’s upper lip curled. “I’ll eat a plateful of my sister’s awful tofu stuff if Emily’s not lying about boning Richie.”

  “Piper’s right,” Kezia said. “You need to warn Ford to be on his guard.”

  “Ford’s always on guard,” Holly grumbled. “And the way he’s eye-fucking her, he probably won’t care if she exaggerates a little to make herself sound good.”

  “Quit your whining, Hol.” Piper craned her neck, looking behind Holly’s shoulder. “Hey, Ford!”

  The hair on Holly’s nape rose as if his body acted like a giant magnet. She didn’t turn her head, but, oh man, she could feel him standing behind her.

  “What happened to Emily? I just saw the back of her as she disappeared into the hallway.”

  “Red wine meets white sweater. She’s gone to get changed.” Piper reached behind Holly and plucked Ford’s quiz paper out of his hand. “Kez, take this up to Rhonda, will you? Hol needs to have a quick word with Ford. In private.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  His deep voice stroked over Holly’s skin, giving those nap
e hairs another workout. Masking a full body shiver, Holly slid out of her chair, nose nearly bumping Ford’s chest as she turned since he stood so close.

  “You’ve got at least ten minutes while Rhonda and Walter do a final tally of the scores—fifteen if Rhonda’s misplaced her reading glasses again. Go on—”

  Piper elbowed Holly’s hip, and she bounced into Ford’s chest.

  She slapped both palms against his biceps, which did little to prevent a full boob-to-pec mashup—at least in the three-second reaction time it took for her to shove against his arms and stumble back a step.

  “Just how many wines have you had?”

  Ford’s grin said: You can blame the alcohol, but we both know you want to bump more than your boobs with me.

  “Not nearly enough.”

  Or too much, depending on perspective…since it took every teensy bit of self-control Holly had left not to glance down at the front of her shirt, thereby drawing attention to nipples that hadn’t gotten the message of alcohol-dulling reaction time.

  Not at all.

  “Use West’s office,” Piper said helpfully. “He won’t mind.”

  Holly took off toward the exit without checking to see if Ford followed. She fumbled the staff office key from a hook behind the bar, kept there for when West was on the move around the hotel. Once again, she spun into Ford, who’d taken up a position directly behind her, leaning against the bar.

  “Would you get outta my ass?”

  Okay, that hadn’t quite come out in the low-volume growl she’d aimed for.

  Holly cringed on the inside as Ford’s smirk transformed into a wicked grin. A grin that sent all sorts of filthy, bad-girl thoughts swimming through her brain.