Hard to Lose (The Play Hard Series Book 4)

by K. Bromberg

  “No, but I can simply imagine how aggravating it would be to stand by and watch this happen. Bending over to put a roast in the oven distracts the meal recipient from actually focusing on the meal to be had.”

  I erupt in laughter and don’t care that everyone turns our way. “Such a travesty, when I’m sure he ends up enjoying or eating a whole different type of meal entirely.”

  “It’s a travesty that should absolutely not be done.”

  I laugh as we stare at each other, flirting with our eyes, before turning back to our paintings. My painting, I might add, that will confuse anyone in the room but will make Gunner laugh.

  Within what feels like seconds the bell rings again, and the chatter quiets as Mimi takes her “stage” again. “Okay, next question. The first time you met the person sitting across from you, what one thing attracted you to them?”

  I turn from looking at Mimi to Gunner and wish I could frame the look he’s giving me forever. There’s quiet intensity laced with amused adoration, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more seen in my life.

  “That’s easy,” he says. “Your confidence. The sound of your laugh. The way you gave it right back to me . . . and then I got to know you, and it was all of those things and then some.”

  “Thank you.” I’m not one hundred percent certain why tears burn my eyes, but I pretend they’re not there and smile softly at him. “For me it was your kindness, your smile, your biceps”—I shrug unapologetically—” and the way you looked at me.”

  “How did I look at you?” he asks.

  “Like I was the only woman in the room.”

  His smile softens as does his expression, before he gives a shy lift of his shoulders and turns back to his easel.

  I stare at my canvas for a minute but swear I don’t see a single brushstroke I’ve made. I’m too busy thinking of Gunner and how in this short amount of time he’s become so important to me.

  . . . and then I got to know you, and it was all of those things and then some. And part of that has to do with his ability to win me over with his kindness. Genuineness.

  Right after that comes my typical refrain—the one that says I’m too busy for him, for whatever this is—but this time I push it away. Maybe Kelly is right. Maybe I need to step back from the stress and endless lists and simply enjoy myself for a bit.

  Enjoy Gunner.

  “I’m just warning you,” I say from behind my canvas, “this is absolutely horrible.”

  “And I think you’re too hard on yourself, but I’m guessing that’s a normal thing for you.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’m serious. For some reason, I can’t picture you as a graduate student. Instead, I feel like you’re someone who should be negotiating huge deals while wearing a sexy power suit in a high-rise somewhere in Manhattan.”

  I’m glad he can’t see my face, because how in the world can he have me so well pegged? How can he sense the real me hidden beneath?

  “Maybe someday,” I murmur.

  And before I can get out of my funk over the lie I’m telling him, Mimi comes back with another one of her questions. “Next up, tell your date what you wanted to be when you grew up.”

  “A veterinarian,” I say.

  “Didn’t all little girls?” he asks. “Me? I wanted to be a professional baseball player.”

  “You did?” I ask.

  “Didn’t all little boys?” he counters.

  “True. Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you know—”

  “Oh my God. Are you serious?” echoes loudly around the barn, pulling everyone’s attention to the shrill, “Yes. Of course,” that follows.

  When I stand to look, the couple on the opposite side of the barn from us has seemingly—by the looks of her jumping into his arms and the ring box clutched in his hand—just become engaged. The room erupts into applause and I can just make out the canvas he’d held out where he painted “Will you marry me?”

  There are a few tears and kisses and then more kisses shared between the couple, followed by a picture being taken, before we all settle back at our tables.

  “All the poor guys in here are probably sweating bullets that their date is hoping for the same thing now,” I say, and Gunner laughs.

  “That’s so true. Look at the guy in the blue shirt over there.” He lifts his chin to direct my eyes. “He keeps yanking on his collar and guzzling his wine.”

  I snort out a laugh when blue-shirt guy does just that. You can tell the guy is completely uncomfortable.

  “Well, that was more than exciting, wasn’t it? It was our first Brushes ‘N’ Booze engagement, and we couldn’t be more thrilled. Now onto the rest of you getting to know each other so maybe you can be as lucky. Let’s get to our next question. Tell the person you’re lucky enough to be here with tonight the one thing that is a deal-breaker for you. It can be a trait, a situation, a something, but it’s the one thing that is irredeemable for you in a relationship.”

  “You first,” Gunner says, leaning back and taking a sip of wine.

  I twist my lips and stare at him for a beat. “Being disrespected,” I say, earning a nod and lift of his eyebrows in response. “And you?”

  “Deception,” he says without hesitation. “There’s nothing worse than being lied to and finding out that you were.”

  My tongue suddenly feels thick in my mouth as I try to swallow around it and not look guilty.

  Because I am guilty.

  I am lying to him.

  I am deceiving him.

  And at this point I’m too wrapped up in this lie to come clean. Hell, I came up with it on the fly, while in a bar and while flirting with one very hot bartender.

  It wasn’t said as a means to deceive. My own thought contradicts itself when it comes to the definition of the word lie.

  Have I had ample time to correct said lie? Yes.

  But does Gunner’s answer apply to me? Sure, but I didn’t anticipate this—dates and laughter and looking forward to the time I’m with him while being bummed when I’m not. But is his deal-breaker only related to relationships and not friends who enjoy benefits too? Which is what we are, aren’t we? Temporary. Even though it—everything—is so good with him.

  Your justification sucks, Chase.

  And yet I cling to it, because it’s so much more appealing than the rock and a hard place I find myself in, considering I hate deception as well.

  Simply put, I need to figure out a way to tell him. To assure him that I hadn’t known we’d be more than one night when I told him the lie . . .

  Luckily the next few questions are easy and more lighthearted. Gunner has me laughing as we navigate through questions about how the toilet paper should be out on the roll (he agreed with me that it should go over the top), what the best time of day is (he preferred sunset and I preferred sunrise), favorite color (I said orange and he said green), and how long do you wait until you refill your gas tank (he was when the light comes on while I said the minute it hits a quarter of a tank).

  “And lastly,” Mimi says, “while you use the last ten minutes of your time to finish your paintings, tell your date the one thing you fear the most they might learn about you.”

  “Christ,” a man mutters behind me, clearly fed up with a date that now suddenly feels like a therapy session.

  Gunner hears him and stifles a laugh as our gazes meet. “My turn?” he asks and I nod as concern etches the lines of his face. “I fear that you might learn I’m not as good of a person as you think I am.”

  “Gunner, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I mean, look how concerned you are for poor women everywhere who cook naked. And—”

  He bursts out laughing, and I’m so glad I can lighten the moment with humor, because what he just said is asinine and yet, I know he probably truly believes what he said.

  Just like I do with what I’m about to say.

  “And I’m afraid if you knew me in my normal life that you wouldn’t
like the person I am there.”

  Gunner stops mid stroke of his paintbrush and locks eyes with me. I’ve said a lot of real things to him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been more honest than right now.

  “Why would you say that?” he asks, head angling to the side, eyes searching mine as I shrug like a little kid afraid to answer.

  Tell him the truth, Chase.

  The phrase ghosts through my mind, but I can’t find it within me to ruin the evening—to potentially damage this—because there is something between us.

  I shrug, unable to find the words I need to use, unable to bring myself to hurt him . . . or rather too selfish to risk losing him.

  “Hey,” he says. He lifts from his seat so he can lean across the table and press his lips to mine. “We’re all different people sometimes.” Another press of his lips. “Sometimes it’s easier to be who you really are when you step outside of your daily grind and everything there holding you in its normal place.”

  He leans back and holds my gaze as I just nod, unable to agree with him, and luckily saved by the buzzer Mimi has on her table telling us time is up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s now time to reveal to your date their portrait or the image you’ve painted that reminds you of them. Deep breath. And . . . show them!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Gunner

  “You actually snorted so loud that everyone turned and looked at us,” Chase says as she steps a few feet away, turning to face me as she walks backward, that coy smile on her lips.

  “You painted me an apple pie.” I can’t even say it without laughing.

  “An ooey-gooey, hot, and juicy apple pie at that.” She curtsies. “You might not have been able to see those fine details, but I assure you they were there in spirit.”

  I all but fell out of my chair when she turned her portrait around at the studio. I definitely snorted and was more than glad I’d swallowed my drink of wine before she did, because we both burst out in laughter.

  “It’s the best. I’ll cherish it forever,” I say. “Mine is nowhere near as witty as yours is.”

  “Red Converse in a field of white daisies. I’m more than impressed with your painting skills,” she says. “And the fact that you incorporated the rest of our date in it.” She motions to the field of wild daisies that blanket both sides of the path we’re on.

  “I’m a much better painter than I am LEGO builder.”

  “I, for one, love it and know exactly where it’s going to go on my shelf at home.”

  Home.

  The word rings louder than the laughter with which she said it, because it’s a stark reminder that whatever this is between us has a muddled expiration date.

  Is that why I’m so free to be myself with her? To say the things I mean and want when normally I’d hold back and be more guarded? I live by the motto of live each day like you’re dying and yet, I’ve never been this open or real with the women I’ve dated. I’ve protected myself and held them at arm’s length. With Chase? Christ, with Chase, I invited her to stay at my place while she’s in town. To move in with me temporarily.

  The question is why?

  I look around the path we’re walking on. At the calm of the lake in front of us with the thunder clouds above us. The ones that litter the sky with spaces in between to showcase the pinks and oranges of the setting sun. To the bar on the opposite side of the lake that has lights strung across its patio. Its music is loud and bluesy and carries across the lake so we can hear it loud and clear.

  It’s gorgeous. It’s captivating.

  But nothing like the woman before me with a mischievous smile and curious eyes.

  I tug on her hand and pull her into me, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

  “This is a good song,” she says, swaying her hips, and I give in to the moment and put my hand over her head to spin her.

  “That’s about as much dancing as this man does,” I tease and pull her back into me.

  “I’m beginning to think you take me on dates to get me tipsy and take advantage of me.”

  She looks up at me with those big blue eyes, which do funny things to me, before she spins again and laughs.

  “Yep. It’s my plan. Get you tipsy so I can watch you wiggle your hips and spin like that in the sunset.”

  “Aha,” she says and holds her finger up. “Thanks to our little trivia tonight, I now know that sunset is your favorite time of the day.”

  I nod, watching the streaks of sun shining fire through her hair and want her again so bad it hurts. Whether it be her smile, her laugh, her wit, or her body, I can’t seem to fucking get enough of her.

  “Tell me about your love life, Gunner.”

  “What?” I laugh, as she runs a few feet in front of me and picks up a dandelion in the field of daisies.

  “You heard me. But wait, shush”—she holds out a hand at me—“I need to make my wish first.” And then she proceeds to close her eyes for a beat, a slow smile crawling on her lips, before she takes a huge breath and blows the seeds of the dandelion all over the place. “Okay, now you can spill all the details.”

  “On one condition,” I say, still positive I’ll be spilling the details.

  “Conditions, huh?” She lifts her eyebrows.

  I nod. “What did you wish for?”

  She angles her head and stares at me for a beat, her voice soft when she answers. “For more nights like this.”

  And even if that’s not what she wished for, she has me one hundred percent sold and wanting that same exact wish too.

  “Do you often self-sabotage good things? I think you asking me to tell you about my love life might be you doing just that,” I warn, but my smile says otherwise.

  “That bad, huh?” She shrugs. “I’m just curious. You’re one of those guys that someone gets ahold of and doesn’t let go so . . .”

  “I’m thinking that’s a compliment?” I ask.

  “A huge one.”

  “Then thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.” She stops walking and looks at me. “I’m more than certain you’ve broken many hearts over the years—”

  “Says the woman I swear is the queen of breaking hearts.”

  “Don’t you dare deflect back on me.” She wags her finger at me.

  “Haven’t we had enough Q&A for one date?”

  She throws her head back and laughs before stepping into me and kissing me absolutely senseless. Hands threaded through my hair, tongue teasing with mine, moan falling from her mouth. The best type of kiss.

  I’m staggered how this woman is a mess of contradictions. She said she likes the sex, but not the person, and yet she’s open and free and affectionate like this with me. She claims she’s rigid and planned, and then she kisses me like that without any provocation or apparent care in the world.

  How is it so easy, so effortless, watching her do this? Having her do this?

  Making me fall for her?

  That’s the crazy talking and yet . . . I can’t get her out of my head even when she’s standing before me with those discerning, beautiful eyes and disarming smile.

  Is it just because there’s no pressure for more? She’s leaving, and we’re living by my motto: live every day like it’s your last.

  “Come on, Gunner, don’t I deserve to know if I’m going to start getting hate mail delivered to my hotel room because I’ve stolen the local heartthrob?”

  I snort. “Hardly.”

  “I’ll start. I date but don’t get serious. I’m not keen on getting touchy-feely, talking about myself, or about feelings at all really.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask, curious. She’s done all of those things with me.

  “Because I don’t have time. I have goals to achieve and accomplishments I want to reach by a set time frame, and frankly, relationships are messy and time-consuming and would distract me from doing that.” Her eyes meet mine for the first time and I can tell she’s almost embarrassed by her admission. “I know it s
ounds cold and callous and selfish—”

  “Not at all.”

  “But if it’s okay for a man to want things out of life, then why isn’t it okay for a woman? And why the double standard because—”

  “Hey?” I press a kiss to her hand.

  “What?” She looks at me, startled.

  “There is nothing you need to explain or justify about why you’re ambitious. I like that about you.”

  “Most men say that at first and then when they want more and I tell them I can’t give it to them, they become raging assholes.”

  Who is this woman? At the painting place an hour ago, she was worried I wouldn’t like her if I knew the real her, and now she’s standing before me with candor most people—most women—would struggle to exhibit. I like her even more because of it.

  I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re amazing,” I finally say.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because very few people know themselves well enough to know what they want. You do. You know. And you’re unapologetic about wanting it and to me, that’s sexy. That’s attractive. That makes me want to get to know you better so I can hear about and cheer you on as you chase every single one of those goals.”

  I mean it with every fiber of my being. Whether or not she’ll want me on the sidelines is another story. She might not want you past these moments. Which I’m beginning to think is not what I want at all. I want more.

  Her smile is hesitant, her eyes pooling with tears as she stares at me. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

  And before I can even respond, the first drops of rain hit. Big, fat blobs of warm water that make quarter-sized splats on the sidewalk. I look around for cover and see a gazebo a hundred feet away the city has put up for picnics.

  “C’mon. This way,” I say, taking a few steps toward it before looking back to make sure she’s coming.

  I expect a squeal. The “I don’t want my hair to get messed up” or “my clothes to get ruined,” but find myself stopped dead in my tracks when I see her.

  Chase is standing in the rain. Her flowy skirt and tank top are plastered to her body and her hair is drenched, but her face and hands are raised to the sky, and she has the biggest smile on her lips.