Resisting my Roommate (Sycamore Falls #3)

Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ABBEY

Jude pulls into a seemingly forgotten parking lot, the faded lines and cracks in the pavement marking its age and neglect. I stare in disbelief and confusion at the neon OPEN sign flickering over the door of a rundown concrete building.

When he asked me if I wanted to do something, this was not what I had in mind. I figured we’d grab a drink at one of the bars around town. Maybe even go hang out in the brewhouse. But here we are, about to walk into a bowling alley straight out of The Big Lebowski .

“We’re going bowling?” I remark, my voice laced with surprise.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I just…” I shake my head. “I didn’t take you for a bowler.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he says with a sly wink before unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the truck.

“I guess so,” I murmur as I follow suit.

My surprise only grows when he grabs a bag from the back of his truck — one that looks alarmingly like it holds a bowling ball.

“Is that what I think it is?” I lean closer to him and drop my voice. “Do you have your own bowling ball?”

“And if I do?” He arches a brow in challenge.

“Then this night just got even more interesting.”

He places his hand on my lower back and leads me inside, my mind still trying to process the idea of serious and mercurial Jude being a regular bowler with his own custom ball.

As we step through the doors, a wave of nostalgia hits me — the smell of fried food, the faint sound of pins crashing in the distance, and the blinking lights of an ancient arcade. There was once a time I had a relatively normal childhood. A happy childhood. Until my grandmother died, leaving my mother to raise me. After that, nothing in my life was happy.

“Jude,” a balding man greets with a small nod as we approach a counter where rows and rows of bowling shoes are neatly arranged in cubbies. “Want your usual lane?”

“If it’s available.”

“Sure is.”

“Can I get a pair of shoes for Abbey?”

“Of course.” He shifts his attention to me. “What size?”

“Eight, please.”

He retrieves a pair from one of the cubbies and places them on the counter.

“Thanks, Mike,” Jude says as I grab them, then steers me farther inside. It doesn’t escape my notice that he didn’t ask for a pair of shoes for himself, making me think he has his own.

“Usual lane?” I question.

“I just like being out of the way when I bowl.”

As he leads me down the row of lanes, I scan my surroundings, taking it all in, this place that appears to be somewhere Jude frequents.

And that’s when I see it. A large framed photo hangs on the wall over the bar, depicting a group of men dressed in the same shirt, a trophy displayed prominently in front of them.

In the middle stands Jude, tall and proud.

It’s not even a younger version of him, either. By the looks of it, this is recent, a suspicion I confirm when I notice the year on the trophy.

I freeze, staring at the picture like I’ve just discovered a new species.

“Oh. My. God. You’re on a bowling team?”

“League champs two years running.” He continues walking, as if it’s common knowledge, but I’m too stunned by this revelation to move.

One thing is certain. Jude definitely has layers.

And I want to peel back every single one of them.

“Are you coming?” he calls after me.

I snap out of my shock and scramble to catch up.

When we reach the last lane, we both sit down. As I expected, Jude pulls a pair of his own bowling shoes out of his bag, sliding them on before standing.

“Want a beer?” he asks.

“Sure.”

With a nod, he makes his way toward the bar.

There are a few other people bowling — a couple of teenagers and some older men — but at almost nine o’clock on a Sunday night, this place isn’t exactly a hotbed of activity.

“Hope this is okay.” Jude says when he returns holding two bottles — his label, of course.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever want to drink another brand of beer again,” I answer as he hands me one.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

I take a sip, savoring in the cold comfort of his signature IPA as it slides down my throat. Then he pulls his ball out of his bag and places it on the ball return.

“You can go first,” he tells me.

“Umm… I’m terrible at this. I haven’t bowled in ages. In fact, I’m pretty sure the last time I did, I was young enough to require bumpers.”

“I’m sure you’re not that bad. Just give it a try. I’ll help if you need it.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I pull myself to my feet and approach the ball return, testing the weight of a few of them before settling on a sparkly pink one.

Jude raises an amused brow at my choice. “I have a feeling that’s meant for kids.”

“It’s pretty,” I say in my defense. “If I’m going to make a fool out of myself, I may as well look good doing it.”

“You don’t need the ball for that,” he replies softly, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before he clears his throat, averting his gaze. “Do you need help?”

“I’ll be fine,” I insist stubbornly.

I somehow manage to figure out where to put my fingers in the ball, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do from the last time I did this.

Which was easily over twenty years ago.

But it all comes back and I wind up before releasing the ball.

And just like the last time I bowled, the ball lands on the lane with a thud, bouncing a few times before ending up in the gutter.

There was definitely nothing smooth or practiced about it.

When I face Jude, his expression is a combination of shock and amusement, like he can’t believe someone could be this bad at bowling. I warned him.

“Let me give you a few tips.” After a quick sip of his beer, he walks toward me.

When the pink ball shoots back up into the ball return, I reach for it, but Jude stops me before I can pick it up.

“Starting with a better ball.”

I playfully frown. “But it’s pretty.”

“And it only weighs six pounds. General rule of thumb is to use a ball that’s the equivalent of ten percent of your weight, up to sixteen pounds. But beginners tend to benefit from using one that’s a pound or two lighter.”

“All the more reason to let me use the pink ball.”

He gives me a stern look, and damn if it doesn’t do things to my insides, my pulse increasing and the hairs on the back of my nape standing on end.

“Let’s try a twelve-pound ball, since it’s made for adults.”

He scans the balls in the return before heading over to a nearby rack. After a brief perusal, he returns with a purple ball.

“Sorry it’s not pink, but hopefully this will do. Give it a try and see how the weight feels.”

I take it from him and insert my fingers into the three holes. “Wow. My fingers actually fit.”

“Because this one isn’t intended for children.” He chuckles, and it sends my girly bits all aflutter. How can something as simple as a laugh make my body react like this?

But Jude’s laugh isn’t a regular laugh. Over the past few weeks that I’ve lived with him and gotten to know him, I’ve realized it’s not a normal occurrence, so when he does, it’s meaningful.

And it makes me want to hear him laugh more often.

“Now what?” I ask.

“Now you bowl. Let’s work on your stance.” He leads me toward the lane, the sound of rolling balls and clanging pins echoing around us.

“You can’t stay fully upright as you release the ball, which is what you did before. And it’s why your ball bounced. When you reel back, you need to bend down so the ball practically rolls out of your hand and onto the lane. Can I?” He arches a brow, his eyes raking down my frame.

“Sure,” I respond, nerves dancing in my stomach.

He stands behind me, placing his hands on my hips, sending a jolt of electricity through me. I try to push away any distracting thoughts, but it’s impossible when images of Jude bending me over his desk at work while he thrusts into me flood my mind.

Which is the last thing I need right now.

He keeps one hand on my left hip, extending his other arm along mine, placing his right hand beneath mine on the ball.

“Relax,” he soothes, his voice low and husky, hitting me in my core.

I draw in a breath, trying to follow his command, but I can’t relax when he’s this close, my breathing ragged, muscles tense.

“We’re just going to practice the motion right now, so don’t let go of the ball yet. Okay?”

“Okay,” I answer, my voice coming out at a slightly higher pitch than I expected.

“Start with the ball in front of you,” he begins, arranging me the way he wants. “Then as you pull back…” He moves my body, bringing my arm down and behind me, “you’ll step forward with your right foot.” He nudges my right hip with his and I step forward. “As you come forward with the ball, you’ll step with your left foot, bending low at the same time.”

He guides me through the motions, his body mirroring mine from behind.

“Lower,” he instructs when I try to remain somewhat upright.

In my defense, it’s practically impossible to concentrate when he’s standing so close, his body brushing up against mine in a way that makes me want to yank him into me so I can feel every hard ripple and defined edge.

“Like this?” I ask breathily, lunging slightly.

“Yeah.” I can hear the subtle tremble in his voice. “Like that.”

His head dips closer to my neck, his breath hot on my skin. I take a deep inhale, my body wound tighter than it has been in recent memory. Maybe ever. Despite the somewhat uncomfortable position, I don’t move. Don’t want him to stop touching me. Don’t want him to stop breathing me in. Don’t want to stop feeling his lips so close, a fire igniting deep inside.

After what feels like too short of a time, he guides me back to standing and increases the space between us.

“Go ahead and try it on your own now.”

I take a moment to push down my disappointment from the lack of contact.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yeah?” I snap my eyes toward his.

“Don’t aim for the center pin.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most beginners aim for that center pin. You want to aim for the space between the center pin and the one behind it to the right, since you’re right handed. Trust me.”

“Okay.” I turn from him, standing straight with my eyes focused on the spot he mentioned.

With a deep breath, I go through the motions he taught me, the ball rolling out of my hand and onto the lane without the usual thump and bounce.

My heart races as I watch the ball travel closer and closer to the pins. It grazes the bumper, but doesn’t fall in, knocking down a single pin on the side.

Unable to contain my enthusiasm, I jump up and down, clapping like I just hit a strike instead of one measly pin.

“Good job,” Jude praises with a smile, those damn dimples popping again. “Keep practicing and you’ll be hitting strikes in no time.”

As we continue to bowl over the next few hours, I get a little better. Or maybe it’s the beer loosening me up and making me think I’m getting better.

Whenever it’s my turn, Jude helps adjust my form or offers me a tip.

And whenever it’s his turn, I can’t help but admire his easy confidence. Not to mention, his ass looks incredible in his jeans as he bends down, the muscles in his arms flexing and rippling.

I never thought bowling could turn me on. That was before I watched Jude Lawrence bowl. Pretty sure this man could make even the most mundane tasks look sexy.

“How did you get into bowling?” I ask after he hits yet another strike.

Show off.

“My dad.” He tips back his bottle, slowly nursing his beer since he’s driving. “He didn’t start bowling until after he was diagnosed with ALS. He’d take us kids on occasion, but wasn’t serious about it until he learned he’d never be able to do it again. After his diagnosis, he had a bucket list of everything he wanted to do.”

“What kind of things were on it?” I ask, wanting to know more about this man who’s obviously been a huge influence on Jude’s life.

“There were all the usual things. Go to Paris. Float in the Dead Sea. See the Aurora Borealis. But he also had some more personal items.”

I lean toward him. “Like what?”

“Like making my mom laugh every day. Letting all of us kids know how much he loved us. Learning to let go of the small stuff,” he says with a wistful smile. “He believed that not every meaningful experience should require a flight or advanced planning. Some bucket list items should be checked off every day.”

A pang of sadness tugs at my heart as I consider the bittersweet memories Jude must have of his father. With each story he shares, I learn more and more about Jude. Peel back more and more of his layers.

“I wish I could have met him,” I admit softly.

“He definitely would have liked you.”

A comfortable silence settles between us as we stare at each other for several long moments. Then I clear my throat and stand. “Guess it’s my turn.”

“Yeah.”

I grab my ball and walk toward our lane, lining myself up.

Without a single tip or correction from Jude, I end up knocking down more pins than I ever have, leaving only three standing.

“Not trying to make you nervous or anything,” Jude says as the automatic system clears the fallen pins, returning the others to their place, “but you have a pretty good opportunity for a spare.”

I glance to the end of the lane, noting the pins left are all in a cluster on the left side.

“You see those arrows on the lane?” He approaches, pointing to a series of brown markings painted on the wood.

I nod.

“Try to send the ball down the second one from the left. Okay?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” He squeezes my arm.

I turn back toward the lane, focusing on the spot Jude instructed. I shouldn’t be this nervous. It’s not like this game matters. But I want to impress Jude.

And I want to prove to myself I can do this.

I briefly close my eyes, practicing some of my breathing techniques from yoga. When I open them again, I pull the ball back and it slides easily off my fingers, heading down the lane.

Right down the second arrow.

I straighten, holding my breath as the ball turns over. And over. And over.

When it hits the pins, the clatter echoes around me, every pin falling…

Except one.

But the one remaining wobbles.

Left. Right. Left.

I don’t breathe. Don’t think. Just watch that damn pin, begging it to fall.

When it finally does, I shriek, “I did it!”

Without thinking, I run toward Jude and throw my arms around him. His hand goes to my back, and he pulls me against him, his touch sending ripples through me. When I feel his breath against my neck, my laughter instantly dies, my pulse increasing.

“Great job, Abbey,” he murmurs.

I pull back slightly and meet his eyes. The warmth in them makes my heart do a stupid little flip. His gaze dips to my lips, like it did in his truck earlier tonight. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. I want him to. Want him to close that tiny gap between us. Want him to forget about everything holding him back and just do it.

But like in the truck earlier, the realization of what he’s about to do hits and he releases me, taking a step back.

Even with space between us, the tension in the air is still charged. Electric. On the brink of combusting.

“Guess you’re not so bad at bowling after all,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

I swallow down the renewed wave of disappointment. “I had a good coach.”