The Single Dad's Second Chance. Brenda Harlen

was still bruised over her breakup with Eric—she’d developed a bit of a crush on Andrew Garrett. Her feelings had been fueled, at least in part, by his obvious love for and commitment to his wife. Every time he’d come into the shop, she’d looked at him as proof that there really were good guys in the world. And because she’d believed he was married, she’d been confident that the attraction she felt would never be anything more than an innocent infatuation.

      Now that she knew he was widowed, she was afraid that crush might develop into something more. She wasn’t looking for anything more, and yet she’d accepted his cryptic challenge. After a brief tussle over the bill—which Gemma settled by refusing to take money from either one of them—she’d chosen to spend time with him rather than go home alone. And after a ten-hour day that left her mentally and physically exhausted, she was a little worried about what that meant.

      “Here we are,” he said.

      Rachel stared at the blinking neon that spelled out Ridgemount Lanes with two crossed pins and a ball between the words.

      Apparently “it” was bowling.

      He pulled into a parking space and unfastened his seat belt. She didn’t move.

      “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she told him.

      “Why not?”

      “Because I can’t remember the last time I was bowling.” She considered for a minute, her brow furrowed. “Actually, I think it might have been way back in high school.”

      “How far back is ‘way back’?”

      “I graduated ten years ago.”

      “Which means that you’re about...twenty-eight?”

      Her gaze narrowed. “And you’re sneaky.”

      “Am I right?”

      “I’ll be twenty-eight at the end of July,” she admitted. “How long ago did you graduate high school?”

      His smile was wry. “Before you started.”

      “Another reason we should reconsider this,” Rachel told him. “The physical activity might be too strenuous for a man of such advanced age.”

      “I can handle it if you can,” he assured her.

      She unfastened her belt.

      Before she could reach for the handle of her door, he was there, opening it for her. She followed him through sliding glass panels that parted automatically in response to their approach and was immediately assaulted by unfamiliar noises and scents. The thunk of heavy balls dropping onto wood; the crash of pins knocking against each other and toppling over, punctuated by an occasional whoop or muttered curse; the smell of lemon polish and French fry grease with a hint of stale sweat.

      There were thirty-two lanes, and Rachel was surprised to note that almost half of them were occupied. There were several teams in coordinated shirts that identified them as part of a league, a few groups of teens and several older couples. But the bigger surprise was the discovery of Valentine’s decorations hanging from the ceiling: cutouts of cupids’ silhouettes and foil hearts, and bouquets of helium-filled heart-shaped balloons at every scoring console.

      “So much for forgetting it’s February 14,” Rachel noted, as she followed Andrew to the counter.

      His only response was to ask, “Shoe size?”

      “Eight.”

      The man behind the counter—whose name tag identified him as Grover—had three days’ growth of beard, red-rimmed eyes and wore a T-shirt that barely stretched to cover his protruding belly with the inscription: Real Bowlers Play With Their Own Balls. The image effectively killed any romantic ambience and made Rachel feel a lot better about this outing.

      “Welcome to Ridgemount Lanes,” he said, his voice showcasing slightly more enthusiasm than his tired expression.

      “We’re going to need a men’s twelve, a women’s eight and a lane.”

      “Number Six is available,” Grover said. “And just like the Stay Inn, we rent by the hour so you can play as much as you want.” He relayed this information with a lewd smile and an exaggerated wink.

      Andrew looked at his watch. “There’s still two-and-a-half hours of Valentine’s Day left,” he told Rachel. “Do you want to do two hours?”

      She had no idea how much bowling it would take to fill two hours, but since it wouldn’t be much of a hardship to spend the time in his company, she said, “Sounds good.”

      Grover plunked two pairs of shoes down on the counter then punched some buttons on the cash register.

      Rachel looked at the battered shoes that were half red and half blue with threadbare black laces, her expression of such horror, Andrew couldn’t help but laugh. She picked them up gingerly and held them at arm’s length.

      She slipped her feet out of the low-heeled boots she was wearing and eased them into the rented footwear. She wiggled her toes then fastened the laces. He programmed their names into the computer, while she took a few steps, testing the shoes.

      “Ugly but surprisingly comfortable,” she decided.

      “You’re up first,” he told her.

      “Why?”

      “Because my father taught me that ladies go first.”

      “But I don’t know what I’m doing,” she reminded him.

      “Take a few practice throws.”

      She surveyed the selection of balls in the return, finally choosing a pink one. She studied the holes for a minute before sliding her fingers and thumb inside. She took her position on the approach and glanced toward lane ten, where a sixty-something woman strode toward the lane and let her ball fly. It thunked on the wood, dangerously close to the gutter, then hooked back toward the middle and crashed into the pins, taking seven of them down.

      Andrew watched Rachel square her shoulders, no doubt confident that if the blue-haired lady could do this, she could, too. She took a few tentative steps toward the foul line then bent to release the ball. As she did so, he couldn’t help noticing what a nicely shaped derriere she had.

      His eyes skimmed downward, appreciating the long, sexy legs encased in snug denim. His gaze moved up again, admiring her distinctly feminine curves, and he felt that stir of something low in his belly again.

      When she turned back, her brow was furrowed. She picked up another ball—a blue one this time—and flung it toward the pins. He forced himself to watch the ball rather than her back end and noticed that the blue orb made it about halfway toward the pins before it veered off and into the gutter.

      “What am I doing wrong?” she demanded.

      “You’re turning your wrist.”

      “No, I’m not.”

      He shrugged. “Okay, try another one.”

      She picked up the pink ball again, watched it roll into the gutter, and sighed. “Okay, maybe I am.”

      “Maybe?”

      “But I’m not doing it on purpose.”

      He stood behind her and wrapped his fingers around her wrist to immobilize it. He felt her pulse racing beneath his fingers and realized that his own heart was beating a little bit faster than usual, too. And when she moved to release the ball, the sweet curve of her bottom brushed against his groin, causing a jolt of lust to spear low in his belly and spread through his veins.

      Three pins fell down. She turned around, and the smile that curved her lips illuminated her whole face. “I did it.”

      “Now do it again.”

      She picked up the ball with more enthusiasm this time.

      “Concentrate on keeping your