Dating and Dragons (Dungeons and Drama, #2) (51)

“War, Quinn. This is pickleball war. And I’m not losing.”

I salute him. “Yes, sir.”

We actually get a point on the next round—tying us for the first time at nine points each—but we’re fighting for our lives out here on this tiny court. The volleying back and forth is insane. It’s amazing how Grandma and Jim can keep the ball from hitting the ground without having to move much at all.

“Next point.” Jim returns the ball in an arcing downward motion, and I completely miss it. Why is this game deceptively hard? Or am I just too distracted by my partner to play well?

“Ten to nine. Nice dink, Jim!” Grandma yells, and gives him a thumbs-up.

He bows.

“What’d you say?” I ask, readying my serve.

“A dink! Jim is great with dinks.”

I turn to Logan. He mouths, What the hell? and we burst out laughing.

“Stop flirting and start serving,” Jim calls.

That sobers me right up. Logan puts up a hand to stop me and comes to my side. “If they get one more point, then they win,” he tells me, like I’m not already fully aware. He takes two fingers and points back and forth between my eyes and his. “We’ve got like sixty-five years on these two. We will win this game. Team Dink!”

“I still don’t know what that is!” I reply as he returns to his side.

“No one does,” he cries, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It’s gibberish to confuse us!”

I serve the pickleball and Grandma returns the serve easily. Logan lunges for it.

“Dink it!” I cry out randomly, and Logan laughs as the ball connects with his paddle. This may be the weirdest game in the world, but it’s pretty good exercise. My legs are getting sore, I’m sweating in my jeans (which I’m highly regretting wearing), and my heart is working double time—although there’s likely a secondary cause for that.

Grandma returns the ball right down the midline that separates my side of the court from Logan’s. I don’t think; I only lunge for the ball. Unfortunately, Logan does the same thing. We both realize and try to slow our momentum, but it’s too late. The ball goes flying past us and we knock into each other—a tangle of arms and legs and pickleball paddles—and drop like a heavy sack of trash. The air is knocked out of my lungs and Logan lands half on top of me.

We both groan and suck in a breath. “I think I broke a hip,” he whispers, and rolls onto his back.

Grandma calls out to us in concern, and I give her a thumbs-up to show I’m not dead. We’ve officially gotten schooled by elderly pickleball ringers on social security.

“This is humbling,” I whisper back. I turn my head to look over at him and he does the same. Fire races through me. I’d happily be embarrassed by my grandma every day if I could lie like this with Logan.

He leans up on an elbow and his eyes trail up and down my body. “Are you actually hurt?” A wrinkle shows in his forehead.

“Physically, I’m fine. Emotionally…”

“Same.” He gets to his feet and reaches his hand out to me. I take it, loving the way his warm fingers wrap around my palm, and stand up. I land just a little too close to him, but I don’t step away immediately and neither does he.

“You two okay?” Grandma calls, mischief in her voice. “Looks like you’re swaying a bit there, Quinn.”

My cheeks heat even more. I step back from Logan. “Just catching my breath.”

“No need,” Jim says with a hoot. “That was game point. You’re welcome to play with us as often as you’d like, though. I love winning.”

“We might have scared them away,” Grandma says. “We should have taken it easier on them.”

I’m out of breath, I’m sore, and I still don’t know how this game works. But that does nothing to dim the grin on my face. I point at Grandma.

“Don’t speak so fast, old lady. We’re taking you down next time.”

“What your granddaughter said,” Logan replies, and we high-five again. “Happy to be your partner anytime.”

I could get used to this.





Chapter Twenty





“Soooooo, that was intense,” Logan says as I drive down the country road to his house.

When I told him I would drive him to pickleball because of his truck, I hadn’t fully thought through the details of driving him home. Not that I mind, but it’s a long drive since he lives out in the country, and the sun is already setting. It’s a lot of time to be alone with someone I probably shouldn’t be alone with.

“Extremely intense,” I reply, happy for a neutral conversation topic. “At least Grandma had a good time.”

“Oh, she had a great time. It looks like she might have a boyfriend too.”

I shudder. I don’t want to think about Grandma and boyfriends.

“Don’t be a hater. Everyone deserves to have someone in their life who loves them, no matter their age,” he says.

I feel his eyes on the side of my face, but I keep my focus on the road and tighten my grip on the steering wheel. So much for neutral conversations. When we pull up to his house, I slow down to take it all in.

“Whoa. So you’re, like, a farmer.”