The Single Dad's Second Chance Read Online Free

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