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Round 3

D inner and a movie was revised to just dinner. Then, due to a marketing-related emergency—whatever that meant—our entire date was reduced to “I’ll bring dessert. Love you.”

In Patrick’s defense, he arrived with backup in the form of chocolate chip cookies. He knew the way to my heart was through chocolate and sugar, and he got the expensive, buttery ones that melted on my tongue.

“How were your meetings?” I asked, popping an entire cookie into my mouth.

The second the words left my lips, Patrick launched into describing each moment in excruciating detail, as if leading up to the climax of his favorite movie.

“They loved the pitch. I could have stopped mid-presentation and we’d still have won the contract.” His familiar green eyes lit up in a way they only did when he spoke about work. But, stopping suddenly, his cheeks reddened, and he cut himself off—something he did frequently when he was too excited. “How was your day? I’m sorry I missed the proposal and messed up our date again.”

Sighing, he twirled his fingers through my long black hair.

“No, tell me more about the meeting. Marketing sounds more exciting than investment plans.”

“Ah, babe, it is.” He leaned back onto the couch and draped an arm around me.

I inhaled his fresh minty scent and blew out a quiet breath. “Sometimes I think it’s time to switch careers, but what would I switch to? I’m an investment analyst, that’s all I know. I’d just go and do it elsewhere.” Anxiety and despondency settled in my stomach, and I reached for another cookie to replace that feeling with sugar.

“What are you passionate about? Except board games. Do not say board games.”

And now that was all I could think about.

“There’s actually a competition happening at the moment, and the winning game will be produced into an actual board game that gets sold in stores and played by real people everywhere.” I was aware of my voice increasing in pitch, but I couldn’t help it. “There’s a decent cash prize too and—”

“Be serious.” He shook his head with a small smile.

His tone pinched at my chest and clipped my sentence.

“You used to like board games,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but we were students. Everyone was playing Risk and Explosive Kittens and whatever.”

Exploding Kittens . I didn’t bother correcting him.

He lifted my chin and met my gaze. His eyes held an expression that said, Please don’t turn this into a thing .

“Where do you picture yourself five years from now?” he asked.

Now, that was a question I had an answer to. I slipped out of his grasp and grabbed my laptop.

“Oh, here it comes.” He laughed, rubbing his hands along his beige chinos. “Rose Marie Jones’s infamous Life Goals spreadsheet.”

I navigated to the spreadsheet and opened the tab for my five-year projection. “Oh.” I breathed out a heavy sigh before clearing my throat. “I’d have finished this stupid MBA, and that would lead to the department head promotion—so that’s cool, I suppose. Good news is, I’d already be married and have a kid. Or I’d be pregnant. I left some wiggle room.”

A flush crept across my cheeks at having made these decisions without him. “And there’s a whole bunch of other stuff, but you don’t wanna know.” I slammed my laptop shut before he could see that my Life Goals had me listed as “engaged” a few months ago—before Shaun and Neema.

Perhaps he was planning to propose or perhaps business proposals were the only ones on his mind.

“How about you?” I asked.

“I’d like to be the COO by then,” he said without hesitating, as if the words had been sitting on the tip of his tongue. Like me, he had it all planned out.

Patrick leaned back, his eyelids drooping. I closed my own eyes, picturing my future. Department head at M maybe the fourteen-year-old Percy Jackson was more on my level.

When Gandalf won the next round, an accidental cheer escaped me. His gaze shot upward, and I burst into a fit of giggles—which he joined in.

“Thanks for being my very own hobbit cheerleader,” he said, approaching me during an intermission.

I chuckled and looked up at him for what felt like miles. “Well, I mean, I’m Frodo, so it made sense.”

He smiled, and my insides fluttered. Even with the beard and wig, he was very cute, and I wished I was wearing something that didn’t involve covering my feet in fake hair.

We spent the next few hours discussing our favorite games, and I mustered up the courage to show him my board game. He listened to the rules, and as it was my first time explaining it to someone that wasn’t my mom or dad, I discovered all the loopholes.

“While these rules don’t entirely make sense, I’m ready to play,” he announced with a grin far too cheeky for Gandalf.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” I said, embarrassed for wasting his time by thinking I had something. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to play it. We can play—”

“Can I kiss you?” he said, interrupting me. The exposed parts of his cheeks flushed before he snapped his mouth shut.

I could still remember his quick, short breaths and the way I’d nodded. Before I could find any words, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against mine. I had been kissed before, but no one had ever done it like that. His lips were soft, and I was unbothered by his long gray synthetic beard rubbing against my chin—I was too focused on how electricity seemed to be flowing through my body. The mere memory of that kiss made my heartbeat erratic.

He pulled away and smiled. “Let’s try the game. I already know half the rules.”

He said it so casually—as if I wouldn’t be obsessing about that kiss for the rest of the day. But then he started playing the game—my game—and it evolved in each round.

I jumped out of my mind and lifted the lid of the box to stare at this version of the Board-Game-in-Progress—born through our playing and his suggestions. And with college and work, it was still exactly as it was back then.

What could have been, if I’d been braver—if I’d approached the group of gamers and asked them to play my game?

I didn’t need the distraction or the reminder. There were deadlines I needed to meet, and a less-than-slim chance I’d win that competition, anyway.

I shoved the box underneath my desk.

Opening my laptop, I started on my assignment. In six months, I’d get my MBA and probably get promoted—which meant more money and more stability, both of which I wanted.

Right?

Second-guessing myself was becoming tiring.

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