‘Smooth moves baby,’ he hummed, nose pressed against her ear. She smirked and glanced at the tally board, her row of perfect strikes lined up above his row of not-so-perfect spares.
‘You’re turn,’ she said and handed him the purple ball from the rack.
He took it and kissed her on the nose.
‘Just you watch,’ he said. ‘One of these days I’m going to whoop your ass at this and there won’t be anythin’ you can do about it.’
Still grinning he turned and let loose, shooting wide.
Four skittles she counted.
Yeah, he wasn’t winning any time soon.
Carol J Forrester - Writing and Works 