Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me
Chapter 129
ELIZA’S POV
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45
Occasionally, when I’m feeling particularly introspective, I ponder the futile mortality of life and wonder how I’ll die.
I don’t need to wonder anymore; there’s a list of possibilities. I could go into cardiac arrest caused by arrhythmia. I could suffocate in silence. I could spontaneously combust from nervousness.
“I can hear you rattling about in your head,” Peter says, his voice dancing with amusement.
My gaze shifts to him, and I immediately look away when I find his piercing blue orbs on me.
“1- I exhale. “Sorry, I’m just…” Nervous, nauseous, neurotic.
“Do you not like this?” he asks, the amusement fading. “The switch, I mean. I know we didn’t particularly ask for your permission or opinion, and in hindsight, we should have. It’s just that Nathan and April obviously wanted each other, but I should have cleared it with – He glances at me and does a double–take, looking between me and the road.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
I bite my lip to stifle my smile. “You’re rambling.”
Peter scoffs, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel with…nervous energy? “No, I’m…not.”
It’s not just me.
*I’m glad you switched,” I say, feeling my nerves dissolve somewhat.
Peter exhales. “Do you mean that?”
I nod. “I’m sorry if I come off…standoffish. I’m just really… You make me–It’s just-”
Peter takes my hand, and my brain shuts down. “Breathe, Eliza.”
“I can’t do that if you’re touching me,” I wheeze.
But he doesn’t let go. Instead, he squeezes my hand. “You’re going to have to learn. Can’t go making me a twenty–year–old widow.”
My mouth drops open, but no air goes into my brain, which is why I can’t process his words, his insinuation. Did he-
“We’re here,” he announces.
I tear my gaze from Peter to take in my surroundings. We’re in a parking lot, parked among a handful of cars.
I squint at the neon flickering sign of the building in front of us. Lucky Strike.
“A…bowling alley.”
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17:12 Fri, Oct 10 B
Chapter 120
Of all the first date ideas I dreamt up, this was not one of them.
“I never want you to be uncomfortable around me,” Peter says. “But it seems ‘shy‘ is your default setting. The only times I’ve ever seen you glow are when we’re competing.”
1 let out a puff of laughter, feeling more and more of those nerves ease.
“It’s perfect.” His hand is still on mine, and I flip my palm, interlacing our fingers. “But I don’t know if I like the idea of constantly wiping the floor with you.”
45
Peter’s loud, unbridled laughter makes my heart flutter. “Neither do 1,” he says, his hand slipping out of mine as he exits the car.
Before I can open my door, he’s already by the passenger side, holding it open. “Which is why we’ll be competing as a team.” He holds out his hand, and I take it, my whole body warm under his touch.
“After all, marriage is teamwork, right?”
There it is again. My brain almost shuts down in its desperate attempt to understand his insinuation.
It’s a miracle I go through the date without experiencing multi–organ failure–and there are so many opportunities for that.
When we’re putting on our bowling shoes, Peter grabs my ankle, burning the muscles and joints to cinders, and helps me fit my feet into the shoes. He retrieves a hair tie out of his pocket and ignites my skull when he gently pulls my hair into a ponytail.
And he liquifies my insides when his warm hands cup my face and his eyes lock on mine. “The only person I’ll ever concede to is you. We’re winning this.”
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