Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me Chapter 106

**ELIZA’S POV**

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.

“I—” 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.”

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.”

I 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.”

Peter’s loud, unbridled laughter makes my heart flutter. “Neither do I,” 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.”

Granted, our competition turns out to be a group of seventh graders having a birthday party, but we wipe the floor with them nonetheless. So much so that the birthday boy, Evan, gets so frustrated, he drops a bowling ball on his leg, causing him to scream so loud, the foundations of the bowling alley shake.

Peter and I hightail it out of there, laughing our asses off.

“Oh my God,” I wheeze, doubled over, my hands bracing on my knees. “I feel awful!”

Peter chortles. “He still has a life of disappointments ahead of him; it's better to let him learn young.”

“That is *not* a good philosophy, Peter. Is that what you intend to teach your children?”

He shrugs. “Then I can leave the teaching to you. I’ll be the fun dad.”

My laughter dies in my throat. There it is *again.*

Peter cocks his head, his eyes tracking me. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head, my ponytail whipping my cheeks. “Yeah, it’s just—” I wipe my suddenly damp hands on my dress. “You keep saying…things.”

He raises a brow. “About marriage and kids.”

He’s so blunt. I flush.

“It’s my roundabout, evasive way of saying I like you.”

My heart jerks. My lips part, but no words come out.

Peter takes a tentative step forward. He reaches for me—but then drops his hand. Tucks them in his pocket instead.

“When my parents brought up the idea of this competition, I was pissed. It made no sense to me, and I had no intention of cooperating the way they wanted me to.”

I swallow. “And now?”

“I’m an adrenaline junkie, Eliza. If I’m not doing something exciting, I get too in my head, and it’s a dark place I hate.”

I hold my breath. It’s the first real insight I’ve ever gotten into Peter Ashford.

“With you, it feels like I’m constantly high, like you’re a never-ending fix.”

My heartbeat accelerates. *He’s* the adrenaline shot. *He’s* the one who makes me feel high.

“You excite me, Eliza, in a way no one ever has.”

“But—” I swallow, a vine of fear creeping up my spine. “It’s because I compete with you. April said you like challenges. If you take all that away…” I’m just boring old Eliza. Shy, aloof, mild.

Finally, he takes my hand. “We’re not competing right now,” he says, his voice dropping several octaves. “And yet, my heart feels like it’s about to combust in my chest.”

He can’t be serious. He can’t really mean—

Peter presses my hand to his chest, and I gasp softly. Underneath my palm, his heart beats like an industrial-strength piston.

His other hand snakes around my waist, pulling me in, and my heart rate matches his.

The hand pressing my hand to his chest lifts, but my palm stays pressed against him. He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my head up to him.

“I like you, Eliza,” he says softly.

“I…me too,” I whisper.

He smiles, his thumb brushing my lip. “Good.”

Then, just as I think he’s going to kiss me and finally kill me with the surge of emotions welling up in me, his eyes flicker to something above my head.

His lips twitch. “We should leave.”

I turn in the direction he’s staring at, and giddy, incredulous laughter falls from my lips.

Barreling down the road, blaring into the night, is an ambulance.

Although I want to feel bad for poor Evan and his damaged foot and ruined birthday, as Peter and I dive for his car, all I can feel is giddy, lightheaded happiness.