He made another one of his patented grumbling noises and said, “Fine. Let me get these bastards squared away, and we’ll see how late it’s really gotten. We can always pick up where we left off later. We’ll just say the score’s been put on hold.”

“Will we, now?”

“Yes,” he said, looking down at her, for she’d reached the street level and was a few feet below him.

She noticed him looking down the top of her dress, but did not bother to cover herself, or pretend she hadn’t seen him looking. All she said was, “Call it how you like it. I won tonight.”

“It’s whoever shoots best for the week,” he insisted.

“The week?”

“Yes, the week. It’s only Thursday. We’ll start again tomorrow night, and see who’s on top come Sunday morning.”

“You’re a filthy heathen of a man, aren’t you?” she asked him, watching as he turned around and began his own descent to the knotted, bleached boards of the pier. And to her.

“Ma’am, you don’t know the half of it.”