Chapter 25 #2
Or I could hit a double eight, pretending to miss again, and give the rest of these idiots another shot at winning, but I’m too competitive for that.
The night’s young, though. Plenty of time to work my magic on her. I flick the dart and hit the eight. Groans and snorts surround me as the fellas complain.
Yet Bree stands there, openly staring at me with narrowed eyes. I may have overplayed my hand. She knows how good I am at darts. That’s because she’s almost as good as I am. She’d probably tell you she’s better, and she might be right.
But not tonight.
While I retrieve the darts from the board, she pulls the other four women into a huddle, which has the rest of us glancing at each other in confusion. Ethan appears amused after a minute, but Luke’s expression mirrors the concern on Payton’s face.
Not worry. More like dread. As in, what fresh hell are these women about to let loose?
I think we’re about to find out.
Their huddle breaks with Bree at the lead. “We challenge you.”
“Excuse me?” Anticipation tingles through me, much like when I’m in the crease and an opposing player heads toward me in a breakaway. The muscle memory makes my thighs and shoulders tense.
Mia crosses her arms. “You heard our girl. We’re ready to show you guys who rules that board.”
Payton snickers. “Wouldn’t exactly be a fair fight, ladies. Wade and I are quite good.”
Bree shakes her head. “One on one. I go against Wade. One round of Cricket.”
As kids, we’d spend Saturday afternoons in the barn, holding our own dart tournaments. Ellie and Piper would last a few rounds before wandering off to more interesting endeavors, while Bree and I would keep the challenges going until we needed a bathroom break or food.
I don a slow smile as I tap a dart against the other two in my hand. “You’re on.”
She examines the various sets of darts provided by the establishment, most likely searching for the best weight for her smaller hands.
Barbie-man pulls me off to the side, a huddle of our own. “There’s definitely a vibe between you two.”
The hope I’ve held close pulses in my chest and grows. If they can see what I’m feeling, then I’m not off base.
But I don’t want to jinx it either. “Just some friendly rivalry.”
Elias snorts. “More like foreplay.”
Luke jabs his elbow into his side, making Elias hunch over with an oof.
With a furtive glance toward Bree, who’s standing at the throw line, practicing a few shots, Ethan leans toward me. “Is she any good?”
I nod. “Almost as good as me.”
Zayne holds his hand out, revealing a twenty-dollar bill. “Let’s make it interesting.”
Luke grunts, pushes his hand away. “Not the time, man.”
Even Mason’s shaking his head.
Zayne splays his hands out, the twenty tucked between two fingers. “What? They have their girl. We’re betting on our guy.”
Before we can argue, he walks over to the women, who jump for their wallets, shocking all of us.
“They’re vested.” Luke pulls at the back of his neck.
Payton snickers. “Understatement of the year, mate. Lily’s the most competitive person I’ve ever met.” He wags his eyebrows. “Certainly keeps the relationship interesting.”
We all groan.
Ethan drapes an arm over Payton’s shoulders. “Happy for you, but TMI, bro.”
While they continue to chirp at each other, I move to stand by Bree.
She lifts her chin, her blue eyes flashing with challenge and something else—desire perhaps?—I haven’t seen before. “Ready to lose?”
Her sweet honeysuckle fragrance invades my nose, teasing me just like her words. I inhale her scent slowly, so she won’t notice, and keep my expression steady. “I seem to recall winning the last time we played.”
“That was a long time ago. I’ve gotten better.”
Heat rides up the back of my neck and down my arms. Maybe Elias’s comment about foreplay isn’t too far off, but I can’t let my head go there.
I lift my chin toward the board. “Prove it. Ladies first.”
Her jaw clenches in that stubborn way she does when she’s about to launch into a full-blown argument.
“For the bull-off.” I hold up a dart to stop her retort. If she feels the need to prove something, I’m willing to play this out, her way, so she’ll have no doubts about it being a fair game.
I win the throw to see who goes first, which rankles Bree but also seems to spur her on.
The shouts of encouragement and ribbing from our friends fade into the background as I watch her every move.
I’m tracking the board and our scores, of course, but I’m also stealing glances at how her jeans hug her hips and how her fitted T-shirt accentuates the curve of her waist.
She’s so graceful, yet strong. Her throws are poised and targeted, hitting her intended mark with precision. She’s right—she has gotten better at this game. Did she play darts with Chase?
The thought sticks in the back of my throat and sours. My next throw goes wide because of it, too.
She raises a brow at me. “What’s wrong, Wade? Are you nervous about losing? I promise I won’t rub it in your face too much.”
I clench my jaw. Not because her comment bothers me, which it does, just not in the way she intended.
I’m trying to control how my body is reacting to her.
I may have been in love with this woman for most of my adult life—correction, all of my adult life—but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this.
Sexy, bold, daring…
We continue this dance of precise throws and challenging barbs until we’re both down to one throw to close our numbers. We both need an inner bullseye, something I can do easily.
However, I also know it’s the most difficult one for Bree.
It’s the smallest space on the board to hit, and she used to always get it in her head if she didn’t get those out of the way early on.
My chest tightens at the thought of the pressure she’s feeling right now, battling with my desire to win.
If she makes her shot, she wins because we’re tied in points. If she misses, but I don’t, which I know I won’t, I’ll win. And part of me wants to let her win—let her have her moment—so I can watch her strut a little more.
She takes position, wiggling her hips to get her feet right—and driving me crazy—then throws her shot.
And hits it.
The other ladies squeal, bouncing up and down as they hug each other. My cheeks tighten with my grin as they praise Bree.
Mia holds her hand in an ‘L’ shape to her forehead and then points at me. “Loser.”
Worth it.
Behind me, the fellas intermingle some swears with their complaining.
I face Zayne. “Pay up.”
With his tail tucked between his legs, he shuffles over to the women, roping an arm over Harper’s shoulders, who then blushes as she shoots him a shy glance.
Interesting… But more so, Mason looks like he’s ready to throttle him.
Not sure if this has happened before, but I make a mental note to mention it to Luke. We don’t need Zanie’s antics to wreak havoc with the family dynamics we have with the team and staff. We’ve worked too hard to recover from the scandal last year.
Ethan grabs my shoulder and leans in so he can whisper in my ear, “Did you let her win?”
I shove him off. “No, you bonehead.”
Although I do feel a slight pinch of guilt that I had considered it, but Bree did this all on her own. She deserves the win.
And I intend to tell her that. I walk toward their group. Bree’s back is to me, but her head is down. Mia, Sophie, and Lily stand around her, their smiles shifting to something else as I step closer, catching a glimpse of her phone.
A text pops up.
Chase: I’m glad you came around. This will be good for both of us, don’t you think?
I freeze in place, heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. Is she getting back together with him? How could she do that after everything that creep did to her?
Sophie notices me standing there and quickly pushes her hand over Bree’s phone. “Did you come to congratulate our girl?”
The happiness I felt for Bree’s win turns cold in my chest. I force a smile when I’d rather grab her phone and toss it at the dartboard. Then I’d revel in watching it smash into pieces on the floor, joining what’s left of my hope that I could ever make her see me as more than a friend.
“Of course. She got lucky, I guess.” I hate myself for the barb, but I’m barely holding in my anger at this point.
Bree glares at me. “Never imagined you as a sore loser.”
With a shrug, I turn away, tell the fellas I need to go, and then leave the bar, agreeing with Bree’s statement every step to my car and on the ride home.
Because she’s right, I am a sore loser. More than she’ll ever know.