Chapter 8 #2
“Sight picture,” he said, and she watched the little squared-off front post float and sharpen. “Front sight is your queen. Focus on her. The rest is just cheering.”
“Are there any kings?” she asked, voice barely there.
“Not in this kingdom.” His grin flashed in her periphery. “Press the trigger straight back. Slow. Surprise yourself.”
“Like before?” she said.
“Exactly like before.”
“Less kick,” Kenny offered. “Different kind.”
Mike hummed. “Snappier. She’ll talk back fast.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“No need. I’m right here.”
“It’s not going to fly out of my hands?”
“Nope.”
Heather and Charlotte had moved closer, forming a little half-circle that somehow managed to feel protective instead of intrusive. Charlotte was clutching a sheet of sparkly stickers to her chest like a medal rack.
“You ready?” Mike whispered.
“Not even a little.”
“Perfect,” he said, and straddled his feet around hers until their boots almost touched. His hands bracketed her wrists, not holding, just there. A promise of steady if she needed it.
She lined up the sights. The pistol felt alive in her hands, coiled like a spring. The air shimmered in the heat.
She pressed.
The shot cracked. Not as loud as the rifle. The muzzle jumped, a quick kick against her palms that startled her even though she expected it. The can shivered, wobbled, and settled right back where it was, rude as a cat turning its back.
“High,” Kenny said calmly.
“Reset,” Mike coaxed. “Keep your eye on the front site.”
He smelled like cut grass and soap, distracting her. It’s a wonder she could even think.
She tried again. Press. The can tipped and fell, clattering to the dirt and rolling a little before it kissed a thistle and stopped.
Charlotte squealed. “Yay! You get another sticker!”
Heather whooped. Kenny’s chin dipped in approval.
Liv felt the grin break across her face before she could stop it. Mike’s hands tightened a fraction, his own pleasure humming through his touch and into her.
“Again,” she said, surprising herself.
“Bossy,” he teased. He brought the pistol down, checked the chamber, tucked another magazine in, the motions so smooth they were nearly a dance.
“Two this time,” he said. “One for the can. One for that bottle cap by its foot. Tiny target. You’ll have to really mind your front sight.”
“Are you trying to impress me?”
“Yes,” he said, shameless.
She laughed. “At least you’re honest.”
Kenny had already set more cans. They looked like a little army of tin, all at varied heights.
Mike lifted the pistol and squared up. Two quick shots. Ping, ping. The cap leapt like a startled flea.
If Kenny was impressed, he didn’t say so. He just scratched his jaw and said, “You been practicing.”
“Little bit.” Mike’s eyes stayed on Liv. “Your turn.”
He put it back in her hands, set her grip again, molding her fingers just right, thumbs nested, his thumbs over hers for one heartbeat longer than was necessary. Her pulse tripped under his touch. He felt it. She knew he did. His mouth curved without moving.
“Don’t chase the first shot,” he said softly. “Let it settle. Then press again. Think press…reset…press. You’re not yanking a lawnmower cord. You’re ringing a doorbell.”
“I hate doorbells,” she muttered. “And I assure you I’ve never yanked a lawnmower cord. I live in an apartment.”
“Pick a metaphor you like.”
“Soft elevator button,” Heather offered.
“Pop it like bubble wrap,” Charlotte said, very serious.
“Bubble wrap,” Mike decided. “Do that.”
She exhaled. Front sight. Bubble wrap.
Press. The can danced off the rail and threw itself dramatically into the grass. She reset, press again before her heart could climb back into her throat.
The second can spun, surprised.
Her whole body sang.
“Dead eye,” Mike said with a grin. “Good job.” He took the pistol from her, cleared it, and set it on the open case.
Only then did he touch her without pretense, both hands sliding up to rest lightly at her waist, not claiming, just holding her in the aftermath of recoil and noise and adrenaline.
His forehead dipped to almost meet hers.
Almost. He let the air between them spark instead.
“Not wimpy?” he asked.
“Not remotely.”
“You shaking?”
“A little.”
“Good.” His voice roughened, the smallest scrape of gravel. “Means you’re human. Also means you’re hooked.”
She swallowed. “On the gun?”
He huffed a laugh. “We can discuss…addictions later.” His thumb found the edge of her shirt and skimmed just once over the cotton before he retreated to safer territory. The look he gave her was anything but safe.
Kenny cleared his throat, the sound politely loud. “Just remember to keep your thumbs away from the slide, Liv,” he said, tone bland, eyes amused. “And, uh, kids are present.”
“I’m a kid!” Charlotte announced. “And I’m present! And I have stickers!”
She marched over, peeled off a glittering star, and stuck it dead center on Liv’s chest. Then she slapped a crooked heart onto Mike’s sleeve. “For help.”
“Do I get one?” Kenny asked.
Charlotte considered him like a general reviewing troops, then gave him a tiny gold circle near his watch. “There you go.”
Heather laughed and gave Charlotte a hug when the little girl trotted back to her side. Mike’s hand found Liv’s again. He leaned, brushed the briefest kiss to her temple, then stepped back into instructor mode like it had never happened.
“Reload practice?” he asked, all innocence.
“Bossy,” she said again, but she was already nodding, already reaching for the pistol, already feeling that new, fierce thing uncurling inside her like a banner in the wind.
That afternoon, Heather and Liv rolled up their sleeves for what Heather called "cinnamon roll therapy."
The kitchen smelled like butter and sugar and home. Flour dusted the counter. The oven hummed warm in the background.
Heather worked dough with easy, practiced hands.
“You’re good at this,” Liv said. “I thought you were more comfortable outdoors than in the kitchen."
“I learned baking from my mom," she said, voice soft. "She believed every problem in life could be handled with yeast, butter, and prayer."
“My mom wasn’t really the cozy homemaker type.
But my Nana was. I learned baking from her.
My parents were upper-crust society people who expected me to marry Wall Street or become corporate royalty.
They weren’t exactly thrilled when I earned a scholarship to a culinary institute.
” She kneaded the dough with hands that were slightly fatigued from target practice.
“Well good for you for following your dream instead of falling in line.”
“Sometimes that felt like an uphill battle. I was tossed into a world of competition and food and a whole social media world determined to judge me. And not always very nicely. I had to learn to be tough. Take care of myself because there wasn’t anyone to fall back on that wouldn’t immediately say, ‘I told you so’. ”
Heather nodded, not judging. Just accepting.
"I used to think surviving meant being the toughest person in the room.
" She paused, hands stilling. "Then I married a man who broke more than just promises.
After a couple trips to the ER, I finally gathered up my courage and pride and came home.
Lyle was here and showed me what healing really looked like. "
Liv went quiet, hands sticky with dough.