Chapter 9 #2
“Yeah.” I look past her to the window, the snow swirling in the orange streetlight.
“Between the wide-open spaces and the mountains, what’s not to love?
Work’s good. People mind their business.
You can drive twenty minutes and be in a completely different world.
” I feel her watching me, so I look back.
“It’s a lot different than Illinois, but it grows on you. ”
She bites her lip, eyes soft. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
“It will.” I don’t even have to think about it. “You’re easy to like, kind… beautiful.” I finish the last of my beer. “You won’t have trouble finding your people.”
Color blooms in her cheeks again and fuck if I don’t want to lean in and test how warm they are but I don’t. I fiddle nervously with the label on my empty beer bottle while the moment stretches between us.
Her gaze drops to my mouth. My jaw tightens.
This is where things tilt if I let them.
Emotional intimacy is worse than physical sometimes—harder to walk back.
And she’s looking at me like I’m some kind of lifeline, like I’m not the guy who already decided he wasn’t going to get tangled up with anybody, least of all his sister’s best friend.
I clear my throat, breaking the tension. “So,” I say, glancing over her shoulder toward the back of the bar, “you play darts?”
The mood shifts and her eyes are back on mine, confusion flickering on her face. “Darts?”
“Yeah. The bar game.” I jerk my chin to where a couple of boards hang on the wall, lit by a green-shaded lamp, red and green flights sticking out of one. “You know, those sharp things you throw at the wall?”
She laughs, loud and delighted. “I didn’t realize people still played darts. In college it was just beer pong and flip cup.”
“Darts is for grown-ups. Come on.”
“Am I about to beat you in a game of darts?” she teases, hopping off her stool and following me to the back of the bar.
“Somebody’s gotta show you how Denver spends a winter night. Come on, Simpson,” I say, guiding her through the small crowd with a hand at the small of her back. “Let’s see if you’re any good.”
The back corner is a little darker, lit by that green lamp over the dartboard and whatever Christmas lights the owner threw back here.
There’s a high-top that’s seen better days and a digital jukebox on the wall cycling through holiday stuff.
A couple at the pool table glances over but loses interest when they realize we’re not joining.
Hailey’s already picking up darts. “These are cute,” she says, holding one up. “They match.”
“They’re not cute,” I tell her, fighting a smile. “They’re darts.” I stand behind her, take two darts, leaving one on the ledge. “You ever actually played?”
“Like… once. At a dive bar with Maddie, but we were drunk and I don’t remember who won.”
I nod to the line of tape on the floor. “Stand there.”
She plants her boots on it, rolling her shoulders like she’s about to go up to bat. Her ass is right there in those jeans, snug and perfect, and I’m an idiot for putting myself directly behind her.
“Okay, so you’re gonna aim for the middle,” I say, stepping closer, letting my hand ghost over her elbow. “Keep your arm steady.”
She freezes at the touch, then relaxes into it. I shouldn’t have done that. I should let her throw wild and laugh at her. Instead, I’m handling her like this is a first date and I have one goal in mind for the night’s end.
She draws her arm back and lets the dart fly. It hits the board. Far right, no points. She gasps anyway, laughing like she nailed it. “Did you see that? I made contact.”
“Barely.”
She bumps her shoulder into my chest. “Rude.”
“Here.” I grab the second dart from her hand. “Watch.”
I throw without thinking. Years of bar nights after my breakup, killing time by drinking away my sorrows.
She stares at the board. “Show-off.”
“I thought you said you were gonna beat me,” I tease.
“I still might.” She lifts her chin, giving me that determined little look. “Beginner’s luck is real.”
“Not against me.”
She makes a face and reaches for another dart. When she throws this time, her hip brushes my thigh. The dart hits closer.
“That was better,” I say.
She spins around, triumph in her eyes. “See? I can be taught.”
I look down at her, mouth pulling tight because yeah, I could teach her a lot of things. She must read something in my face because her smile falters for half a second, eyes flicking to my mouth again.
Fuck.
“Your turn,” she says, voice a little breathier now.
We trade throws back and forth, only about half of hers actually hitting the board.
I win, obviously. But she doesn’t pout. Every time she hits anywhere near the board, she cheers, full-body, like she can’t contain it.
Once she actually does a little jump and her hand lands on my chest to steady herself.
My heart slams. She doesn’t move it away. She stands there, looking up at me, her breath coming out in little pants. “You’re good at this,” she says, fingers curled in my sweater.
“It’s just darts,” I say, but my voice comes out rough and needy. All I can think about is that hand sliding farther down my chest till it reaches my belt.
She either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. She spins away, laughing, grabbing her drink to take a sip. “Okay, what do I get if I win the next round?”
“You’re not gonna win.”
“But if I do.”
I drag a hand over my jaw. This is too easy. She’s too easy to want. “Bragging rights.”
She narrows her eyes. “Lame.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
Her smile turns wicked. “You build the rest of any other furniture I buy for my apartment.”
I huff. “We both know I’m gonna do that anyway.”
“Okay, then… you teach me to snowboard.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on.” She leans in, eyes sparkling, red mouth pouty. “I want to be a Colorado girl.”
“You’ll break your neck.”
“Not if you teach me.”
I shake my head. “We’ll talk.”
She grins like that’s a win. Then she spins and throws a single dart at the board… and actually nails a decent number. She squeals, hand flying to my forearm this time, fingers wrapping around hard muscle.
“Did you see that?” she says, eyes huge.
“Yeah. I saw.”
I saw the way your tits bounced when you jumped. I saw the way all that happy energy spilled out of you. I saw the way every guy in this bar noticed you and the way you didn’t notice them because you were looking at me.
It’s… too much.
I feel it start to crawl up my spine, that mix of want and warning. This is how it starts. Fun, easy, innocent. Next thing I know, I’m in her apartment again or, worse, in her bed, and then Maddie’s calling me on Christmas asking why the hell I touched her best friend and broke her fucking heart.
I clear my throat and look back toward the bar. “We should wrap it up.”
Her face falls. Just a flicker, but I catch it. “Already?”
“It’s getting late,” I say, reaching into my back pocket for my wallet. “We gotta walk you home still.”
“I can pay,” she says immediately, digging for her purse that she left on the high-top. “I said I owed you the drink.”
“I know what you said.” I close my hand over her wrist before she can pull her wallet free. I feel her warm, soft skin and instantly regret the contact. I let go right away. “I’ve got it.”
“Cole,” she groans, following me as I head back toward the bar. “You were supposed to let me pay. That was literally the whole point.”
“A woman never pays,” I toss over my shoulder.
She mutters something about “old-fashioned” and “annoying” but she’s smiling when I hand the bartender cash for both rounds and toss a tip in the jar.
When I turn back, she’s already got her coat in her arms, cheeks pink. She slides it on, zipping it halfway. “Fine,” she says, tugging on her gloves. “But now I definitely owe you.”
Yeah. That’s the problem, I want you to pay me back in all sorts of filthy ways.
The temperature has dropped outside, and the snow has picked up, little flakes swirling under the streetlights, landing in her hair. The Copper Tap door shuts behind us and the music muffles, leaving just the crunch of our boots and the quiet of a Denver winter night.
She falls into step beside me, bumping my arm with hers. “You do realize,” she says, voice playful, “that you were supposed to let me pay. That was the whole thing.”
“I told you,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets, “a woman never pays.”
She pokes me in the ribs through my coat, bold now. “Is that a general rule or a date rule?”
I stop.
She doesn’t. She takes two more steps before she realizes I’ve halted, then turns back, breath puffing in front of her mouth, eyes wide and teasing. I look at her for a long second, the streetlight throwing gold over her face, the red of her mouth, the little snowflakes caught on her lashes.
“It’s a general rule,” I say finally, voice low. “I don’t let women pay.”
Her brows rise just a fraction, like she heard the subtext. Then she smiles and keeps walking, like she didn’t just yank the rug out from under my self-control.
We head toward her building, boots crunching, our breath clouding the air. There aren’t many people out, it’s far too cold. She pulls her coat tighter around her.
“So…” she says, glancing up at me. “Are you coming home for Christmas this year?”
There it is. The question Maddie has already asked me twice.
“Probably not,” I say, eyes forward.
She stops again, this time making me stop with her. “What? Why not? It’s Christmas.”
We’re right in front of her building now, big glass doors, lobby light spilling onto the sidewalk. She turns to face me fully, boots to boots, tilting her head up. Snowflakes are stuck in her hair.
“I’ve got stuff going on,” I say, which is the vaguest, weakest answer. “Work. Jobs lined up.”
She narrows her eyes like she doesn’t buy it. “Cole. It’s Christmas. Maddie will freak if you don’t come.”