Chapter Fourteen
Let’s go? Go where? They couldn’t leave with their drinks, and confused, she asked, “What?”
Beers in hand, Liam side-eyed her. “Darts?”
“Now?”
He laughed as if her poor bourbon-soaked brain was much slower than even he thought. “Yeah, sunshine. Now.”
Goosebumps surprised her, but she had more pressing problems to figure out like how to get out of darts. “I can’t. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’ll figure it out.” He turned toward the back of the bar.
“I like to know how to do things before I get myself into a pickle,” she said then pushed off the barstool.
Whoa, boy. Maybe she should’ve stood slower. The bar room teeter-tottered, and she squeezed her eyes closed. His steady hand met her arm, and Chelsea peeked one eye open, then the next. “See? I shouldn’t be allowed to handle sharp objects.”
Liam wrapped her beer in her hand then pulled her toward the game area. “It’s not hard. What you don’t know, I’ll teach you.”
Her stomach fluttered even as she rolled her eyes hard enough to fall over. “I didn’t say it was, and I don’t want to learn in public.” Still, she trudged behind him, sipping her beer.
They stood by the darts, and he commanded in a loud voice, “Excuse me, everyone? Please look away.”
“Liam!”
No one glanced their way. She scowled, and he grinned with triumph.
“Just watch the master.” He took a long pull of his beer and set it on an empty table. In less than a minute, Liam had snagged the darts and hit the bullseye. Then he did it again and again, one after another.
“Show-off,” she muttered.
“Your turn.” He winked.
How did she get herself into this position? She couldn’t do this.
“Want me to show you again?” he teased.
Her eyebrows arched. “No, I’m good.”
But she wasn’t, especially under his unwavering attention. Then she smiled and knew exactly what to do. Chelsea swaggered and strutted toward the dartboard, giving her best Liam impersonation.
“What the hell is that?”
She pulled the darts from the board with decidedly less smoothness than he’d managed, but she turned and tossed her hair back. “The master.”
Smirking, he said, “I didn’t throw my hair.”
“Didn’t you?” She tried her Liam-strut again and positioned on a line.
What the cupcakes am I supposed to do now? She’d only been able to sink a basketball shot after she’d studied the physics behind a good throw.
Chelsea wasn’t even sure if her vision was blurry. She tried closing one eye. Her balance shifted.
“Hey, there,” Liam said, quickly stepping to her side. “Both eyes open.”
“I can do it however I want.”
“Obviously.” He snickered.
This is going to be so ugly. After another ridiculous hair toss to set his expectations, she aimed and pegged the dart toward her goal.
Crash and burn. The little thing didn’t even hit the board.
“Would you like some help?”
Of course she would. But instead, she pointed the next dart at him.
“I already watched the master.” Then with more flourish than she meant, Chelsea turned toward the dartboard, ignoring how the bar room tilted, and made a plan.
Focus on more oomph and forward trajectory.
That had to be the meal ticket. She threw the dart.
Again, crash and burn. Chelsea blew out a strong breath, exasperated. Liam howled.
She wagged the hand that held the remaining darts, stepping closer. “Who knew you were such a bully?”
“Who knew”—he disarmed her and held the darts away from her—“you didn’t do everything perfect the first time.”
Perfect? Ha! “You don’t know me.”
“I’m learning.” His fingers drifted along her lower back, then he gripped her side and redirected her back to the line.
Her stilted steps suddenly seemed sober and robotic. She wasn’t used to his touch—not that there was anything inappropriate about Liam’s friendliness.
She was what was wrong.
Or the bourbon could be blamed.
Something, somehow, made his fingertips mark the very spots that he’d touched, and she hated how wonderful it had felt.
As directed, she stood on the line, stiff and certain that the ability to hear her own heart palpitations meant that she needed to go home. But she didn’t want to.
“First…” Liam stepped behind her, placing his hands on her hips. “Loosen up. You’re snapping like a trap.”
Her mouth dried. An overwhelming urge to flee gripped her thoughts, but her feet cemented themselves on the line.
“Take this foot.” He moved to her side and tapped her right thigh. “And put it forward and turn a little.”
An ocean of awareness crashed through her, and she blindly tried to follow directions and breathe simultaneously.
“Good, good. But lean your weight onto it.” Liam pressed on the small of her back. “Perfect. Just like that.”
“Okay,” she said so quietly he couldn’t have heard. Blood rushed in her ears, and confusion stole her focus.
“Your left leg will keep you balanced.” He moved in front of her, and his piercing green eyes made her heart leap. “Make sense?”
Chelsea needed to leave. He remained in place far too long then gave an uneasy nod and moved behind the line—behind her—close enough that she smelled the scent of soap she’d noticed earlier.
Liam slipped a dart into her hand and lifted her arm. As he drew back, his fingers breezed along her exposed skin until her shirtsleeve offered protection. Then he corrected her grip. His torso pressed against her back. “Real loose. Like that. Keep the dart’s nose up, and… aim.”
“Aiming.” Her voice sounded distant and scratchy, and cold electricity shivered down her back when he stepped away, leaving her cocked and ready.
“Fire at will.”
She threw the dart, and after it launched, squeezed her eyes shut more for the need to compose herself than to worry about the shot.
“Beautiful.”
Chelsea opened her eyes. The dart hung on the lower left outer ring of the board. Her jaw fell, and shock cleared every other worry away. Throwing her arms out, she gave a celebratory cheer. “Yes!”
He clapped slowly, boasting a proud smile. “You did it.”
“I did!” She twirled, spinning too close to his chest, and his arm caught her side.
“Careful,” he said, low and disconcertingly.
She faltered, half tripping, half falling, still laughing and cheering as she hugged him in celebration. The spinning bar lights and dark shadows slowed the instant that he balanced her against his chest.
A heaviness over took her eyes, sliding them closed, and she inhaled a woodsy scent that mixed with a clean soapy smell that she was quickly identifying as specifically Liam.
His arms swallowed her, and if his shoulders were as broad as a mountain range, his stomach was solid as a chiseled boulder.
She relaxed into his hold and clasped her hands around his back.
The strong band of his arms tightened, and dipping his chin, Liam nestled his mouth dangerously close to her temple.
Only the sparse shield of her hair separated his lips from her skin.
She tensed. He froze, and they scrambled apart filled with awareness that she would never admit to. Chelsea turned away, embarrassed and questioning what on earth she’d just done.
It was a hug. That was all. Perfectly harmless except for the unacceptable and overpowering rush of lust. Her stomach turned, but this wasn’t the kind of problem she could ignore, and she faced him. “I’m so sorry.”
He was almost too much to take. The green in his eyes had darkened. His forehead was etched with perplexed worry. “Don’t be.” He pivoted and threw the last dart. It hit dead center, and without so much as a second glance, he headed toward his beer.
Oh, sugar snaps. She’d messed up. Chelsea didn’t know what she could say, because it was how she’d reacted on the inside that required an apology. Simply hugging someone was, in and of itself, not a big deal. Admitting to how their hug felt? She didn’t want to ever think about her reaction again.
Liam slung back his beer then set it down. He stared at it so long that mortification crisscrossed her back. When he turned, his emerald eyes connected with hers in such a way that she cringed.
With that, he crossed back to her. Her stomach flipped, and she couldn’t identify his reaction. Anger? Disgust? Whatever emotion was painted on his face, it had a hold on him as she’d never seen on a person.
Gosh, she shouldn’t have gone to the bar tonight. Her hands covered her face, and when she glanced up, he stood close. She took a step back, but Liam stepped closer, breaking the distance she’d made.
“Look…” he began.
Oh no. Tears burned her eyes. She couldn’t listen to a pitiful explanation about how she shouldn’t hit on him, how he couldn’t be interested, how terrible she really, truly was, even if she had no idea before. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
He squinted then laughed. And not a basic, pitying laugh or a worried-for-her-sanity one, either. His head tipped back, and with a ginormous smile, he belly-laughed.
“Liam!”
He straightened, and his eyes watered.
“Liam! Do not laugh at me.”
Finally, his hysterics slowed, leaving him shaking his head.
Chelsea whacked his chest. “I am mortified. You need to stop!”
“Things happen,” he finally said, whatever those unnamed, undefined things were.
“I climbed you like a celebrating monkey. That’s not a thing—”
“Oh shit.” The fierce laughter returned.
“Liam!” She stomped her foot like a pissed-off toddler. “Stop laughing.”
“A celebrating monkey.”
Gah! She couldn’t take another excruciating second of embarrassment and spun away.
His strong hand caught her arm, spinning her to face him, then both his hands rested on her shoulders. “Thanks.”
“What?”
“I forgot what it feels like to live, and in one night, you gave that back to me.”