“I’m going to try not to murder you, but the same goes for you, ’kay?”
“If you’re speaking in some code, you’re going to have to let me in on the formula.”
“Come on, you’ll see.” He winks and comes around the Jeep to open the door for me.
Hesitantly, I exit the vehicle, thinking I should keep all hands and feet inside the car instead of out. Reid guides me to the large steel door, and I’m not going to lie, my heart is beating a wicked pulse.
“I promise, this will be fun.” He places his hand on my lower back and guides me forward.
Bright lights and a sea of flannel accost my eyes. There are lanes in front of me, like in bowling, except there are no bowling balls or gutters. Or pins, for that matter.
“What is this place?”
“Lumberjax. We’re going to throw axes.”
“For real?” I look closer, and at the end of each lane is a bull’s-eye. Each lane is buzzing with a crowd full of ax throwers.
“Looks fun, right?”
“I have to get out more. Also, I didn’t get the flannel memo.”
“Who cares! Come on, I stopped in earlier and left some dinner supplies and chilled beers. We’re in lane eight.”
“You what?”
“You’ll see.”
For a gal who had a baby and the father ran out on her, the idea that someone would take the time to pack dinner and beers for her, then drop them off somewhere—even if it’s an ax place—is unbelievable.
Like a zombie, I aimlessly follow Reid to our lane, seeing a cooler and a picnic basket set atop a picnic table by the number eight.
I must be dreaming.
“Here we are. Take your coat off.” Reid comes around behind me to help me off with the heavy thing. Then he opens the cooler and asks, “Hoppy, pale ale, or red wine?”
“Pale ale, please.”
My panties burst into flames when he rests the top of the bottle onto the edge of the table and snaps the cap off with his hand. “Oh my,” I’m pretty sure I mutter, but I can’t be totally sure because my brain is in ashes.
“Cheers,” he says, handing me a cold beer and then clinking his closed bottle into mine. I wait for it—another cap slapped off with his bare hand, and my bra disintegrates into tiny bits.
The moment is interrupted by some burly dude in—you guessed it—flannel. “Hey, I’m Paul, and I’m going to be your ax-throwing instructor tonight.”
“Hi, I’m Andi,” I say, finally finding my words.
“Reid.” He extends his free hand to Paul, and the pair shake it out.
“Either of you been here before?”
“I didn’t even know I was coming tonight,” I say, and Reid just shakes his head.
“Great, both virgins. Let’s get started.”
I’d like to get started ...
My mind wanders but Paul demands my full attention. He’s currently wielding an ax, demonstrating the appropriate way to hold and carry it. He shows us a line where we’re supposed to stand while the other person throws their ax.
“Okay, let’s do a few practice throws. Ladies first,” he says, beckoning me with his pointer finger. My ankle boots carry me to the designated throwing spot, and Paul says, “Pull an ax out of the stump.”
