“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.”
