“Just asking.”
“Weston.”
His gaze holds mine.
I feel it then, beneath the quiet and control. That dark, possessive current in him. Intensely displeased on my behalf.
My pulse skips.
“Darren,” I admit.
Something in his face says Darren is lucky to be nowhere near me.
The song ends before I can think too hard about that, and a burst of cheers rises from the far side of the hall.
People are crowding around a wide wooden target near the wall.
I look over. “What’s that?”
Weston’s expression goes oddly blank.
“Axe throwing.”
I turn back to him slowly. “You say that like it’s a perfectly normal thing to have at a dance.”
“It is here.”
Someone passing by grins at me. “You should see him throw.”
I point at Weston. “Him?”
The woman laughs and keeps walking.
Weston rubs a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly looking almost reluctant. “It’s nothing.”
That is how I know it is absolutelynotnothing.
A board hangs proudly beside the target with a list of yearly winners and best scores.
Weston Stark’s name is on it so many times it feels less like a competition and more like a public service announcement for other men to give up.
I gape up at him. “You have got to be kidding me.”
He shrugs. “Town tradition.”
“Youarethe tradition.”
That almost-smile appears again, and before I can recover, someone shouts his name.
The crowd parts.
Weston takes the axe handed to him with easy familiarity. The room goes quieter. Expectant.
I find myself holding my breath.
He glances at me once, like he already knows I’m watching.
Then he throws.
