‘Hm?’
‘Thank you.’ The words feel woefully puny. ‘For all of it.’
He shrugs, but his ears go pink. ‘Don’t go daft on me. It’s just a room for a wee while.’
It’s not just a room. We both know it’s not just a room. But what this thing between us really is – that’s very much unclear.
Scottie goes back into the hallway. His eyes glint with mischief. ‘We’re going out.’
‘Out where?’
‘Therapy.’
I’ve no idea what he’s on about, but I trust him like I’ve never trusted anybody. ‘I’m driving this time. You’ve done enough, big Bear.’
It takes about seven minutes to get there. Scottie refuses to let me use the phone to navigate. He’s giving me verbal directions, because he wants it to be ‘a surprise’.
The venue is a converted warehouse on the industrial estate. AxeVenture Bar, a sign announces in blocky letters. They’ve gone hard on the urban lumberjack aesthetic in this pub: stripped concrete floors, exposed brick, rustic tables and benches, and a grid of wire separating the lanes where people hurl steel at scarred timber targets.
‘Axe throwing, Scott Kerr? You’re joking.’
‘I never joke about axes.’
An attendant gives us two hatchets and points to a lane. The targets are cross-sections of tree trunks, bullseyes painted in red, blue, and white. Around us, only a few other lanes are occupied by people on lunch breaks or team-building exercises. It’s a Monday before noon, whoever is throwing axes right now has a purpose.
Scottie gives me a demonstration. Feet shoulder-width, axe above the head.
‘Throw with the whole body, not the arm.’ He plants his feet wide, and the denim pulls tight across his thighs.
His muscles bunch, a base of pure power. I forget the axe until he throws, and the blade thunks home, dead centre. He’s oozing wild warrior energy. Knowing firsthand how he treats me with the same fierceness in bed, my core gives a very appreciative tug.
Oh, I’m so on board with this vibe.
‘Your turn, Marzipan.’ He grins and winks.
I clutch the handle. It’s weightier than expected, and the wood is rougher than any barre I’ve ever held. I copy his stance, mostly. Then I swing and release. The hatchet bounces off the target with a sad clatter. I’ve had more graceful face-plants in rehearsal.
‘Stop being a dancer,’ Scottie says.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re too poised. Too…controlled. This isn’t about precision.’ He steps behind me.
His broad hands lock onto my waist. Denim does nothing to block his heat, and I forget all about the sharp axe I’m holding.
He crowds in close. ’You’re so beautiful when you play with dangerous stuff.’
‘What kind of dangerous stuff is that?’
‘Oh, you know.’
His hard ridge settles against me, and rational thought flatlines. I tip back into him, and he sucks in a harsh drag of air that sends a wave of fire straight between my thighs.
‘Careful, Ava,’ he drawls against the shell of my ear, ‘or the hatchet isn’t the only thing that buries itself dead centre.’
I let out a snorty laugh.
‘Now stop holding tension in your core. Stop thinking about lines. Feel where you want the blade to go. Then hurl the bastard.’
