“So, what are we playing, first one to zero from three hundred?” I ask, thinking that this game could go on for at least 30 minutes.
“I can’t be here that long, Mason. Let’s do two hundred,” she already looks put out, and it’s killing me. I don’t know how I’m going to make this girl turn a corner with me, but damn it, something’s got to get inside her head.
“Two hundred…okay. But…we’re playing to zero exactly,” I say, knowing that throwing a little strategy in—and making both of us end our score at exactly zero—might just buy me a few extra minutes.
Avery’s eyes are squinted, and she’s studying me. I hate that every time we interact she puts our entire exchange through a litmus test. I can see her physically questioning my every motive. It’s my fault she’s like this with me. And I’m starting to wonder if it’s my fault that she’s like this with her entire goddamned life.
“Fine, we’ll play your way. I’m shooting first. Give me the gold,” she’s got a little fire in her voice. Suddenly, Avery’s got a competitive spirit going on. This…I can use!
“You can be gold. But—” I hold the darts back before I give them to her. She flips her hair around and stops her feet right in their tracks.
“No more buts. Just throw the damn darts when I’m done, Mason,” she says, and I can’t help but laugh at her version of bossy. No doubt, Avery is a strong woman—and I know from experience that she can get her point across when she needs to. But now she’s just being difficult to be mean, to get back at me. And while I should pretend it’s working, I just can’t hold my laughter in.
Her hands are on her hips now, and she’s forcing her lips tight. I know she’s about to bail on the entire night. I manage to hold my breath long enough to compose myself, and hold my hands up to signify a truce.
“We need to have something to play for. That’s all,” I say, and she immediately gives me a sideways glance, her suspicion spiking again.
“Fine, if I beat you, you do all my dishes—here and at home—for the next week,” she’s proud of herself with this one, and the smirk on her face shows me she thinks I’ll back off, not wanting to do any hard work. She should know better, though—I’ve never been afraid of hard work, especially at the bar.
I nod my head in agreement, and step closer to her, reaching out my hand to shake on it. When she slides her soft fingers into mine, it’s the most amazing feeling in the world. Other than those few seconds when my fingers were on her face, the only other time Avery touched me was when she slapped me across the cheekbone. I like this touch a whole lot more.
She’s about to let go of our shake when I hold her grasp firmly, and step in even closer. I’ve got one shot at this.
“And if I win,” I say, my lips unable to contain the shit-eating grin on my face as I move closer to her ear. She’s frozen, and I can see her neck speckled with goosebumps, but she’s not moving away either. I lick my lips slightly, just to see what that does, and when I hear her breath escape, I know I’ve got her. “If I win, I get to kiss you. Like I was supposed to a decade ago.”
Her face is flushed when I pull away, her lips parted, and her eyes almost afraid—but her hand is still in mine, so I give it one more shake just to seal the deal. I turn away, and I can feel her still standing there, watching me. I wanted to kiss her right then, her neck is so soft and she smells so good. For the last five years, I’ve done nothing but have one-night stands and flings with girls who smell like smoke and tequila. Avery—she smells like heaven.
“Go on, princess. You wanted to go first,” I say, wishing like hell that I kept up with this game. I used to be good—even hustled a few of the locals when I was in high school. But it’s been years since I’ve thrown a dart.
Avery takes a drink of her soda, and I notice her hands are still shaking slightly when she tries to line up her shot. She’s nervous, and I hope like hell she throws this game so I can feel how soft her lips are. She shuts her eyes for a brief second, and when she opens them again, her hands are steadier. Her eyes are focused on the board, her elbow bent in front of her, when she releases.
Eighteen. Okay, so this is not going to be a walk in the park. Her next throw is only a four, and her last one is a ten, so I feel like I might have some room to breathe.
“Show me what you’ve got,” she says as she walks by with a little swagger in her step. She’s putting up a good act, but I notice the small quiver in her voice when she speaks.