Page 30 of Power Play

“You’re right,” I say, tentatively backing up, “It’s not funny at all. I have no idea what I was thinking. In fact, I’m going to head out.” I turn for the door, my hand already extending for the doorknob. “Thanks for this little talk. I promise to remember it forever and always.”

I barely get the door before it clicks shut with a force that doesn’t belong to me. Then, I get a hit of pine.

Duke.

“Still wearing that jersey, Charlie?”

The heat of his body warms my back, though I keep my gaze locked on the wooden door. Hot, unexpected anticipation curls through me. Let’s face it: since I left the arena almost two hours ago, I’ve been waiting for this moment.

It’s all for the article, I tell myself.

Realistically, I know that the only thing tying Duke Harrison and I together is the interview. Romantically (i.e., not real life), I’m so attracted to him, that I’m not really thinking straight.

As in, there is no reason I should want to lean back into his arms right now.

No reason at all.

In a husky voice I barely recognize as my own, I murmur, “Thought you were reneging on our bargain, Harrison.”

His hand curls around my wrist. He doesn’t give me a verbal response, but with a slight tug on my hand, he’s pulling me away from his teammates. Marshall Hunt whistles, and I swear I hear Andre Beaumont say something along the lines of someone being “whipped.”

No one stops Duke’s trajectory path.

We round a few tables, cut past the bar, and enter a back room, which seems to be a near replica of the main bar area. Dartboards line the walls and two sets of pool tables are positioned parallel to one another in the center. A few guys are lounging on a pair of couches in the corner, but with one glance at Duke and I, they leap up from their spots and vacate the room.

Maybe I should be nervous.

Whisper a prayer, that sort of thing.

Silently I pull away from Duke’s grip and wander over to the dartboards. I’ve never been good, that’s for sure, but that doesn’t stop me from picking up a dart and testing the weight in my palm. The arrowed tip is heavy and cool against my skin. It gives me something to think about other than the hot guy watching me intently.

“You play?” His voice is cool as his long-legged gait eats up the distance between us.

I tap the shell of the dart against my open palm. “Depends on the day.”

He takes the dart from my hand. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a sometimes.”

His lips quirk up, just a little, at the corners. “I’ll take a ‘sometimes.’ Let’s play.”

Panic turns my palms clammy. “I don’t know the rules.”

“I thought you sometimes play,” he murmurs, laughter rich in his voice. When he spots my face, no doubt pinched with anxiety, he returns the dart to me, folding my fingers over its cool hardness. “We’ll make up rules. Twenty-one rounds.”

Twenty-one rounds?Does he want to be here for the rest of the night? I opt for sarcasm when I mutter, “You want to beat me that badly?”

“Gotta recoup my losses from the night.”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned the Blades’ defeat against the Detroit Red Wings, and my gaze slithers away with guilt for wearing the red jersey of the opposing team.

“This is how it will work,” Duke tells me, already having bypassed his mention of the Blades’ loss. He approaches the closest dartboard with a confident swagger that weakens my knees, before tapping his finger on the red center. “Each round, whoever gets closest to the bull’s eye has the opportunity to ask a question. Any question.”

“A question for my interview?” I ask, hardly able to restrain my excitement. “Thought you’d limited me to just one question per meeting.”

“I’ve changed my mind for tonight.”

My eyes narrow and I fold my arms over my chest. “You don’t expect to lose, do you?”

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