Page 18 of For The Record

“I was about to warn you of a hot collaboration between me and someone at Volume Records… but now, I’m not so sure you need the tip. Enjoy your date, Skye,” he says. “Whoever he is, though, he’s a lucky guy. Leo, right?”

Now Iamintrigued. “Who is it?” I say, itching to know. Yes, I will admit it: curiosity is my fatal flaw.

“You know what, I’m sure it’s not as important as your date. And it’s not worth your time, right?”

I would fling my phone to the ground in frustration, but breaking expensive objects is not a good look on a first date. Or ever, really. “I’ll figure it out myself, then. Bye, Naoya.”

“Sorry about that,” I say. “Work.”

“No problem,” Leo says, as breezy as ever. “Let’s go inside.”

The pressure of his hand on the small of my back falls away as we enter the small bar. It looks small, at least, until I see the axe-throwing space. Half a dozen people are already cluttered around it, launching axes at wooden targets with varying degrees of success. There’s a guy in a lumberjack plaid shirt, something hard to find in this corner of California. I glance down at my shoes. It could be worse. At least I didn’t wear flip-flops.

“Eating first, or axe-throwing?” Leo asks, gesturing between the two spaces.

“Food, but no alcohol,” I say cautiously. “That looks hard enough sober.”

He laughs. “Fair enough.”

“Although it would be a story to tell my kids,” I say before I can stop myself from talking.Damn it, Skye. What’s next, you’re going to be designing your wedding invitation? Calm the heck down.

Leo takes it in stride, instead of dropping me like a hot potato. “Yes, you could tell them how you put your life in danger to go on a date with me.”

Interesting wording. “I’ll tell them that you weren’t worth the whole risking life and limb thing.”

He laughs. After devouring a chicken club sandwich and fries (me) and tacos (him) we make our way over to the axe-throwing space. Nerves about throwing heavy weaponry fill me as I watch Leo roll up the sleeves of his plaid shirt. Apprehension, and a not-so-subtle spark of attraction as I peek at his forearms.

I won’t deny that despite the horde of vaguely metrosexual Angelinos in this town, with their manscaping and hipster beards, there is something very attractive about watching a man throw an axe at a target and hit the bullseye perfectly. Especially when he’s wearing a white t-shirt that clings to his biceps perfectly… Behind the chain-link fence that separates each of the targets, he lifts the axe above his head with both hands. The toes of his shoes graze a black line painted on the floor, the muscles in his arms flexing before the axe flies from his fingers, turning over and flipping until it sinks into the wood.

Is this his plan of attack for all of his dates? Take them axe-throwing so he can seduce them with his perfect marksmanship? I square my shoulders resolutely, refusing to let it happen to me.Do not look at his arms, Skye.But then, I’m looking into his green eyes, which are mildly amused as he gestures toward the axe, hands now empty. “Do you want to give it a whirl? Not literally, of course.”

“I might have to see you do it one more time before I give it a go,” I say.

A smirk curves his lips up, an expression that makes my heart do backflips. Which is absurd, becauseIcan’t even do backflips. I know this, because I tried at the tender age of ten, all summer long, after watching the Olympics and seeing gymnasts on TV.

“Oh, you just want to ogle me, then?”

My jaw drops. Did he read my mind, or did I say the wrong things out loud? “I didn’t say anything like that!”

“Maybe not, but it’s called subtext,” he says, still grinning. He picks up another axe, throwing it with just one hand this time. It splinters the wood just above the bullseye, landing with a loud crack and thud.

“There was no subtext,” I say, scoffing. “There wasn’t even any text.”

“Okay,” he says, his grin softening. “The lady doth protest too much, and all that.”

Nowthatmakes me pick up an axe, though I don’t have the guts—or the upper body strength—to wave it around menacingly. “The lady also would like to have a turn.”

Leo just chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Be my guest.”

I pick up an axe gingerly. Behind me, I hear more laughter. The all-too-familiar noise of mockery. “Did I do something wrong?”

“It’s not going to bite you, you know.”

“Well, forgive me if I’ve never chopped wood before.” I did grow up in Larchmont, not the wilds of Colorado.

“I wasn’t mocking you,” he says. “But you need to move your thumb. You’re holding the butt wrong.”

“I’m holding thewhatwrong?” Of course, an axe would have parts that sound like someone named it after the entire repertoire of a twelve-year-old boy’s joke book.

---