Page 65 of Whiskey Throttle
I draw the string, anchor it to my jaw just like he showed me, and let it fly. It lands in the third ring. Not exactly in the center, but not terrible. He lets out a low whistle.
“Damn. That almost hit the target. But almost isn’t winning, Barbara.”
That junior comment must have ruffled his feathers with how hard he emphasizes my name. I pivot toward him, eager to challenge him back.
“You know what else almost happened? You almost looked dominant for a second. Then I saw your baby blues begging to be told what to do.”
That shuts him up for a half second. Long enough for me to catch the way his jaw tightens. His next arrow thunks into the second ring.
“Not bad.” I examine it with fake interest. “But your aim’s a little high. Overcompensating, maybe?”
His grin sharpens, but those baby blues bore into me like he has more to prove. Maybe he does. Maybe he will. Either way, I’m winning.
“I’m not the one who needs two tries to get it in.”
I draw another arrow, smirking.
“You want to go there? I can give you a running list of all the places you haven’t been yet.”
“Promise?” he murmurs under his breath.
My arrow sails through the air, hitting the second ring and closer than his did. He huffs, cocking his head.
“That’s cute. You’re trying.”
I step close as he prepares his next shot. He releases his arrow. It skims the edge of the center.
“Boom.”
He doesn’t even look. Just turns to me like he already knows.
“Bullseye, baby.”
“Baby?” I echo, brushing past him to grab another arrow. “Careful, Hollister. You start calling me pet names, and I might assume you’re getting attached.”
“Too late.”
His voice is quiet this time.
“But don’t let that mess with your aim.”
It does. My next shot goes wide. I groan, glaring at the target. Is he getting attached? After such a short amount of time? Is that even possible? I shake my head, trying to clear away the thoughts I don’t want to think. Not now. Not yet.
“You did that on purpose.”
He shrugs, smug as hell.
“You’re the one who let your guard down. I just stood here looking pretty, like I always do.”
One hand goes up in a defensive posture, the other holds his bow at his side.
“Fine. One shot left.”
I straighten, determined.
“I’ll go first.”
He lifts his bow again, his focus deadly calm now. A breath, pause, and then the release. Dead center. Bullseye for sure this time.
