Page 35 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

That had made me grin even more. There was very little I found more entertaining than tormenting my teenage daughter.

“I hope this is okay,” Max said as we pushed through the Old West swinging doors of Kiss Our Axes. “What with the blood feud and all.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh, you heard about that, did you? Don’t worry. It’s not my feud. My business is candy, not cattle. And my dad got out of the Locklear family business before I was born.”

“The Locklear family business of cattle, or the Locklear family business of stealing land from Harts?” Max asked innocently.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I think it’s time to find an axe. A sharp one.”

“Kidding, only kidding.” He held up his hands in surrender. “But let’s find you an axe.” He stepped to the counter, where Hannah Hart, the youngest of the Hart sisters, was helping customers. “Hi, I think we have a reservation under the name Max Darlington.”

Hannah looked up. Her eyes widened as she took him in. She tilted her head so her mass of honey-colored curls spilled over her shoulder. “Max, is it? You must be the new principal of Piedmont.”

“How did you know?”

Hannah smiled. “News travels fast when it doesn’t have far to go. Anyway, I haven’t seen you around before.” She looked him up and down, making it clear that she enjoyed the journey. “Trust me, I would remember.”

I couldn’t blame her. Max had a lot of appeal. I glanced at Max, waiting for him to say something, but he just stood there, an odd, unreadable expression on his face. I cleared my throat, forcing the woman’s attention to me. “Hi, Hannah.”

“Kate?” Hannah glanced between the two of us, her brow wrinkled in confusion. “Is this a school event? No one told me we were doing a fundraiser.”

It shouldn’t have bothered me, that Hannah assumed I couldn’t possibly be here for a date. I had been George’s widow for ten years, and no one expected me to be anything different now. But it did bother me. I felt like a stray cat whose fur had been rubbed the wrong way. I wanted to hiss.

“It’s not a fundraiser.” Violet Hart, the middle sister, took the clipboard from Hannah. “It’s a date. Luke called earlier and made the reservation.” She smiled at me, with just a hint of sympathy. Hannah had never met a man who had turned her down. “Follow me, please.”

“I’ll be right here if you need anything!” Hannah called as Violet led us across the sawdust floor to an empty lane.

“This is you.” Violet gestured around us. “As you can see, each lane is separated by a floor-to-ceiling barrier for safety reasons. It also keeps the noise level down, but it still gets pretty raucous in here. The tables behind us are almost always full, and they tend to treat the people throwing axes as live entertainment.” Violet grinned. “Don’t be offended if they boo you.”

I looked around. “I guess I’ll have to give them something to cheer about, then.”

“Have either of you ever been axe throwing?” Violet asked. When we both shook our heads, she explained the rules and what the marks on the bull’s-eye meant. “Of course, you can always make up your own rules. You don’t even have to keep points.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I asked, sincerely.

Violet laughed. “Axes are over there. Have at it.”

I picked up an axe. It was lighter than I had expected, but it still had enough weight to give it some heft. I looked at Max, but his attention was back at the counter, where Violet had rejoined her sister, that same odd look on his face. I frowned. It wasn’t like he was checking them out. He looked…puzzled. Like he was working something through in his mind.

“Max?” I said.

“Sorry. Spacing out, I guess.” Max turned his attention to the row of axes. After a moment of contemplation, he claimed an axe of his own. “Let’s do this. Ladies first.”

I shook my head. “After you.”

Max took aim. I took the opportunity to watch him. His hands that gripped the axe handle were strong with neatly trimmed nails. A mix of bad boy and professor, like everything else about him. When he hurled the axe at the target, his muscles worked with an ease I couldn’t help but admire.

But when that glorious show of masculinity failed to hit the target, I took note of that too. Because the whole point of having him go first was to learn from his mistakes. So I could do better. And, hopefully, win.

His second throw wasn’t any closer than the first.

“Wait,” I said, before he could take his third and final throw of the round, because I had a theory born from watching him, and I wanted to see if it held water before I tried it myself. “Try holding your upper arm still and using only your forearm to throw it.”

He took my suggestion, and while it didn’t hit the center of the bull’s-eye, it did at least land on the target. He turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

“I definitely haven’t.” I grinned.

I took my first throw. It hit the target—not the center—but much closer than any of Max’s throws. I adjusted my stance slightly, squaring my hips directly toward the bull’s-eye. I swung my arm a few times, then tossed the axe from my right hand to my left and back again, getting used to the feel of the axe, its dynamics and ratios.

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