Page 36 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

My second throw was much closer, a mere half-inch off the yellow center. I heard Max draw a surprised breath, a reminder to regulate my own. As I focused with laser precision on my target, a wave of unexpected joy coursed through me. I had forgotten this.

Throwing an axe wasn’t the same as archery, but there were enough similarities that it all felt achingly familiar. There was a target that needed to be hit and to do so required absolute stillness, both of mind and of breath. For one brief moment, I was keenly aware of every cell in my body joining together in harmony to achieve a singular goal. For one moment, I was perfect.

I sent the axe flying and wasn’t even surprised when it hit the bull’s-eye squarely.

“Wow,” Max said. “That was incredible.”

The moment over, I turned to Max with a self-deprecating smile. “Not really. I was an archery champion as a teen, remember? It was a long time ago, and it’s not totally the same thing as throwing an axe, but it probably gives me an advantage anyway.”

He fixed his green eyes on me and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. All the better to see through my bullshit, I supposed. Because I did think that throw was incredible. I wanted to be incredible.

All my childhood, I had been told to tone it down. To let someone else win. I tried too hard, pushed too far, cared too much. And, okay, I could admit that when it came to winning and losing, my attitude back then needed work. I cried when I lost. I crowed when I won. Neither of these things had sat well with my parents or my teammates.

I had strived to be the best, but I had quickly learned that, when it came to girls, people don’t generally like “the best.” They liked “sometimes the best, but sometimes not the best.” Great but not amazing, because if one person was the best, someone else couldn’t also be the best. Being a winner meant someone else was a loser. I never cared how other people felt about being losers, and that had cost me friends.

Until George died.

Because while I hadn’t been the best wife—a failure that burned in my chest every time I thought of it—I was a great widow. The best widow Hart’s Ridge had ever seen. And it hadn’t even cost me anything. My parents hadn’t approved of my attitude during archery tournaments. They had been disappointed by my decision to keep my pregnancy and hadn’t wanted me to marry so young. But as a widow, they had treated me with exalted respect. People who had once made snide remarks behind my back, saying I was a slut or careless, that I had ruined a good boy’s life, now they called me sweetheart.

For once in my life, there wasn’t a penalty for winning.

I wondered if there would be a penalty for winning an axe toss. Max hadn’t struck me as overly competitive in Egyptian Rat Screw, but then again, it was hard to tell when the game was never-ending.

“Kate Gonzales, that was incredible,” Max said. “And I’m guessing I wouldn’t feel any differently watching you with a bow and arrow.”

My grin stretched ear to ear.

Max picked up his axe and took his throw. It was better than the first round, in that it hit the target, but it was still a long way off any mark with high point value. He grimaced.

“I should have warned you that I have no athletic skills whatsoever,” he said.

That surprised me, since I knew that beneath his green Henley were well-muscled arms and six-pack abs that made my mouth water. “How is that possible,” I asked, “when you look like that?”

To my extreme delight, Max blushed. “Vanity,” he said dryly. “These muscles are just for show.”

“Really?” Vanity didn’t seem like something he would fall prey to.

“Maybe it’s a little deeper than that,” he admitted. “For kids in low-income situations, there are three ways out of poverty: illegal activities, sports scholarships, or academic scholarships. I gave sports a try, but I quickly realized that my talents lay in academics.”

That didn’t surprise me in the least.

“Still, I was hyperaware of the statistics of being a foster kid, one of those statistics being health,” he continued. “Foster kids are more likely to have health problems resulting from poor diet and exercise. I made it my mission to beat the statistics on all fronts, so I started running and lifting weights when I was fifteen. It didn’t take long to discover that the added benefit was girls.” He smirked.

I laughed. “Well, I approve. You have to take care of your health.”

“I’m glad you approve.” His words came out husky, and his blush deepened.

We stared at each other, the air thick with sudden heat. I shifted in my chair and crossed my legs, but that only made the tingle between my thighs worse. Needing to do something with all this restless energy, I jumped to my feet. “Do you want me to give you some pointers on your form?”

“Sure. Have at it.”

“Face the target.” I stood behind him and placed a hand on either side of his hips, squaring him forward. Then I nudged his knee with my own. “Make sure everything is square to the target, from your head to your toes.”

There was a long pause. I couldn’t see his face, but I assumed he was concentrating on the task ahead, on making sure he was following my instructions to line up his body with the target.

Whereas I was concentrating on the muscled slope of his shoulders and the contours of his back. Whatever genius designed a Henley to cling so perfectly to the male body, they deserved a raise.

“Be honest,” he said. “Giving me pointers is just a ruse. You’re really trying to distract me so you can win.”

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