Page 24 of Personal Foul
“Nice job,” Dylan says easily, and I hold up my hand for a high five.
Isabelle smacks my hand with a big grin on her face. “You should try it that way next time,” she says.
Andrew goes next, picking up the smaller hatchet like Dylan did. Narrowing his eyes, he steps up to the last tape line, standing still for several breaths before finally raising the hatchet and throwing.
He sticks it on the first try too.
“I guess we suck,” Dylan murmurs, leaning in close to keep the comment just between us. Close enough that I can feel his breath on my ear and neck, sending a wave of goosebumps down my spine and making me shiver involuntarily.
Leaning away from him, because I don’t need my pesky hormones confusing me, I prop my elbow on the counter. “Guess so.” I’m just going to pretend like that reaction didn’t happen. Something about a hot guy leaning in close to whisper things in my ear makes my body think we’re going to get even more intimate soon.
A glance at Dylan reveals a knowing smile on his lips, and I turn away, annoyed. Both that my body’s betraying me so horribly and also that he noticed.
At least it’s my turn, so I have an excuse to get away from him and something to distract me from my involuntary reactions to him.
Taking Isabelle’s advice, I select the larger hatchet and do a two-handed throw. I land it on my first try too, though I hit the three point circle, not the four point one.
I let out a whoop of victory, and when I turn around, it’s Dylan holding out his hand for a high five. “Nice one, Charity.”
Trying not to let my suspicion show on my face, I smack his hand. “Thanks.” I mean, we’re supposed to be on a date, after all. It makes sense for him to congratulate me. Even so, my high five with Isabelle is more enthusiastic, my smile more genuine.
I wasn’t sure what to expect out of this, but managing to stick an axe in a board on the wall is pretty awesome.
“You guys want to play a game?” John asks.
After exchanging looks and nodding our assent, John explains the rules. The goal is to try to get to twenty-one first, and if you go over, you bust down to ten, and we can use any of the weapons arranged on the table.
I stick with the two-handed overhand throw using the bigger axe for a while since I know I can stick it, but the guys decide to broaden their scope pretty early, with Andrew trying the knife first. It takes him several tries to get the rotation right before he actually gets it to stick, and when he finally does, it’s outside of the target entirely.
We all laugh good naturedly at our failures, and everyone is excited and congratulatory whenever something stays in the wood.
The throwing star is actually the easiest, so I switch to that for a few rounds, even getting a bullseye on my second try.
When I shout my excitement, I turn to face my companions—friends? I guess through this we’re becoming more like friends, even Dylan—Dylan’s right there, his face alive with excitement, holding out his arms. Out of pure reaction, I throw myself into them, and he lifts me up, spinning me around before setting me back on my feet.
Breathless and a little stunned, I blink up at him, not quite sure what to make of the fact that I’m still clinging to his chest with his hands still firmly on my back holding me against him. His shoulders are firm under my hands, and being in his arms feels surprisingly good.
It shouldn’t, though. Right? He’s a jerk. Yes, he’s doing me a favor tonight, but I don’t actually like him.
Then why do you have to keep reminding yourself of that?
He dips his head. “Just go with it,” he whispers before placing a kiss right at the corner of my mouth.
I flinch, almost lining my mouth up with his, but stop myself just in time.
Lifting his head, his eyes bounce back and forth between mine. He gives me a quick squeeze. “Congratulations, babe.”
I’m sure the “babe” is supposed to be for the others’ benefit, but he says it quietly enough that I’m not sure anyone else could hear.
If I didn’t know better—but I do, right?—I could be fooled into thinking that this is something real. Or approaching real.
We break apart, and I retrieve the throwing star, having to work it back and forth a few times to get it out. It’s stuck in deeper than a hatchet would be.
After I set it back on the table, I reclaim my stool, watching Dylan set up to take his turn.
“That was amazing, Charity,” Isabelle gushes. “I’m going to have to try the throwing star next.”
“You should. It’s much easier than the others.”
