Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“Prick.”
“Troublemaker.”
“Knock it off, children. If you keep squabbling, you’ll miss the master,” Tyler jokes.
Like I’d have missed him. Even if I’m looking at someone else, I know where he is. I’ve never been so aware of someone before. It’s almost freakish. Forget about spider senses—I’ve got Tyler senses.
I let out a low curse when he throws his dart and it lands in the bull’s-eye right next to Reese’s. “You might want to rethink playing with me,” I tell Jana. “They’re making bull’s-eyes, and I’m telling you right now I’m not that good.”
“Shh, don’t be a dream killer,” she scolds. “Think positive.”
She’s got a good point, especially since thinking positive is a big part of manifesting the life I want. I feel a little bit better after Ben throws something that almost misses the board. It doesn’t take long to figure out that Tyler and Reese are the best at the game, and I’m not surprised when they win. Now, it’s time for the girls-versus-guys game.
“Ladies first,” Tyler says as he holds a black dart with a black and silver flight out to me.
Taking it, I stand and head for the line painted on the floor that indicates from where to throw. Closing one eye as I raise the dart, I focus on the center of the board. Pulling my arm back a bit, I send the dart flying. It lands out in the boonies of the board, but at least it didn’t land on the wall or something. That’d make me feel lame.
A few rounds later, my throws aren’t improving. “You’re throwing from the wrong place,” Tyler says. “Let me give you some pointers.”
“Okay.”
When he sets his hands on my shoulders and gently turns me toward the board, I bite back a gasp. I’m wearing an off-the-shoulder top, which means his hands are touching my skin.
And I like it. Too much.
I like it more when he stands behind me. Close, but not too close. Tyler Jameson is like a furnace. By that, I mean I can feel the heat of him through his shirt and mine and we aren’t even touching.
“Bring your hand back into your throwing position,” he instructs.
Pulling it back, I grimace when I look at my hand. I hope he doesn’t notice that I’m trembling a bit. When he circles my wrist with his hand, I just about melt into a puddle. Crap. I bet he can feel my pulse beating at my wrist. There’s no way he isn’t noticing exactly how affected I am by him.
“You want to throw thirty percent from the forearm and seventy percent from the wrist. Forget the upper part of your arm,” he says huskily. “I know some people say the opposite, but I find it easier to narrow it down to the last motion. Focus on where you want it to go and then release without getting your bicep too involved.”
I nod as I lick my suddenly-too-dry lips. “Got it.”
“Line it up and then take the shot.”
It feels like something bigger than just his hand on my wrist is missing when he steps back—and that’s damn scary. Closing one eye, I take a breath, stare at the spot on the board I want to hit, and release the dart. I don’t hit the bull’s-eye—not even close—but for the first time since the game started, I made it away from no-man’s land. I’m not very competitive by nature, but I love the idea that I might be able to leave this game with some of my dignity intact. Back at the table, I sit on my stool and take the last few sips of my beer.
“Oh. My. God. A-cup! What’re you doing here?”
I’d know that voice, or rather the tone of it, anywhere. A part of me wants to stamp my foot and let out a string of curses. Why is this miserable girl here right now?
I’m not prepared for this. I should be though. I knew the second Millie told me Rita was back that the chances were better than good that I’d run into her at some point. The thing is—although I knew it was bound to happen—I hadn’t counted on her reviving the rude-as-hell name she started using for me eleven years ago. Christ on a cracker. This woman is twenty-six years old and still doesn’t have a bit of genuine kindness in her. Bracing myself, I turn to face her. When I do, I notice that her focus isn’t on me—because it’s on Tyler.
“C’mon, Rita. Don’t start your shit,” he says. “You know you’re not supposed to be here.”
“Oh hush.” Her grating giggle as she says that makes me a little nauseous. She’s as fake and over the top as ever.
“A-cup Ashley and I go way back,” she says in a snide tone.
Once upon a time, I would have stayed silent and took her never-ending insults, but I’m not a child anymore. “Oh, sure, way back. I see you haven’t changed a bit,” I say. I don’t even try to hide the insult. It’s right there, out in the open.