Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Now, now, Sawyer. Let’s not get carried away. Sounds like a perfectly good dream to me. Care to share yours now?”
“It’s not appropriate… I don’t want to make anybody blush.”
Again his eyes fall on me and a flush overtakes me, rising up my neck and cheeks, and though I try to convince myself it’s from the beer, Sawyer and I both know it’s not.
“I guess now might be as good a time as any to let y’all know there has been some major gossip swirling,” Hunter cuts in. “I don’t like to listen to the rumor mill most of the time, but you two are all anyone around here seems to want to talk about.”
“I don’t care,” Sawyer snaps sternly.
Ignoring him, Hunter continues, “My mama was down at the grocery store yesterday and she overheard Lolly talking to Stacey Wolfe about how you two were making out in Queenie’s creek last week.”
He’s wearing a mischievously sly smile. Meanwhile, I tip my beer up and finish the last of it. As if by magic, Doc comes by with a third round.
“Perfect timing, Doc.” I smile and swap my empty beer for a full one.
“Sure thing. Y’all want anything to eat?”
“We’ll take some of your world-famous nachos,” Hunter says with a wink, then once Doc’s out of earshot, he jumps right back to the topic at hand. “So did it happen? Were y’all smoochin’ in the creek? I can’t picture it myself, but who knows?”
“It happened,” Sawyer states plainly. “Now change the subject.”
“What?!” Hunter explodes. “You expect me to—”
“Change the subject,” Sawyer insists roughly.
Two hours later, we’re playing darts, drunk as skunks. I’m not sure exactly how it happened. Sometime between the nachos and the cheeseburgers, Doc’s filled up with the afterwork crowd, my third beer turned into a fourth, and wouldn’t you know it? I suddenly don’t have a care in the world.
Doc cranked up the jukebox and he’s playing the song of my childhood: Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places”. There’s not a person in the bar that doesn’t know the lyrics by heart, hence why Sawyer, Hunter, and I turn to one another, lean in, and croon the chorus, giving “Think I’ll slip on down to the OH-asis” its just due.
“Damn, this is a good song. You’re up, Sawyer.” Hunter nods toward the dartboard and Sawyer steps back to take aim.
The floor and wall (and ceiling) around the board are proof of our bad aim. Well, mostly mine. Sawyer’s still fully capable of sinking dart after dart right in the bull’s-eye.
“That’s like a superpower,” I tell him, sounding thoroughly impressed.
He smiles, those dimples making my heart flutter. “You’re up, buttercup.”
Oh right. I have a game to win here.
I step up, take my position, and narrow one eye while taking aim like I’m really going to do something. The first dart I throw pings off the wooden slat beside the dartboard, ricochets off a nearby chair, and lands with a plop in a bowl of salsa someone abandoned half an hour ago.
Hunter bursts out laughing and has a hard time staying standing.
Sawyer retrieves the dart and wipes off the salsa with a shake of his head. “You’re not even aiming at the board.”
“I sure am. And you know what I’m picturing for the bull’s-eye? I’ll give you one guess.”
Sawyer comes up behind me and drops his mouth close to my ear. “I don’t have to guess. I know.” His hand’s on my waist and he doesn’t take it away. “Turn more. Yeah.” His hand slides up my arm, directly to my wrist, that little bit of connection eclipsing everything else.
I turn my body so I can look up at him. “How macho of you to give me a dart lesson. You doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”
His hand tightens on my wrist as he redirects my stance. “I’m doing it for the well-being of every person in here. They’re shaking in their boots, worried where your next dart is going to land. Poor Hunter almost lost an ear a minute ago.”
“It’s already stopped bleeding,” Hunter assures me from his perch on a nearby barstool.
I shimmy my hips like I’m trying to get comfortable in my position, but it brings me in direct contact with Sawyer. Neither of us pulls away. “Hunter, tell your friend he’s standing awfully close for someone who hates my guts.”
Sawyer chuckles behind me and keeps ahold of my arm, taking aim and throwing the dart for me, ensuring it sinks with a satisfying thump directly in the bull’s-eye.
I whirl around to see he’s wearing a winning smile. He’s confidence personified, the most handsome guy in this town and he knows it. If things were different—if the last few days had never happened—I’d sidle up close to him, slide my hands up his chest, and kiss the smile right off his face.