Page 34 of Vipers & Roses

“Sure,” I answer, reaching into my bag. “I haven’t…um done anything with it.”

He gazes down at me under those black eyelashes and roughs up his thick raven hair as I glance at his firm muscles bulging from his shirt sleeves. “Nothing? Not even held it?”

“Well, no, because I can’t tell if it’s loaded, and I might accidentally shoot myself or, worse, someone else,” I explain as he creases that face into a devilish smirk. The thief is one hundred percent likable, I’ll give him that, but I bet that charm comes in handy when he wants to swindle old ladies out of their life savings.

“This is going to be fun,” he mutters sarcastically, and I give him a sharp look, which makes him smile even more.

The sounds of multiple tinny gun fire grace us as we approach the counter, and he pays for our concession with cash. The guy behind the counter taking the money cocks his eyebrows at Blake before raking his eyes all over me, grossing me out, before he grunts, “This your latest squeeze?”

“That’s no way to talk about a lady,” Blake quips and points behind him. “We’ll a couple of pairs of earmuffs.”

When we step out into the shooting range, Blake hands me the earmuffs, “Keep those ears protected. We wouldn’t want you to go deaf.”

“Just to make clear,” I blurt because it’s irritating me, so I have to get it off my chest, “this is not a date.”

Blake snorts, ushering me to a table against a wall. “Who said this was a date?”

I wiggle my finger up and down at him, “You’re just dressed-”

“You’re not my type,” he snaps, unwrapping the rag from my gun and then holding the silver weapon up to the light, then snaps open the magazine as if second nature.

“I’m not your type?” I won’t analyze why his sudden and blunt comment bothers me too deeply.

“Yeah, I mean…” looks me up and down. “Too tall and,” shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, “blond.”

“Good,” I answer, stifling my annoyance at him for not liking tall blonds like me. Perhaps the tall blond trope is unfashionable with many men these days.

“The last thing a good man wants is a girl with legs so long, she could strangle him in his sleep.” He plants the magazine on the table before me, “Load it.”

“Good,” I answer, struggling to find a comeback to his ‘strangle men in their sleep’ scenario. It hadn’t crossed my mind that men worry about such things, so I focused back on the gun. “I haven’t practiced doing this,” hunting through my bag for the box of bullets he gave me.

“That’s why I’m here to teach you,” he states as a man fires several rounds at a target a few feet away from us. I put on earmuffs to block out the noise.

I figured out how to load the magazine with the gold bullets, and once I was done, Blake showed me where to slot the magazine back into the gun. It quickly dawned on me that I was holding a loaded weapon now and how lethal I had suddenly become. He made a sign with his hands for me to take off my earmuffs so I could hear him.

“Are you ready to take a shot?” he asks me, and I nod. “And…green eyes.”

“Green eyes?” I ask, unsure what he’s talking about.

“Green eyes aren’t my thing. Nor freckles and full lips,” he informs me.

“You don’t like freckles and full lips?” I ask, feeling offended but trying not to show it. I don’t want him to think I’m hurt by his lack of attraction to me.

“Nah, they’re overrated,” he says, flicking me a mischievous glance with his warm brown eyes. But you have a cute nose.”

My fingers automatically find my nose, and I drop my hand away when I realize it. “You’d date my nose?”

“Yeah, why not, if it’s attached to a short, dark-haired girl with thin lips and no freckles?” His words are like rubbing salt into a wound, and I don’t know why they trouble me so much. He’s a thief, a very charming and attractive thief with twinkling chocolate eyes, tanned skin, and rolled-out-of-bed hair, but a thief nonetheless. He does smell good today, but he’s clarified that bathing with soap and wearing nice clothes is not for me.

“So, what did you steal over the weekend?” I hit venomously.

He wears that smile well, “I’d have to kill ya if I told you.”

“Huh, you stole that much?” I tease, wondering if his threat is real because I barely know the guy. For all I know, he may have spent the entire weekend killing innocent people with a smile on his face.

“Don’t tempt me,” he growls. “Now, go stand in the firing bay and point that Glock at your target.” That smile of his washes away when he adds, “You’ve got to get used to it in your hands, or else your shot will be off. And I’m guessing you’d like to hit your target, not miss.”

I do a double take to read his face because his tone was on another level in the last comment. “I bought the gun for protection,” I remind him.

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