Page 59 of Wild Blades

“Wadepain in the assCollins, right? That’s what you confessed to calling me last night.”

I rest the wooden handle of my axe on top of my shoulder. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs, replying with heavy irony.

I step closer and lay my hand over his. “Genuinely, I’m sorry for calling you that. It’s very unprofessional of me, and despite what you might think, I do really like you. I’ve had fun today.”

“No more name calling, please. My mother did it to me all my life.” I can tell he’s trying to school his emotions as he clenches his jaw together, something I’ve watched him do a lot since I met him.

“I promise,” I whisper as I circle my thumb across the skin on the top of his hand. I can’t work out why I am touching him or why I like the feeling of his giant hand in mine so much. “I’m sorry, Wade. I’m sorry for making you feel less than you are, and I’m sorry for how your mother made you feel.”

“Don’t be and don’t feel sorry for me.” He jumps on the defense.

“I don’t. I feel happy that you had Gretchen instead. Your mother didn’t deserve you. She’s missed out on all your greatness.”

“I haven’t been that great lately.” Weary eyes stare back at me.

“You’re wrong about that. You did a great thing today, Wade. You made little Rory’s entire year. You have greatness within you. It’s just been hibernating for the past twelve months. You’re like a snail.”

“A snail?” he scoffs with a chuckle.

“They can hibernate for up to three years.”

“You know a lot of random facts.”

I’ve spent a lot of time by myself over the years. “I’ve watched lots of British documentaries on the BBC. David Attenborough is the greatest.”

“Yeah?”

“And I know a thing or two.” I squeeze his hand. “Trust me, Wade. I’ve seen guys and girls like you fall off the rails of stardom, self-sabotaging themselves and their careers. I meant it when I said I wanted to help you. You took the first step by saying yes to allowing us into your life. Meeting with Thomas was the biggest hurdle, and allowing me to enhance your visibility and credibility, I feel honored.”

He scoffs, so I remind him, “You’re an elite athlete. You’re special. One of a kind. Hell, Calvin Klein wants to sign you for a campaign. That’s a huge deal. You should feel proud of yourself.” I beam a smile, knowing no one tells him how incredible he truly is. Beneath the surface is a guy full of promise with a huge heart that he’s chained up so no one can get to it anymore.

“I don’t feel proud of myself,” he confesses.

My heart cracks open for him. “Perhaps, not yet. But we’ll get you there. And no more name calling, I promise.”

“Thanks.” His face softens, showing me how grateful he is. “When I throw my axe, I’m going to pretend the target is my mother. I think that would help.”

I bob my head in response. “How about we throw it together? That way, we both win. I can pretend it’s Michael’s face and you can pretend it’s your mom’s.”

“I think I like the sound of that.” Looking down at our conjoined hands, he says, “You seem to like touching me.” It’s an obvious observation because I’ve been a little too handsy today. Shoulder touches, hand gripping, squeezing his biceps. I can’t help myself.

“Sorry.” I pull my hand away, disconnecting us. “Let’s throw this.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and bite my lip because,around him, I feel nervous, like a giddy teenager. I’m behaving like one too.

I make my way back to the standing marker and wait for him. Anticipation rolls over me like the crest of a wave, my stomach feeling as if it’s doing somersaults.

What feels like an eternity passes before he steps up behind me. Pressing his front to my back, his mouth finds my ear. “I’m going to have to touch you, Kali. That okay?” Chin resting on my shoulder, he tucks himself into my neck. His gravelly lower tone causes a throbbing sensation between my thighs and the way he says my name sounds like a vow.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, unable to look back at him from fear of my mouth finally touching his, which is what it’s been threatening to do since last night. It’s very tempting.

He runs his hand down my right arm, to my wrist, finally finding my hand where he wraps his strong digits around it. I gasp when his firm hand rests on my waist.

“Are you thinking about him?” he asks, lips so close they brush my skin.

“No.”

“Who are you thinking about?”

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