Page 62 of Facing Off
Three plates in, I notice him perfecting his technique. Aiming at targets and hitting them with unerring accuracy. It’s skilled. Very captain-of-a-pro-hockey-team-like.
I try to aim at something, too. A table at the other end of the room but large enough that it should be easy to hit. My plate smashes nowhere close to it.
I try again. Fail. Scowl. Stand there, annoyed. Grab another plate.
Sandalwood, soap, mint.
His scent envelops me. Hughes has come up behind me, and the world shrinks to that tiny distance left remaining between us.
“I’m going to take my chances and hope you don’t murder me,” he says in a rush, smirking at me.
He makes the barest moment of contact, touching the underside of my elbow, yet my pulse skyrockets. It’s absolutely ridiculous. My eyes widen at the amount of adrenaline that flows through me.
He repositions the way I’m holding the plate by adjusting my wrist. Any second now, I tell myself I’ll elbow him in the gut and pull away, but I don’t. I gulp. It’s because it’s distracting how huskily he drawls instructions in my ear. “Keep a loose grip. Hold on, but not too tightly. Focus on what you want to hit. Let’s aim for that bottle.”
The bottle? It’s too far and too damn little. There’s no way…
The solid weight of his leg nudges my feet further apart. “You have to stand wider, Sonya.”
There’s a beat of silence as he finishes arranging me by straightening the angle of my hips. “You ready?”
Am I ready?
I don’t know. My face is overly flushed, and I’m a bit dazed for some reason. My ass accidentally grazes across the front of his crotch, and he’s been touching me all over, so there’s no reason for his breath to hitch, but it does. I hear it and feel him go completely still behind me
It’s probably the weight. We’re so padded that any brush of our bodies feels heavier. And there’s got to be static building up in these protective overalls that explains why electricity dances across my skin.
“I—” Hughes clears his throat. “You…throw the plate in a smooth, controlled motion. Lead with the elbow. You can?—”
I release the plate. The bottle topples over.
Hughes comes around to face me, his mouth breaking out into a wicked grin. “That’s my girl! I knew you could do it, but fuck. You did so good, Sonya. Good job, baby.”
He’s calling mehisgirl and calling mebaby.He can’t say such things because they are categorically untrue, but there’s something in the way that he’s looking at me right now. Like I’m impressive and incredible, and it makes my belly quiver and my core tighten.
I want to hear more.
“Sonya?” Hughes angles his head at me, his smile turning puzzled. “You look like you’re getting mad.”
I’m not mad. I’m freaking out.
Getting praised by him shouldn’t feel addictive in any way, but right now it does. I suck my cheeks, back-pedaling so he doesn’t figure that out. “Maybe I am mad, but I don’t want to talk about why. I want to talk about…” My thoughts trip over themselves. “You,” I blurt out.
“Me?”
I chew the corner of my lip. “Yeah. What makesyoumad?”
What a clumsy pivot to a conversation. Something I’ve never done before.
While I stand there mortified, Adrian is seriously considering my question. “I get mad at lots of things. Like inequality. Famine. Human rights not being respected.”
His answer makes me mutter a disbelieving sound. “So does everyone else. How unique.”
“In that case…I get mad…at…lots of other things…”
“So you’ve said,” I remind him. I forgot why we started this conversation in the first place. I’m too invested now to hear a real answer. “Ugh. You’re telling me you don’t really get mad?”
“More like I have no reason to complain.”
