Page 90 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“Don’t you dare give me a lesson.”
“Too late.” He moves in closer, positioning himself just behind me, and I can’t help but be aware of his tall, muscular frame brushing my backside. Holy distracting! He smells incredible, and he’s so big and warm behind me. He casually adjusts my grip on the handle. “Here. Pull back like this.”
His hands are warm on mine, his breath brushes the side of my neck, and suddenly the air feels ten degrees hotter.
“This is a bad idea,” I mutter.
“Which part?”
“Letting you this close to an axe.”
He chuckles, low and amused. “Relax. I’m not the enemy tonight.”
“I don’t trust you with that kind of power.”
“Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But if you hurl that thing through the wall, I’m not explaining it to Jasmine.”
I try again—and this time, it hits. Not the bullseye, but itsticks.
I turn to Chase, triumphant. “See? I don’t need your help.”
“You sure about that?” His voice is soft, teasing—but something else lingers there too.
I try not to notice the way his eyes drop to my mouth. Try not to notice the way my heart thumps like a warning bell.
We play a few more rounds, the trash talk flying easily between us, and for a while, it’s easy. Fun, even. No pressure. No book club. No audience.
Just us.
Eventually, we turn in our axes, and he grabs my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, tugging me toward the door. “Come on.”
I narrow my eyes. “Where are we going now?”
“You’ll see.”
“You already tried to kill me once tonight.”
“Technically, you tried to kill yourself with your throwing technique.”
He drives us five minutes out of town to a little hill overlooking the lake. The stars are out in full force, scattered across the sky like confetti, and there’s a tiny food truck parked near the edge of the lot.
“Is this part two of your murder plot?”
“Nope.” He parks, orders two milkshakes from the vendor, and hands me one. “Peanut butter for you. Strawberry for me.”
Iblink. “You remembered that?”
He shrugs. “I pay attention.”
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I take a sip.
And damn it—it’s perfect. Seriously, if I ever get sent to death row, this exact milkshake would be my final meal request. It’s life-changing.
Damn him.
We sit on the hood of the Jeep, the stars above us, treetops swishing in the distance, and it’s… quiet. Peaceful.
