Page 67 of Hate You Later
“And if I win?” she asks.
“Name your prize,” I say.
She thinks about it for a moment, sizing me up.
“If I win, you do the maintenance on the Feed Co. Building,” she says.
“Is that really the best you can do?” I ask. “You don’t want to aim a little higher? I was already planning on personally overseeing the maintenance.”
“No rent hike?”
“No can do,” I say. “That’s just not in my power. It’s been a decade, and the building really needs work, as you know.”
“Fine. If I win … you let me make your costume for the masquerade. No questions asked.”
“No questions?” I bite my lip. This could be bad.
“What’s the matter? Are you afraid you’ll lose?”
“Not at all,” I say, taking the bet. “I’m in. May the best man win!”
* * *
A crowd has gathered outside the lanes, and the atmosphere feels taut. Throwing is a great release. Jackson steps up to act as an unofficial judge, prompting us when it’s time to throw in our side-by-side lanes. We’ve agreed to ten throws, and changing lanes after the first round of five. Pretty standard.
I take a few practice throws, gauging the weight of these hatchets and the feel of the targets. Georgia stretches and rolls her neck and shoulders. I try not to let the sight of her neck distract me.
Jackson calls the first official throw.
Just for fun, I aim the first ax at the outermost ring on the stump. Georgia hits a bull’s-eye. I might have underestimated her. She turns to me to gloat.
“You’re going down, Holm.” Her eyes are shining with something slightly more than a mere competitive streak.
But her next throw is less lucky. And on the third, her ax clatters to the ground.
“The party is at two,” I say, after sinking two consecutive bull’s-eyes.
“Fuck you,” she says, and her ax finds purchase in the dead center of the wood target. She removes her fleece jacket, unzipping it slowly and fanning her cleavage while staring at me. I miss my next shot.
We trade lanes, colliding into each other in the process. Once again, we can’t seem to get past each other.
“Pick a side,” Georgia says haughtily. Kenna snorts.
I take my time with each of my next two throws, sharing a detail about the party between each. Georgia glares at me before sinking her throw into the center of the target.
“Dress is casual,” I say. “But you’ll probably want to cover up a little more if it’s chilly.” I let my eyes wander unapologetically over her thin, damp tee. Although we’ve both worked up a sweat, the cool air in the lanes is clearly affecting her.
She stares back at me as I pull off my sweater.
“It’s just regular wool, not cashmere,” I say. “You want to check?”
She turns to throw, and I notice her pink tongue peeking out between her lips as she concentrates. It’s adorable. Her ax hits its mark.
“The outlets in the shop need to be replaced. And the bathroom could use remodeling too,” she says.
“Don’t feel obligated to bring a gift to the party.” I send my ax sailing through the air. “Although if you do, Lilly is really into graphic novels.”
“The radiator needs replacing. It’s either boiling hot or freezing cold. There’s no middle ground.”
