Page 4 of Duke
“Nah. We usually just hand you the beer.” He passes one of the longnecks to me. “What I’m asking is do you play games with hearts or with darts?”
“Ah.” I take the beer, our fingers brushing, and grin. “Can I say both?”
“You can say whatever you want.” He flashes me a wide, white smile. “I like a challenge.”
“You’re gonna be disappointed, then.” I follow him to the far corner of the room. A pool table is tucked underneath a stained-glass Budweiser light fixture. Beside it, a dartboard that’s seen better days hangs on the wall underneath a pair of antlers mounted on a license plate from Alaska. “I suck at games.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Why do I get the feeling you’re already playing?”
Damn, he’s good.
The heat of his gaze follows me as I pluck the darts off the board. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Just trying to get to know you.” He tips back his beer, throat bobbing on a swallow. “A friend of Mollie’s is a friend of mine. Haven’t seen my brother this happy in…well. Forever.”
So casual. Like he has real conversations with strangers on the regular and talks about his family with no trace whatsoever of awkwardness or trauma.
I envy him.
“They’re cute together, aren’t they? Mollie and Cash.” Darts in one hand, I tip back my own beer with the other. It’s all I can do not to groan. The Shiner Bock is ice cold, its earthy flavor refreshingly delicious. Didn’t realize I was so thirsty until I take one long sip, then another.
“It’s sickening.” Duke sets down his beer on the nearby whiskey barrel that’s been repurposed as a drinks table. “What’s your game? 501? 301?”
He’s referring to the different games we can play with the darts. Players start with either 501 or 301 points, subtracting the number they hit on the board during every turn. Whoever gets to zero first wins.
I’m smiling again as I flatten my palm, offering him the darts. “This is your bar, so it’s your call.”
He shakes his head and grins. “Nah, sweetheart.” Stepping closer, he curls his hand over mine and rolls the darts back into my palm. “You’re my guest, so you get to make the call. Although I know that call is gonna be 501.”
My pulse skips. My skin ignites at the casual, confident way he touches me. “I’m Mollie’s guest too.”
“I don’t share. 501 is your jam because you play the long game. You’re a steady Eddie chiseling away at those points, making your opponent think you’re not all that good. But then—bit by bit—you crush them, and then you finally go in for the kill.”
I lick my lips, pulse racing, even as that voice in my head sounds a warning.Careful.This guy is good.
Really, really good at reading people. Readingme.
We’re just flirting, though. This is harmless fun. Nothing more.
I deserve to blow off a little steam, don’t I? After years of struggling to get Bellamy Brooks out of the red, Mollie and I are gettingsoclose to hitting it big. Just this week, we heardfromElleabout a feature they’re doing on Western wear for the spring. They want to possibly feature our Jocelyn boots, a pair of midcalf, almond-toed beauties available in coral and turquoise full-grain leather.
There’s no guarantee the feature will run or that our boots will end up in it. But it’s still a big deal the editors noticed us. We’ve only been knocking on their door for, oh, close to five years now.
Everyone thought I was stupid to pour my time and my life savings into a cowboy boot company. I’m ashamed to admit that on bad days, I think I really must be stupid to bet so big on myself. Who am I to believe I know what I’m doing? I’ve had to borrow way more money than I’m comfortable admitting from my parents and grandparents to keep the company afloat. I’ve only been able to pay back some of it, which is reason number one thousand why Mom and Dad don’t approve of the career path I’ve chosen.
But even though no one in my family really believes in me, I can’t quit. Not yet. Deep down, there’s a voice that keeps telling me we can make Bellamy Brooks work.
“I hope you’re not in a rush.” I set down my beer and assume the position: weight balanced evenly on both feet, shoulders relaxed, grip on the dart delicate. “You’re right—501 is my game.”
One side of Duke’s mouth quirks upward. “I got all night.”
“It won’t take me that long to kick your ass.”
“You talk a big game.”
“I’m not afraid to make big bets.”
“Awful risky when the margin for error is so small.” He nods at the board. The areas with the highest scores are placed directly beside areas with the lowest scores, so when you aim for twenty points, you could easily—very, very easily—end up with a measly one point.
