“Okay. Your turn.”
My anxiety ratchets up as we switch places. I stare the little revolver down like it’s my evil adversary. I’m just about to pick it up when I feel Ben’s hand squeeze my shoulder and I nearly leap out of my skin. I spin around, exasperated, and he’s holding out my jacket.Oh.
I turn and he helps me shrug it on, but when I go to zip it up, my hands are trembling so much, I can’t line up the zipper. After a couple of tries, he stills my hands and zips me up himself. He fusses over the collar, untucking my hair from the back, his fingertips repeatedly brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck. Everywhere he touches me, I burn. I’d shatter a thermometer if it got close. He may as well beundressingme for how my body is reacting.
Before I register what’s happening, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my temple.
You’ve got this,he mouths, his breath whispering across my cheek. His hand is still on my neck and I. Am. Deceased.
“Remember, you’ll only be nervous at first. In a minute, you’re going to tell me how easy this is.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, my voice shaky.
He kissed me. It may have been the most chaste kiss in history, but it was a kiss.
He turns me so I’m facing the target again. I pick up the gun and glance at Ben, and he nods encouragingly.
Let’s get this over with.
When I squeeze the trigger, time slows down. My whole body tenses and the split second it takes to fire feels like an hour. When the gun finally discharges, it’s so loud and the kickback so powerful that I gasp. I look at Ben, shell-shocked and dazed.
“You did it! How’d it feel?” He’s grinning, pride palpable on his face.
I just blink at him, wide-eyed.
“Go again. Do the rest.”
On autopilot, I comply, squeezing one eye shut and firing the remaining bullets in the cylinder.Well, that wasn’t so bad.
He reels in the paper target and inspects it. “You hit the target three times. That’s great.”
I peer over his shoulder. “I missed the body entirely!”
“Nah, you grazed the shoulder there,” he says, pointing. “That’ll cause some bleeding.”
I hold up a hand. “Don’t need the color commentary, thanks.”
He smirks. “Again?”
“Sure.”
He reloads me, and I do it again. I focus on the outlined chest area—the one he hit perfectly with both his test shots—and I quickly determine that my shots are going high and wide and adjust my aim accordingly. I do better this round, actually landing two inside the box.
“Do you want to try one of the other guns? They’re automatics, not revolvers.”
I appreciate that he’s letting me decide. “If you think I can handle it, then... okay. Sure.”
He moves to his case, smiling to himself as he rummages through it.
“What’s with the cat-that-ate-the-canary grin?”
It falls a little. “Nothing.”
I set the revolver down on the counter. “Spill, or I stop.”
“Fine, I just already feel better, seeing you do this. It’s like you’re safer.”
It’s such an odd statement. “Why are you so obsessed with my safety?”
