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“Wait.” I reached out and stopped his hand, my fingers curling around his hand as if I was holding it. I let go before he got any ideas. “That’s all we’ve gone? Just that short way?” I scanned over the entire map, seeing a stream, a lake, and a dozen areas labeled and shaded across the parcel. “This is huge.”
“Four thousand acres.” He nodded to my boots. “I hope those things are comfortable.”
I grimaced and he smiled. “Just joking. But yeah, it’s big.” He circled the cabins with his finger and I noticed a checked pattern over the area. “All this is a safety area. No guns or bows. If anyone gets shot in these three hundred acres, then someone is doing something wrong.”
“But it could happen,” I pointed out.
“It’s not going to happen,” he assured me. “Not with anyone in our club. And again, chances are that it’s just us using it tonight. Most of the club is from Orlando, and they’re not stepping away from their televisions during football weekends.”
I relaxed a little at the clear rules that seemed to be in place, the map both reassuring and terrifying in its size. I scanned it again and noticed the area labeled Skeet. “Is that where you are going to shoot today?”
“Yep.” He passed me the map and grabbed the wheel, taking a right at the fork and continuing down the path. “Assuming Nate gets here quickly. There’s a fair amount of prep we have to do first.”
“But you told me you aren’t shooting skeet.”
“Right. Because you don’t want to hurt them.” He shot me a wry smile. “I’m about to change your mind on that.”
It didn’t matter what he showed me. Skeet could be bloodthirsty bats that eat kittens in their spare time, and I still wasn’t letting him shoot them. We had a deal, and I was here, boots on in the humidity, so he needed to keep his end of the bargain.
His phone buzzed and he pulled it out of the cupholder and glanced at it. “Looks like Nate is still in Tallahassee, so we’ve got plenty of time.” The truck rounded a turn and stopped by a wide screened-in lean-to, a chimney rising from its back. Before it was a fire pit, surrounded by logs, and a large stack of wood. “Come on.” He put the truck into park and stepped out. “I want to show you something before he gets here.”
Curious, I followed him, picking my way through some overgrown brush and around to the back of the structure, where a large padlock held two double doors shut. He twisted the combination on the lock, tugged, and then opened it up, revealing a surprisingly neat storage area with a dozen shelves stacked with boxes, containers, bottles, and tools. Everything was labeled, and he pulled out a box under a heading marked ‘clays’. He pried open the lid and pulled out a round clay disk. “Here.” He held it out for me.
I took it, turning it over in my hand. “What’s this?”
“A sporting clay. What do you think?”
What did I think? I studied it, confused. “It’s nice.”
“Are you emotionally attached to it?”
I laughed. “No.”
“Throw it against the wall.” He nodded at the side of the lean-to.
“What? Why?”
“Just get your aggression out on it. See if you can get it to break.”
“What if I damage the wall?”
“That’s not going to happen. Just fling it with all your might.”
I stepped back a few paces and cranked back my arm, heaving the small disk forward in my best impression of a pitch. It hit the wooden side and smashed, breaking into a dozen pieces and falling to the ground. I frowned, aware of the mess I had made.
He laughed. “Good job.”
“And… what was the purpose of that? To show my brute strength?”
“To prove you wrong.” He bent down, picking up the shards and collecting them in his palm. I crouched beside him and started to help. “There is no such thing as a skeet.”
“What?”
He nodded to the destroyed remains of the disk. “Skeet shooting is shooting clay targets, like the one you just massacred.”
Well, I felt stupid. I picked up a broken piece and recalled my declaration of love for skeet and loud insistence they be kept alive at all costs. My cheeks warmed, and my knees bumped against his as I settled back on my heels. “Oh.”
His hand reached out, cupping my cheek and pulling my chin up to meet his gaze. I expected to see scorn, a cocky smile pulling at his mouth, but he wasn’t smiling. He was studying me, his dark brown eyes kind as his gaze moved across my face, drawing to my lips and staying there. He pulled gently, asking for more, and I wavered, weak in my position, weak in the force of that worshipping look. I shouldn’t, but I wanted to, could still feel the ache of that missed opportunity in the car. He pulled me forward and I let him, our lips meeting.
