“How many times do I have to apologize to you, huh? I followed the rules—you were the one being a dick, and I didn’t even mean to shoot you!”
Amusement dances across his face. “Oh, I’m sorry my foot got in the way of your bullet shot at the floor!”
“If you’re still that sore about it, why did you bring me here?”
“Because, if you do it again, I can arrest you. I hadn’t even graduated from the academy back then.”
I lean against the side as he lifts his gun, knocks the safety off, and lifts it higher. He locks his arms into place, and sweet hell. Those weapons are deadly enough without having a gun attached to the ends of them. My eyes flit over his upper arms, pure muscle twitching and dimpling as he pulls the trigger and the shot booms out.
When he’s put the gun down, I say, “You weren’t a cop then?”
“That year,” he answers. “Trent and I were a couple months out of the end.”
I frown, but yes. He is right. Trent got his badge between our birthdays.
“Okay, but you could have gotten me arrested,” I say.
“Nah.” He turns to me, grinning. “Why would I do that? One, it was your birthday, and two, I’d never have lived that down. Whining because a sixteen-year-old girl accidentally shot my foot, and not even dangerously?”
“Another half inch and they would have needed to reattach your toe,” I remind him dryly.
“And that woulda been dangerous.” He laughs. “It’s fuckin’ bad enough as it is. I’m never gonna hear the end of it from your brothers.”
“But you’re their superior.”
“But I only have power over Trent, and he’s got one helluva right hook I’d rather avoid.”
Now, I laugh. True that. Trent’s right fist has dished out more than one or two black eyes in the last few years. I guess that’s what happens when you insist to your wife that the punching bag stays in the basement and the brand-new artificial Christmas tree she bought last week can go fuck itself.
Fortunately, that’s a skill he did teach me. Right before I left for training in Dallas. Something about overly handy college-aged bastards who lose their ability to hear when the word no is uttered. I mean, kicking them in the balls works just as well, but the punch straight after was purely for my entertainment.
“You know I have the same right hook, right?” I ask Drake with a coy smile after I take a shot.
“Naturally. I’m almost certain you’ll never need to be saved by a man.”
“I’m no damsel in distress.” I wait as he fires again, hitting the target dead-center.
“Noelle, sweetheart, you’re probably the reason damsels get distressed. Your badass gene is unparalleled. Is there anything you are afraid of?”
I smack my lips together. “Spiders.”
Drake stops, and as he slowly turns his face to me, he arches one eyebrow in disbelief. “You’re afraid of spiders.”
“Of course I’m afraid of spiders. Honestly, there is estrogen mixed with my badass gene.”
“You’re afraid of spiders,” he says again, his disbelief even more evident in the way his eyebrow drops and his eyes widen.
“I’m hands-up, jumping-on-the-table, screaming kind of afraid of spiders.”
“Please,” he mutters. “Please call me if you find one in your house.”
“Why? So you can video me brandishing a hairband as a weapon and put it on YouTube?”
“No. Good idea though.” He laughs and, with his gun set down, comes to me. He stops right in front of me, and as always, his proximity makes my heart race.
I put my own gun down again and resist the urge to wipe my hands against the skirt of my dress. My tongue flicks across my lips when he softly touches his hand to my chin and tilts my head back.
Our gazes collide. Laughter and satisfaction glitter back at me from the icy-blue abyss that is his eyes. I could get lost in his eyes so easily… It would be so easy to stand and stare at him and forget everything else, even the gunshots happening around us.
“I want you to call me if you have a spider in your house because, yes, I want to see you be scared, but not for my amusement. You’re the hardest person I know. You are so…unbreakable, Noelle. For anyone who doesn’t know you, you are fuckin’ terrifyin’. Someone breaks into your house, you go search with a gun. Someone does the same to your office, you go on a warpath and go out for blood. Someone holds a gun in your face, you shoot them first.”
He releases my chin only to trail his fingers down my neck to my collarbone then over my shoulder and the thin strap of my dress to my arm. Then lightly, oh so lightly that there’s nothing but electrical sparks where his fingertips are brushing my skin, he drops his hand down to mine.
“I want to see you feel fear over somethin’ that is so ridiculously small and harmless and far more terrified of you than you are of it because I want, more than anythin’, to see the softer side of yourself you rarely let out to play.”
I swallow. Hard. But the lump in my throat doesn’t go anywhere, so I fight it by taking a deep breath. His words swirl around my mind, and I want to argue, to fight his ridiculous fucking statement, but I can’t. Because his ridiculous fucking statement is one hundred percent true.
Damn righteous pain in my backside.
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I look away from him. It’s like the flutters in my stomach have changed to something much more quivery and uneasy. I still want to rebuff his statements. I wanna yell that he’s being stupid, because I am totally soft. I cried at a rescue shelter commercial two days ago. I want to remind him that, after I checked my house for the intruder with my gun, I broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. Into him.
I know what he’s asking. He’s asking me to drop my guards for him when, three weeks ago, I could barely stand to be around him. God.
“Fine,” I whisper then clear my throat, bringing my eyes back to his. “For this date. I’ll be the flouncy, little girly damsel you want me to be, but then, after that, I’m going to pull out my highest stiletto and do unspeakable things to your crown jewels with them.”
His smile is slow and sexy and so, so heart-stopping with the way a tiny dimple appears in his cheek and his eyes light up. “Right. You’re gonna last another couple of hours without cussing me out, back-talking me, or threatening more bodily harm?”
I open my mouth and then close it again. “You’re the one who wants me to be demure.”
“For the record, cupcake, I happen to find your feisty side sexy as fuck. And I never said demure. I said it’s okay not to be a hardass sometimes and let the men in your life be the men.”
“Are you callin’ me a man?”
He drops his eyes to my chest, which is hugged by white lace, and lingers there. “Sure. I dream about fucking men with tits as great as yours all the time.”
“Aw, I think that was a compliment.”
He winks and closes his fingers around my hand. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Right here.” With a laugh, he spins me so I’m facing the target and steps behind me. He pushes me forward until I’m where I need to be standing to shoot and moves so close to me that there can’t be any space between our bodies.
“What on Earth are you doin’?” I ask, turning my head so I can look at him.
He reaches around me, grabs my gun, then positions his mouth by my ear. “I’m being the man on this date and teaching you how to shoot properly.”
“I’m assuming you’re going somewhere with this.”
“Well, yeah. It doesn’t exactly help my masculinity when my date can shoot better than I do.” He takes my hand and places it on the handle of my gun. He closes his over mine, his fingers bringing mine up to the trigger.
“You’re not using this as a ploy, are you? Like, you’re not gonna suddenly drop the gun and shoot me, are you? My boots are expensive."
“Obviously you’re worried about your boots. Not a bullet in your foot. Your priorities are real fucked.”
“Hey. I’m a woman. My boots are my babies.”
“And so are your sandals, and your high heels, and your slippers…”