Page 28 of Weathering The Storm

Nick shrugs, following me back to the dartboard with the guys patting him on the back and cheering him on. “Maybe I have a strategy.”

“Can’t wait to see it.” I pluck our darts from our last game out of the board and hold both sets out to him. “Green or red?”

“Green.”

“Is that your strategy? You think I have a preference?” I smile. “When it comes to winning, I’m colorblind.”

I go to drop the darts in his hand, but he takes them from me instead, fingers brushing with mine. Long enough, intentionallyenough, to make my eyes linger on his and find what I’ve been hoping for. Relaxation. The thing he treats like a luxury rather than a basic human need.

The bourbon must be working its magic, because the guy who shied away from me at the bar is nowhere to be found.

More than the set of darts he chooses, the sight of him loosening up is what shakes me.

“First shot’s yours,” I say, reminding myself where we are and who we’re with.

Nick steps back to the line, narrows his eyes, and goes for it. Broad shoulders pulling at his sweater with each throw.

Thwack.Double 18.

Thwack.Treble 20.

Thwack.Bullseye.

“Three-thirty-four!” Jorgensen announces.

“Three-fifty-five,” Orlov corrects.

“Are you sure we should be letting you count our catch?” I pull Nick’s darts from the board and line up for my own shot.

“Maybe not, but the kid can keep score for me if he’s gonna subtract like that.” Nick steps away to grab a few fries from the basket.

I throw next. Treble 19. 25 for the outer ring. And then the last dart sails low. 3 points.

Vindicated—Zach, Pyotr, and Konrad, let out a collectiveoooh.

“Four-forty,” Jorg says.

I’m starting to thinkhe’sthe one who missed two years of high school math.

“Four-sixteen,” I correct, not that it’s much better. “Orlov—you’re the official scorekeeper now.”

“Please.” Nick’s shoulder bumps mine as he stands beside me. “Have to make sure everyone knows I beat you fair and square.”

Ninety percent of my focus is on expanding the single point where we touch, bending my arm to press my elbow against his. The other ten percent is still vaguely competitive. “We’ve got a lot of game left.”

Apparently, I’m underestimating.

Nick’s always been the closest I’ve had to true competition at darts, but tonight he’s on fire. In four more turns, he closes out the leg with a Double 13, while I still have 54 left. The guys are ecstatic, drawing the attention of the whole pub while Nick does his best to let the praise go in one ear and out the other. A man more accustomed to giving it than receiving it.

“You’re goin’down, Rittenburg,” Zach slurs as we get ready to start up the next round.

“It was one leg,” I say, retrieving our darts. Biting the inside of my lip as Nick’s hand brushes mine again. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Dunno, I’m feeling pretty good,” Nick says. The low, private register of his voice sends a shiver up my spine. “Think Iamgonna take you down tonight, Rit.”

“Down to the bar,” I amend, throat dry. “Where you’re buying the last round.”

He laughs. Fuck, I love his laugh.