Page 31 of Knife Thrower

Sloane snatches her hand back, and she clears her throat, stiffening her spine and putting a solid foot of distance between our shoulders.

I shift my gaze across the picnic tables.

Logan leans against a wooden support beam. He spins his silver lighter over his knuckles, a wicked, shit-eating smirk plastered across his face.

“Pike!” Logan cups a hand around his mouth, projecting his voice over the low hum of the crew’s chatter. “Keep your quivering hilt away from the baby shower!”

A chorus of groans and laughter erupts from the surrounding tables. Wren throws a balled-up paper napkin at Logan’s head. Jonah simply shakes his head, slicing another massive piece of the terrifying stork cake.

The interruption should irritate me. The loss of Sloane’s cool fingers against my jaw should leave me grinding my teeth and plotting Logan’s slow demise.

It doesn’t.

A massive, unstoppable grin stretches across my mouth. I lean back against the wooden bench, crossing my arms over my chest, letting the chaotic noise of my brothers wash over me. Adrenaline thumps a frantic, victorious rhythm against my ribs.

She agreed.

She wants another date. Enough to plan the damn thing herself.

I look back at her. The blush still stains her high cheekbones, a beautiful, violent contrast to her severe posture.

“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Holloway!” I shout back at the fire eater, refusing to take my eyes off Sloane. “Focus on your cake.”

Sloane shakes her head. A tiny, amused huff escapes her lips. She swings her legs over the bench and stands up, smoothing the front of her faded black Henley.

She clears her throat. “Wear boots tomorrow night.”

I uncross my arms, planting my palms flat on the sticky wood. “Tomorrow night. Boots. Am I walking into a trap, Archer?”

“I guess you’ll find out.”

She turns on her heel. Her footsteps crunch against the gravel, carrying her away from the noise and the pastel streamers, her silhouette disappearing into the shadows of the midway.

I watch her walk away, the phantom heat of her palm still burning against my mouth. My pulse hammers in my throat.

I can’t fucking wait to see what she does next.

12

SLOANE

The Dodge Challenger’s engine vibrates through the floorboards, a low, aggressive rumble that hums straight up my calves.

I keep my eyes fixed on the GPS glowing on my phone screen. Outside the window, the dense pine trees blur past, the coastal highway winding tight along the shoreline.

“Next left, Pike.”

Cole grips the leather steering wheel, drumming his thumbs against the curve. He shoots a sideways glance at me, the dashboard lights catching the sharp angle of his jaw. “You’re killing me, Archer. Give me a hint. Are we breaking into a bank? Underground fight club?”

“Turn.”

He whips the wheel. The muscle car tires bite into a gravel road, kicking up a cloud of white dust. We roll a quarter mile down a driveway lined with crooked wooden fencing before a hand-painted sign comes into view under a single floodlight.

Sunny Meadows Petting Zoo.

Cole hits the brakes. The Challenger idles in the empty dirt lot. He stares through the windshield at the wooden archway, the pens filled with loose hay, and the tiny shapes moving around in the dusk.

He turns his head slowly. He looks at the sign, then at me, then back at the sign.