My breath hitches as she lingers, her fingers lightly caressing the line from my temple to my neck. My heart twinges, shifting in my chest, aching for . . . something I can’t have.
She stares at me. “I like your face. It’s you. Oh, you were pretty before the scars—in fact, I liked to call you Henry Cavill . . . that jawline is wicked hot—but now . . .” Her shoulders shift. “You have character. Meaning. You survived and came out on the other side flawed . . . yet beautiful.”
I frown, grappling with how I feel about her words. “I’m not beautiful.”
“Beauty isn’t on the outside. I learned that in the pageants. I met some beautiful women who were ugly on the inside and some who were incredible. Beauty is how we go on, the life we create around us. Living a life that’s meaningful. I’m not sure I’m there, to be honest. I’m trying hard. We all are. I know that coming home was good for me, even though the reason is sad. Truthfully . . .” She sighs, a contemplative expression on her face. “I needed an anchor in my life, a sense of belonging, and Sabine and home are it.” A laugh comes from her. “Look at me. I’m making us talk about serious things when we should be throwing darts.”
It dawns on me that I don’t have an anchor—unless you count coaching.
She might be the first woman to ever kiss my scars. Sure, I’ve been with women since that night with Nova—carefree, lighthearted young women, the kind I could forget—and usually they just pretended my scars weren’t there. Perhaps they didn’t know what to say. Perhaps they just wanted to forget they existed.
“Let’s move on,” I say and ease away from her.
She throws first and hits just outside the bull’s-eye; then I go, and my dart hits the wall.
“Dammit.”
She’s chanting “I beat Fancy Pants” while I glower in the corner. Stopping, she stands in front of me. “I want Darth Vader for a week. You have to deliver him to me.”
I groan. “He’s very expensive. And heavy.”
“This game was your idea. Let’s go again. I can do this all night,” she sings.
I line up and throw, but my dart goes off center. I curse again.
Her stance is spot on, her elbow perfect as she throws straight to the bull’s-eye.
I heave out an exhale as she waltzes around the room, stopping at the Princess Leia snake cuff. “I want the bracelet. Forever. It’s mine anyway. I need it to complete my outfit.” Her head turns, and she cocks an eyebrow. I stalk over to where she is, flip open the case, and slap it in her open hand.
“You don’t even like Star Wars,” I mutter.
“You hate losing, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I growl.
She fiddles with the cuff, not able to work the clasp, and I take it from her, push her sleeve up, and attach it. On its own accord, my hand grazes down her arm.
“This game feels like foreplay,” she murmurs, then sways away from me.
“I never envisioned foreplay with me in a bra,” I complain.
She laughs. “Round six is up.” She throws, and her dart is off center.
I step up and send the dart straight into the middle of the board. Score. I face her, smiling.
She toys with the end of her ponytail. “I’m not taking off my clothes.”
I take a seat on one of the stools. “I need to think on this.”
She sits across from me, cupping her chin in her hands as our gazes cling. I fucking love looking at her, and it isn’t just her beauty. There’s an infectious quality about her smile, a sense of irrepressible joy that surrounds her.
Playing darts with her might be the best time I’ve had in this big house.
“Tell me something about you,” I say. “Something I don’t know. A secret.”
“A secret . . . hmm . . .” There’s a long pause; then, abruptly, she yells and hops around the room.
“What?”
She plops on the floor, yanks her boot off, tosses it away, and then rubs her arch. “Cramp. All that positioning in front of the dartboard . . . maybe the stilettos I wore. It’s been a while since I wore them. I don’t know. Ugh. My calves hurt too.” Her face scrunches in pain.
I bend down and take her foot. “Here, let me.” I press my thumbs into her arch, rotating them with deep pushes. “It hurts at first, but try to relax your leg muscles, okay?”
“Okay.” She winces, little puffs of air coming from her. “Sorry. I ruined the game. I was going to make you dance around in my bra on the next round. Or take the big-screen TV. Mama’s is ten years old . . . ouch! It hurts. Why?” she wails.