SWNOVELS A False Start: Chapter 18
Stefan is like a little kid—way too excited about target practice. Especially for a guy who is about to miss every shot.
My friend is good at a lot of things, but shooting guns is not one of them. I took him hunting last year, and he did two things exceedingly well: kept me company and made delicious gourmet sandwiches. Beyond that, I might even go so far as to say he was a bit of a burden. Not that I’d ever tell him. Beggars like me can’t be choosers when it comes to friends. Plus, he’s got the bug now. After big city living, he’s settling into country life, and seems to think getting good at hunting is one of those things he needs to master.
Enter me, the best friend who’s been hunting since he was a kid.
I set the cans up on the log. “Alright, Stefan.” I stand back to check the spacing of the five cans before walking back to where everyone is standing, trying not to look at Nadia. “I think that’s about set.”
She’s been a distraction all day without even trying. Just having her up here in my space, in my safe haven, is driving me crazy.
And not in a bad way.
More because I can imagine her up here. With me.
She leans back against a tree, wearing a pair of my earmuffs, sipping a pineapple flavored sparkling water, looking completely amused as her brother explains to Mira how to hold the gun.
Nadia isn’t as prissy as she appears. I don’t know what I expected her and Mira to do all day, but getting into the few flower beds around my place and pruning the hedges wasn’t it. I watched her on her knees, digging through the soil with her bare hands. Marveled at the way she propped them on her hips as she scanned the area, not caring at all about the mud it smeared on her clothes.
From where I was repairing a spot on the roof, I watched her let herself into the back field, the one full of wildflowers. Pinks, yellows, purples, every shade of green imaginable. I watched her prop a hand over her brow and scan the horizon.
Fucking wildflowers as far as the eye can see.
I swear I forgot how to breathe for a few minutes as I watched her, all long limbs and flowing golden hair.
For years, I’ve stared at that field and tried to figure out a way to get rid of the flowers that run rampant in the alpine valley. I can’t let the horses out to graze back there, but I’m not wild about blanketing the field in herbicide. The alternative is stripping the top layer of the plants and soil, and well, that’s a big job I haven’t gotten around to yet. I bought this place in the winter, in desperate need of the isolation it offered. I didn’t ask or care about what was in the field.
But now, every spring, more flowers crop up, their seeds spreading in the wind, their roots lacing themselves down into the soil. Hardy as all get out, and almost impossible to get rid of.
So instead of dealing with the issue, that fucking field has sat there for years, taunting me.
Just like Nadia.
“Okay, now gently squeeze the trigger.” Stefan is standing behind Mira when she pulls the trigger on the rifle she chose.
Bang.
I can hear Tripod going postal in the house. Yappy little motherfucker. I roll my eyes but can’t stop the small smile. That little dog has been my constant companion over the past month. Follows me everywhere. Sleeps in my bed even though I swore I wouldn’t let him. I’m not even sure what he’s barking at right now. The sound of the gunshot, or that I locked him away, and he’s miffed about it.
Bang.
She tries again. And misses. Again. And again. But she doesn’t care. She and Stefan are laughing. The city boy and his bookish wife giggle over shooting a rifle for the first time, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little bit adorable.
“You wanna try, Nadia?” Mira turns to her, asking a little more loudly than necessary over the plugs in her ears.
Nadia holds up the can in her hand, ankle crossed over her shin where she leans casually against the trunk of a tree. “I’m good, thanks.” She smiles, but it’s strained. I glance back to see if the other two notice the discomfort seeping into her previously relaxed expression.
“Try it, Nadia. It’s fun. Even if you don’t come close to hitting a can. Right, Kitten?” Stefan winks at his wife, who rolls her eyes and playfully nudges him in the ribs.
“Griff can show you how. He’s a pro. Right, Griff?”
My friend juts his chin out at me, and my eyes dart over to his little sister. I try so hard not to stare at her, to let my eyes rove over every hill and valley of her body, but it’s goddamn impossible. The girl is temptation personified without even trying. And maybe that’s why I’m such a goner.
She doesn’t care about impressing me. She’s still got mud smudged on her hips, wavy hair up in a high ponytail, the skin stretched across the rounded tops of her breasts light pink from too many hours in the sun today.
She’s not even trying, and I’m driving myself crazy. What would happen if she said it out loud, gave life to this enormous question mark between us?
I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. That’s what.
“Only if you want to.” I shrug, wanting to hear her say yes. Wanting to know what this discomfort I’m picking up on is.
She sighs heavily, giving me a slightly wide-eyed look that I just can’t place. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Any preference?” I gesture toward where the different types of guns are laid out.
Without moving, she shifts her gaze to the cases set on the rickety wooden table beside her. Top teeth scraping against her bottom lip, she regards the firearms. She stares at them for so long that I wonder if she’s even going to say anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stefan and Mira look at each other in question.
“The handgun.”
It’s not what I expected her to choose.
I shrug again. “Okay.”
She places the yellow can down on the table and steps up to the line we’ve been shooting from. I grab the gun and walk up behind her, placing it into her hand. If I turn to Stefan right now, who is standing behind me, I’m going to look guilty as fuck. All I’m doing is showing his sister something completely platonic. If I start acting like an anxious bastard, he’ll figure it out.
Figure out that I fuck my hand every night while imagining it’s his sister.
“Like this.” I wrap my fingers around hers gently, placing it in her dominant hand. “And on this side”—I step behind her and lift her opposite hand so that her petite palm wraps just under the butt of the pistol—“like this.”
My fingertips trail over the top of her hand, and I watch goosebumps rush up her forearm. Fuck. The air in the few inches between our bodies crackles, and we both suck in a breath, trying and failing to hide our reactions to each other.
“Okay . . .” The scent of my cinnamon gum tangles with the scent of her rose cream, and something more distinctively her. The smell of sunshine on her skin. “Let your eyes follow that line on the barrel.” I peek around at her face to check, but end up staring at her lips, recalling the feel of them pressed against mine, so soft and hungry.
I clear my throat. “This elbow up.” My fingers drag along the underside of her arm, and I hear her breath catch. Her throat works as she swallows and forces herself to keep her eyes on the soda can.
I need to get away from her. “Safety off, right here.” I tap the spot softly and note her small nod.
Stepping back, I say, “Now lock your arms and press softly. This one doesn’t take any muscle.”
A few seconds pass, and again I wonder if she’s going to make a move. I swear I can almost see the gears in her head turning.
It happens in slow motion. The deep breath she takes sends relaxation snaking out through her limbs, her feet sink into the ground, and a ferocious expression overtakes her face.
Her fingers move so, so softly.
Bang.
The tinny noise of a can hitting the packed dirt beneath the log draws my attention down. She hit it.
Shock has me moving slowly because the next bang almost startles me. I jerk my eyes up to catch the second can falling through the air toward the ground.
Bang.
She hits the third can. I stop staring at targets and instead let my gaze find the woman holding the gun.
Bang.
The one who doesn’t look surprised at all.
Bang.
She shifts imperceptibly, takes aim.
Bang.
Five in a row, with ease. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the forest this quiet. Nadia doesn’t meet any of our eyes, she just drops her chin and slips the safety back into place. Based on the way all the color has drained from her brother’s face and the look of heartbreak on Mira’s, there’s a story here.
One that hasn’t been told until just now.
She finally turns, a fragile smile wobbling across her beautiful face. “Thanks.” Within a few steps, she’s at the table, placing the pistol back in its case. “That was fun.” Her pink fingernails trail over the black metal reverently, but none of us say a thing.
Usually, I’m the one who makes things awkward with my silence. But this time, it’s everyone.
“I’m going to go take a shower. I’m a mess.” She gives her brother’s bicep a gentle squeeze on her way past, sneakered feet padding cross the dirt and pine needles as she goes.
Leaving an awful lot of unanswered questions in her wake.
“I’m not sleeping in the house with you guys.”
We sit around the picnic table polishing off what remains of the dinner Stefan put together on the barbecue. Steaks, fully loaded baked potatoes, and local corn that doesn’t get any better than at this time of year. The perfect dinner after a long day spent doing manual labor.
My body is tired, which means my mind feels still. Having something to do with my hands has been what keeps me out of trouble for the past six years. It’s one thing to be tired at night but being physically exhausted after a full day of putting your body to use is the best feeling. I’m relaxed from head-to-toe even though the muscles in my back ache after tossing hay bales.
“Why not?” Stefan takes a sip of his wine, looking genuinely confused.
Nadia’s whiskey-colored eyes widen, and she stares at her brother like he’s stupid. “This”—one finger lands with a thump on the tabletop—“is your first night away and alone in almost two years.”
Mira shifts in her seat, a pink blush blossoming on the apples of her cheeks.
“And I don’t want to be stuck in there listening to you call her Kitten.”
Nadia shudders dramatically, and her brother bursts out laughing, smiling and shaking his head at her.
Earlier, they spoke quietly while he stood over the grill. I watched my best friend’s mouth turn down into a sad frown while Nadia offered him a tight smile. I watched their eyes fill with unshed tears. I watched them hug tightly. They exchanged words between them that erased the awkwardness of Nadia making us all look like amateurs during what I meant to be a fun and lighthearted round of target practice in the forest.
“Do you have no filter?” Stefan asks.
I snort. I can’t help it. Kinda rich coming from my friend, who truly calls his wife that pet name an awful lot while looking at her like he could burn away her clothes on the spot with the power of his mind alone.
His brow quirks in my direction. “Got something to say, Griff?”
I take a swig of my soda, cheeks tugging up as I do. “I have . . .” I hold up two fingers, not wanting to risk back-to-back t words, “tents I can set up outside for Nadia and me. The house is small.” I swallow a chuckle because Mira looks like she might hide underneath the table and hide from such a blatant conversation.
Stefan has no such qualms.
The night wears on, and we move over to the big fire pit that Nadia stocked with kindling earlier today. Surrounded by three people who know me, who don’t consider me a disappointment, who treat me like I’m just one of them, the words flow freely. I hardly stumble. I hardly even think about it.
I enjoy myself in other people’s company more than I have in years. Especially with Tripod curled up in my lap. My hand trails over his back, where his hair has grown back in curly.
I, Griffin Sinclaire, a man’s man and former football God, have a fluffy white dog as a pet. It’s hilarious, but I don’t care. I fucking love this dog.
When the light dims and the sky blazes pink, Mira yawns. “I’m sorry.” She slams a hand over her mouth. “Toddler schedule means this is past my bedtime.”
Slapping my palms over my knees to stand, I say, “Let’s get everyone set up, then.”
“What can I do?” Nadia asks as the other two wander toward the house. She’s all fresh faced, the bridge of her nose and high points of her cheeks touched by the sun, hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders.
“Just grab bedding from inside the closet beneath the stairs or whatever is on the sofa. I’ll pitch the . . .” She stares at me, waiting, but not pushing. “Tents. Won’t take me long.”
She nods, eyes flitting over my face, and I wish I’d put my cap on after my shower. At least the brim gives me a place to hide from her scrutiny. Right now, I’m completely exposed to her gaze. It’s unnerving.
Her eyes drop to my lips, and I wonder what’s running through her beautiful head. After a few beats, she turns slowly, like it takes some effort for her to peel herself away, and wanders up the path to my house like she’s spent day after day here with me. Like she knows this land.
I watch her walk into my house like she belongs here. And it makes my chest ache.
In the shed near the driveway, I pull out the two small tents that I last used when Stefan and I went hunting. I’ve put them together so many times that I could do it with my eyes closed. By the time she returns, arms loaded with sleeping bags and pillows, I already have one set up.
I point at it. “Yours.”
She snorts, tossing the rolled sleeping bags down and placing the pillows on top before shaking out the gray wool blanket she must have grabbed off the couch. “You have an impressive vocabulary, Sinclaire. Will you say something if I make a joke about you pitching a tent?”
I chuckle, reveling in the way she can gently poke fun at me. There’s no bite, no cruelty—just a friendly sort of teasing.
“People don’t like me for my words, Wildflower.”
She stills but doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t need to. Her aim is effortlessly accurate even as she turns away. Her quiet words are a fucking shot to the heart as she wraps the blanket around her shoulders and ambles toward the rocky ridge overlooking the valley.
“I like all your words, Griffin. It’s what you don’t say that kills me.”