Page 82 of Big Dill

“Dominant foot forward,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, sending tiny goosebumps racing down my arms. He takes my hand and adjusts the dart.

“Hold it between the thumb and index finger,” he instructs. My fingers tighten around the dart, and my pulse skips.

“Keep it close to eye level, elbow slightly raised. And other hand…beer. Always beer.”

Someone hands me a cold pint, and I can’t help laughing, a light, almost breathless sound.

“Now, finesse,” Brody continues, his chest pressing lightly against my back. “Lock your eyes on a single spot. Bullseye if you’re brave, or a high-numbered wedge if you want to impress. Chat with everyone mid-throw if you want, but keep that gaze sharp.”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry as I do everything he asks. “Like this?”

“Just like that,” he whispers, his lips so close to my ear I can feel the warmth. “Now bring the dart back near eye level. Elbow up. Pretend you’re throwing a pizza to a friend across the room.”

My pulse hammers in my ears. I’m not even looking at the board anymore. I’m too aware of him behind me, the way his fingers brushed mine, the heat radiating off him.

“Pizza,” I murmur. “Pizza sounds good,” I joke, trying to sound casual. “I only had a sad desk salad today.”

“Noted. Now push the dart forward in a straight line,” he instructs. “Follow through. Not too much, not like you’re swatting a fly.”

“I…can do that,” I whisper.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Good girl.

Oh, God.

I can feel the brush of his leg against mine, the tension in his chest so close to mine. My hand tightens on the dart almost instinctively, my breath catching as his presence crowds me, envelops me. Who knew throwing a dart could feel this good?

“The most important thing,” Brody adds, voice low and teasing. “Is to keep the beer in play. Sip between throws. Joke with your opponent. Compliment their hair, shoes, or grip. Darts are 50% skill, 50% charisma, 100% fun.”

“I like this league,” I say, grinning.

His warm chuckle seeps straight through my blood, making my knees want to wobble. He steps impossibly closer, each step absorbing the tiny tremors that betray me.

“Remember,” he murmurs, so close I can feel the heat of his chest. “If you hit the board, take a bow, sip your beer. If you miss, laugh it off, maybe blame the lighting… or the jukebox song.”

“Got it,” I whisper, trying not to focus.

“Ready to try again?”

“Yes.” I push out.

“Oh, one more thing, Little Birdie.”

My stomach drops at the nickname, the one he likes to whisper in my ear when we’re…

“You have to breathe,” he murmurs.

I glance over my shoulder at him. “If you want me to breathe, stop standing so close.”

He grins, steps back, giving me just enough space to function without my knees melting.

I focus, thinking of the first piece of advice he gave me: elbow up, steady grip, smooth follow-through. Dart in hand, I let it fly…boom…bullseye.

Go me.

Cheers erupt around me. I throw a dramatic bow, sip my beer, and hold my glass up in a mock salute to Brody. He nods, clearly pleased. And I like it—like, really like it—when Brody is pleased with me.