5. Hope

“What is this place?” I mutter to myself as I pull into the parking lot of the address Dexter gave me.

It’s an industrial area on the edge of town, and on a Saturday morning there aren’t not many cars around.

Calvin would have kittens if he saw me walk into one of the warehouses out here.

I promised to keep my tracking device on my phone and check in with a text every half hour. Talk about overprotective. My brother-in-law takes his role of protector extremely seriously. It took a mammoth effort to convince him not to come with me.

But now I’m wondering how wise that decision was as I slide out of the car and check out my surroundings.

Dexter’s already here, leaning against his dust-covered pickup with a backpack slung over his shoulder.

He looks different than he did yesterday. There’re no wrinkles in his checkered shirt and his scruff is tidy, like he’s just had it trimmed. When he smiles, his grey eyes crease at the seams and his dimples are visible at the edges of his beard.

“Morning.”

He strides over to me, and my heart flutters. Yup, definitely still attracted to him. One look from Dexter has my knees turning to jelly, and I grip the side of the car door to steady myself.

“Where are you taking me?”

I try to keep the tremor out of my voice as I eye the empty warehouses and the red mountain that towers behind them.

Dexter stops in front of me and looks me up and down with a hungry gaze that makes my core stir to life. I’ve missed being looked at like that.

“Want to see what I do for fun?”

“Sure.”

I grab my purse from the car and check it with a frown, wondering what I’m missing until I realize it’s the baby. I left Justin with Grace and Calvin, and after three months of having the little guy constantly with me, it feels weird to be out on my own. Like I’ve forgotten something.

Dexter strides over to one of the buildings and pushes open the warehouse door, holding it open for me.

I peer into the darkness. There’s the sound of movement and voices coming from inside and a strange whacking noise every so often.

I step inside and Dex follows, closing the door behind him.

There’s a kiosk to the right and a corridor leading away to where I hear dull thuds and male voices, occasionally a cheer. It smells like sawdust, and cigar smoke lingers in the air.

“What is this place?”

Dexter nods to the sign above the kiosk, and I follow his gaze.

“Axe Throwing Range?”

He grins at me. “Yup.”

I gape at him. Of all the things I was expecting, axe throwing was definitely not it.

“Hey Barry.” Dexter shakes hands with the grey-haired guy hunched behind the counter, and they exchange pleasantries about the game last night.

Dexter takes the backpack off his shoulder and pulls out a leather bundle. He lays it on the counter and unrolls it carefully like a chef’s knife set, exposing a set of five axes. Light glints off the sharp looking blades, and the wooden handles are stained dark. Barry counts them off with his finger and gives Dexter a ticket.

“I’ve got me a beginner here.” He indicates me.

Barry chuckles and unlocks the cabinet under his desk. He takes out a selection of axes and lays them on the table. These are smaller, the blades dull and the handles thinner. The shiny metal glints in the fluorescent lights.

“Hatchets are better for the lady.” He motions me forward and I peer politely at the axes, wondering what I’m looking for. “They’re lighter and easier to wield for a beginner,” he tells me.

“You have a women’s range of axes?”

“Oh yeah.” Barry nods solemnly. “It’s what Selina North uses in all her competitions.”

I turn to Dexter. “Who?”

He grins. “She throws for the States. Started right here at this range.”

My eyebrows creep up my head. Until a few moments ago I didn’t know axe throwing was a sport, let alone a sport that competes internationally and has a women’s team.

Dexter chuckles at my confusion.

“Come on.” He rolls his axes up in the cloth. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Barry carries my axes for me, which I’m grateful for. Even though the blades aren’t as sharp as Dexter’s, I don’t want to drop one and lose a foot.

Down the corridor is a line of stalls, much like a shooting range, but the wooden target is closer and much bigger.

We go to the end stall, and Barry sets my axes down on a low table.

“Listen to this one.” He indicates Dexter. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Once Barry is out of earshot, I turn to Dexter and lift my eyebrows.

“You’re an axe thrower? Seriously?”

He grins. “Yup, it’s my sport. Why do you think I was sharpening axes in my basement?”

I bite my lower lip and scrunch my face up, aware of how stupid this all sounds in the light of day. “Because you were going to chop me to pieces.”

He chuckles. “That is so fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“You can blame the Scream franchise for that.”

He runs a hand over his face. “I’m so fucking sorry, Hope. If I had a brain in my head, I would have left the axe sharpening for later. If I had a brain in my head, I would have stayed in bed with you and never let you out of my arms.”

The words make me suck in my breath.

I’ve replayed that morning over in my mind so many times. In my lack of sleep-addled brain, I saw a man in the basement sharpening axes then chasing me down the road, and I fled. How different would the past year have been if I’d stuck around for an explanation?

We stare at each other, and a year of regret passes between us.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

His fingers trace the outline of my cheek, and he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The sensation makes me shiver, and his proximity has the hairs on my neck standing on end.

The attraction is still there and I long to lean into him, to feel his arms around me, to be held like I’ve needed him to for the last year.

But I can’t give in to those feelings. It’s not about my needs. I need to find out if Dexter’s the kind of man that I want to let into Justin’s life.

“Hope…” There’s yearning in his voice that matches my own, and the emotions well up inside of me at what could have been.

There’s a familiar sting in my eyes, and I blink quickly. Darn hormones have me welling up at the smallest things these days. I thought they were supposed to calm down with the end of pregnancy, but as long as I’ve been breastfeeding I’ve been a quivering mess at the slightest sweet gesture or sappy story.

I cut him off before he can say anything that will make me do something foolish, like kiss him and give into my desires.

“How do you throw this thing?”

I pick up one of the axes, and he steps back as I wave it around.

“Whoa. There’s a special way to hold it.”

We spend the next hour with Dexter teaching me how to throw an axe and me attempting to hit the target. He gets a bullseye almost every time, but mine are way off.

By the time the hour is up, my jaw’s sore from laughing and my shoulder aches from throwing, but I feel lighter, happier than I have in the last long lonely year.

My left boob aches, letting me know it’s getting close to Justin’s next feeding. I send Grace a quick text, and she messages back that he’s okay.

As we hand the axes back to Barry, he nails me with a beady gaze.

“The women’s syndicate meets on a Wednesday night. Come along if you’re interested.”

I smile politely, wondering what life here would be like. To live with Dexter in the shadow of the mountains and take up a weird hobby like axe throwing. I giggle at the thought as he leads me out of the warehouse.

“What are you laughing at?” he asks.

I cover my mouth with my hand. “Do you always take your dates axe throwing?”

His expression changes.

“Ah shit. I’ve fucked it up, haven’t I?” He runs a hand through his beard. “I should have taken you to a nice cafe or something, a walk in the fucking rose garden.”

He clasps his cheeks, looking mortified.

“No, this is perfect.”

Because it is. Dexter’s full of surprises. I don’t want a stroll in a rose garden. This is wild and unpredictable and perfect. A big gruff demolition man taking me axe throwing is the best date I’ve ever been on.

He straightens up suddenly. “Did you say date? Is this a date?”

It’s my turn to be mortified. Here I was thinking it was a date, but maybe he’s just being polite.

“I mean, it doesn’t have to be a date…”

He takes my hand, and I suck in a breath as he squeezes my fingers.

“It’s definitely a date, and I’m going to make up for the axe throwing and the axe sharpening and every other weird fucked up hobby I have. I’m taking you for ice cream, because I can be a normal nice guy who’s into normal nice things.”

I want to tell him that I like what he’s into, that he’s perfect just the way he is. But I’m scared of where those words might lead.

“Ice cream sounds good,” I squeak.

His eyes narrow as I wince. “Are you okay?”

“Too tight.”

He looks down at where he’s clasping my hands so tightly my knuckles are turning white.

“Oh shit.” He releases my hands and jumps back. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I shake out my hands, and I can’t stop smiling at the big burly man who thinks he’s fucking up, but with every perceived misstep my heart opens up to him a little bit more.

“You can make it up with ice cream.”