Valeria leads the way to the throwing lanes. Wooden planks and metal lattice separate them, each with two bullseyes at the ends.

“Double or nothin’ you can’t hit that close a third time,” Colton says as we approach.

He grabs a hatchet off an overturned barrel and passes it off to Chase. His brother grabs the handle with a cocky smirk and adjusts his chair to line up before flinging the axe down the lane one-handed. It buries in the wooden target, not far from the center.

As Colton curses, Chase swings around, ready to gloat when he spots us and smiles, first at me, and then he stays on Val.

“Now you’re really fucked, little bro. My good luck charm just walked in.” He pulls her into his lap and kisses her, mumbling something about being “Lumber-jacked.”

Colton greets me with an eye roll once I reach him.

“What was the bet?” I ask.

“Everything.”

My forehead scrunches, and I look up at him. “Everything?”

“Yep.” He scratches his jaw, pursing his lips.

“How do you bet double or nothing on everything?”

He throws me a sideways glance, shrugging. “Fuck if I know. I wasn’t supposed to lose again.”

I laugh as he goes after the hatchet.

Felix and Christian are throwing in the next two lanes, so I watch them. They throw, retrieve, swap to larger axes, but the appeal is lost on me.

“It’s an art form,” Foster says from behind me.

Before I can look, his arm snakes around my waist, tugging me back against his chest. He moves my hair so he can nuzzle against my neck.

“Oh, is it?”

He hums an affirmative. “Watch Christian.”

I do.

The manager sorts through his options until he picks one up.

“See how he tests the weight, judges the movement?” When I nod, Foster sweeps his thumb over my rib cage and continues, “His face tells you he doesn’t like it.” Christian sets it down and grabs another with a longer handle and larger head. “Now with this one, you see his lips purse? The tiny nod of his head? You know he’s going to choose it.”

Christian turns around with the axe and saunters to the top of the lane.

Foster’s words caress my ear. “He’s all confidence,” he commentates, sending a shiver rolling down my spine from his low, raspy voice. “His hold on the throat, where the handle curves, stays loose. Now, when he throws, stay with him and not the axe.”

Christian’s arm lifts, the axe head drawing back until he brings it forward and releases. My gaze sticks on him through the thwack of the blade hitting the wooden target. His expression remains cool, and he turns, giving a smug nod to Felix.

“I still don’t get it,” I tell Foster, tilting my head to see him. It brings our lips inches apart, very distracting. “How is any of that art?”