Meanwhile, I’m grinning like a kid in a candy store. I love seeing her out of sorts for a change. Throwing Solange off balance may very well become my new favorite pastime. When I look up, she’s staring at me, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Dammit, she’s onto me. Knowing Peter’s watching our every move, I grab a hatchet, bump her shoulder, then mimic the playful wink she gave me earlier. “Wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it,” she says, her voice low and smoky. “I have a feeling you’re going to get very lucky tonight.”

Damn, this woman’s dangerous to my health. If she keeps talking like that, this hatchet’s going to land on my big toe. With just a few words, she’s got my brain scrambled. Is this part of our ruse? Or is she flirting for real? And if it’s the latter, what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Shaking off the jumble of thoughts in my head, I step up to the line, get into the stance Guillermo recommended, and throw the axe.

Nia and Kimberly, who, along with Molly, are standing around the cocktail table, where a bevy of snacks and drinks await us, cheer me on. It’s no use, though. The axe lands flat against the target board and crashes to the ground.

Guillermo clicks his tongue. “You released too early.”

“That’s what she said,” Solange says under her breath.

I fake a pissed-off glare. “Stop trying to distract me.”

She straightens and pretends to zip her lips.

Unfortunately, the second, third, fourth, and fifth attempts don’t fare any better. It’s official: I suck at this. Still, I set up behind the line once again, vowing to give it one last try.

“Here,” Solange says behind me. “Let me help.” She’s so close her hair grazes my arm. “May I touch you?” she whispers.

I can only nod. The anticipation alone of having her put her hands on any part of my body is making it impossible to concentrate. For a few seconds, I forget where I am and why I’m here. And before I can truly prepare myself, it happens: Her hands are on me, firmly pressing down on my hips.

“Widen your stance,” she says, her breath hitching on the last word. “You’re leaning forward too much.” Before I can adjust my position, her hand slips under my arms and around my middle. With a gentle push, she shows me how to lift my shoulders and torso. Each place her fingers land is a hot spot, sending warmth through my veins and causing my muscles to clench. “Now try again.”

A series of images flashes in my mind:

Me, walking her backward with my body.

Solange, raising her arms overhead and threading her fingers through the fabric of the chain-link fence behind us.

Me, grabbing her ass and hoisting her up.