25
CODY
“Darts.”
“Yes.”
“Archery.”
“Yes.”
“Swordplay?” Penn is counting on his fingers. His elbows are notched on the ale-splattered table between them, and his sleeves are shoved up.
The tavern is warm and sweating with too many bodies pressed inside of it. Penn has had a tankard already, so his cheeks are flush and his eyes are glittering, as gray and sharp as new steel.
Cody thinks that he glows, but of course, he does not. He’s only a man, after all.
But she doesn’t really think so.
He’s a spectacle, bright-eyed and sly-smiled, and too snug in his black trousers and shirt, too broad-shouldered. No man should be built so well. And what is that sparkle in his gaze? Not just the lamplight or the covered torches adhered to the tavern walls. It makes her cheeks burn scarle
