“Wasn’t my fault. You’re the one who couldn’t hit that little board. Surely, it can’t be that hard.”
“Oh? It’s like that, is it?” Killian’s voice dropped an octave. “Perhaps we should play and set up a small wager.”
Emma glanced at the black and white board rimmed with numbers. “You want to play a game,” her voice grew huskier, “and wager?”
“Aye.”
“And if I win? Will we still be friends?”
“You wound me, Doc,” Killian pouted. “Now,” he picked up the darts, “black or red?”
“Hmm, red.”
Emma took one dart, weighing it in her hands, getting the feeling. It was about seven inches long, and much like holding a pencil. She lightly ran her fingers up and down it and glanced at Killian under her brows. His eyes were locked on the movement of her fingers. And when he looked up, the heat in the
