All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

this plan one-hundred-percent. I was hoping I’d get to see you play ever since I first laid eyes on that dart board in your house this morning.” I tucked my clutch purse under my arm, and Silas lent me his elbow as if it were the most natural gesture in the world for the two of us. “Also, just so you’re aware, I’m a secret bar nachos fan. So no judgment when you hear me order extra cheese.”

He chuckled. “Noted.”

Like every bar scene ever captured on the big screen, this one was no different. Dark, dank, a bit too loud and echoey around the billiards table, and yet somehow it was the most perfect place to be on a Saturday evening with Silas.

He was on his third iced tea, and I was on my second club soda with a twist of lime. Yet despite my sober mind and good intentions, throwing darts was not nearly as easy as Silas made it look.

“Okay, okay. This is getting ridiculous. What’s your trick?” Hands on my hips, I stared him down. “Because unless you cursed my darts ahead of time, I have no clue why mine are bouncing off the board, while every one of yours is sticking in the center of the bull’s-eye.”

“My trick is twenty years of practice.”

I huffed and reached in the front pocket of my purse for a hair tie. Time to get serious. I pulled my mane away from my face and off my neck. “Call me crazy, but that’s not exactly helpful advice.”

He watched as I wrangled my hair into a messy bun and then plucked his last thrown dart out from the center, ruining our current game, which was pathetic at best. “Would you like me to give you a few pointers?”

“About thirty minutes ago, yes.”

Silas laughed, and so did I.

He was different tonight. Less authority figure, more dart-throwing, nacho-cheese eating, everyday man. And I honestly couldn’t decide which version I liked more. Although dart-throwing Silas was gaining on the sexier of the two versions.

“What? What’s that look for?” Silas asked, studying my face with a bit of a smirk.

I shrugged. “Nothing, I was just thinking.” I reached for a dart, but he moved his hand away.

“About?”

“About how I expected we’d spend the whole day talking about the house and the residents and the current drama issues between Monica and Sasha. Kind of like parents who go out for a night on the town and can’t stop talking about their kids even though they promise not to.”

An incredulous laugh boomed from his chest. “That’s really what you were thinking?”

“Pretty much.” I swiped a dart from his hand. “And how I have excellent reflexes.”

“A distracting mouth is more like it.”

I gaped at him, certain he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but . . . that half grin of his would disagree.

“First thing,” he said, after setting his iced tea back on the table. “Your throw is abysmal.”

“What? My throw is not abysmal.”

“Do you want pointers, or do you want to keep collecting your darts off the floor?”

Touché. I pinched my lips together as he angled my right arm with his hand, slipping the dart between my fingers in a different configuration than my previous abysmal grip. “Okay, so this time, when you step forward, make sure your weight is completely on your right foot before you pull your arm back. Keep your wrist level. And don’t drop it until after you release. It should feel fluid and balanced. Go ahead. Try.”

I nodded, recalling the entire sequence of actions before I let the dart fly.

It stuck in the outer ring.

“Oh my gosh! It stuck! It actually stuck!” Unconcerned by the close proximity of other patrons, I window-washed my arms back and forth and shrugged my shoulders to the beat of whatever top-forties song belted through the bar speakers. With the help of my slick sandal bottoms, I slid into an impromptu moonwalk, all while Silas continued to smile at me in a way that could have convinced me to add a backflip to my routine. And I didn’t even know how to do a backflip. “You want to join in, right? A little moonwalk is good for the soul.”

“That may be, but I’m actually thinking that if you dance like that after you score a twenty, then I definitely want to see your bull’s-eye dance.”

“Does that mean my lesson isn’t over?”

“Not unless you have somewhere else to be.”

I eyed him as I reached for my drink. “You don’t think I’d give up before I hit the bull’s-eye, do you?”

“You’re a lot more like me than I realized.”

“Yeah, how’s that?” I asked, my cheeks heating at the comparison.

“When I first learned how to play, I was determined to figure out the secret to throwing a perfect game.”

“And did you?” I leaned my back against the bar table, taking another long sip of my drink, content to listen to whatever story Silas wanted to share with me.

“Yep. I already told you.”

I sighed. “Not the whole twenty years of practice thing again?”

He laughed. “Afraid so.”

I groaned, but Silas was undeterred. “You know, all that practice time on the board ended up being the best thing for me. A quick win wouldn’t have taught me the lessons I needed to learn most.”

I studied him as he sailed another dart straight into the bull’s-eye. “What lessons?”

He turned those brilliant brown eyes on me. “Self-control. Patience. Perseverance.”

“Sounds like you’re halfway to preaching a sermon on the fruits of the Spirit.”

Silas chuckled, hiking an eyebrow at me. “I suppose that’s exactly what my father was trying to teach me when I first came to live with them. I didn’t want his help or his advice; I just wanted the quiet space his tool shop provided—a place away from all the noise inside the house and inside my own head.” Silas held the dart in his palm, drawing my eyes to his open hand and then up to the thick, corded scar on his