Page 33 of Right Number, Wrong Man

HAILEY

I roll my eyes. “But you’ll let me try the Deagle later?”

“If you stop rollin’ those pretty whiskey eyes at me and behave yourself, I might consider it.”

Pretty whiskey eyes ? Am I having auditory hallucinations?

He draws his pistol and positions himself by the tree line opposite the fence. “Stand next to me,” he orders and my legs react before I realize I’m walking to him.

It’s a reflex, my body following the dominant tone of Colt’s voice. My pulse drops to my pussy when I notice the familiarity in my mindless obedience. It’s the same way I feel with Jax.

“Basic safety rules first,” he says. “Are you listening?”

I nod, pretending I wasn’t fantasizing about my masked Dom. “Should I have brought a notebook? Will there be a pop quiz, teach?” I quip.

“What did I tell you about misbehavin’?” he asks, head tilting.

My knees sag.

He needs to stop this, or rather, I need to stop. Later, I’ll text Jax and set up a date so he can fuck those strange thoughts out of me. That’ll fix me. It has to.

Colt raises his index finger. “Rule one: always assume a gun is loaded. I got the mag in my back pocket, you still gotta pull back the slide to check there’s no round in the chamber.” He drags the top part of the pistol back with a click. “You watchin’?”

I point at my eyes, then at the gun. “Duh. What else would I be looking at?”

Certainly not the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. Or that dimple on your cheek. Or how the muscles in your forearms bunch.

He lets out a small chuckle. “Rule two: be mindful where you point your weapon. Choose a safe direction where an accidental discharge won’t hurt yourself or somebody else. Usually that’s the ground, a bit ahead of your feet.”

My brows quirk. I’m starting to enjoy the lesson. This stuff is pretty interesting and Colt is a decent teacher when he’s not talking down to me.

“Rule three: Before you shoot, make sure the area around your target is clear. That’s easy here and now, but in a stressful situation, you can forget about this rule.

If some asshole tries to hurt you, it comes down to a split-second decision.

It’s you or him, and I don’t want you to hesitate.

I want you to shoot that motherfucker first and ask questions never. You understand, Spitfire?”

I grin. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good gi—” He coughs. “Sorry, had something in my throat. I meant to say good.”

Huh, I thought he’d like me calling him sir. Acknowledging his authority should be right up his arrogant alley.

“Only put your finger on the trigger if you’re ready to pull it or you could fire a shot by accident. Rest your finger on the trigger guard here instead.” He points at a strip of metal in front of the trigger. Then he holds out the pistol, grip first. “Show me what you learned.”

I swallow thickly as I take the weapon from him. It’s heavier than I thought, but warm from Colt’s hands, and his comforting heat flows into me, almost like he’s touching me.

Get a hold of yourself, girl ! I don’t want him to touch me. This is just a self-defense lesson. I need to smoke out my brain with sage because only an evil spirit could’ve put those ideas in there.

My palm wraps around the gun’s handle and my index finger rests on the trigger guard. I keep the muzzle aimed at the ground.

Colt’s voice is low and gravelly when he whispers absentmindedly, “Good girl.”

My legs turn to jelly. Did Colton Walker just hit me with a growled good girl?! How is a red-blooded woman supposed to focus on gun safety like this? This isn’t even panty-safe!

He slides a finger along the side of the weapon. “This is the safety. If you’re ready to shoot, you gotta turn it off and cock the hammer, but not yet. The proper stance is important, too.”

He steps behind me, and my heart vaults into my throat. His chest presses against my back, his tall body curving over mine and my pulse hammers so hard I worry he might feel it. He’ll assume I’m nervous about shooting, right?

What am I nervous about, though ?

With shallow breaths, I inhale his spicy, woody cologne as his strong arms reach around me. He adjusts my grip and I marvel how large his rough hands are.

A throb pulses between my legs before instant terror winds through me, constricting my chest. Teacher Colt giving instructions in that firm, calm tone is too sexy and my body can’t help but react on instinct.

His fingers glide tenderly over mine. “Both hands on the gun, thumbs forward. Slide this hand up the backstrap… That’s right, ‘til your palm is up against that curve below the hammer.”

I’m paralyzed, hyperventilating, leaning into him for balance. I have no clue what’s wrong with me today and I hope Colt won’t notice, but of course he does.

“Don’t be scared,” he says, his breath flitting over my ear, sending a tingly rush through me. “I won’t let you get hurt. Whenever you need me I’ll come runnin’, and that’s a promise I’ll keep until my dying day.”

Until his dying day ?

“Why would you do that?” I blurt out.

Colt stiffens, but he doesn’t let go. He’s still pressed against me and I’m damningly aware of every inch of his body touching mine. It’s as if tiny zaps of electricity course between us, pebbling my skin and turning my nipples into hard peaks.

“I mean uh—cause you’re my brother’s widow,” he says quickly. “Like I told Dad, it’s my family duty to protect you.”

A cool emotion I can’t define spreads behind my ribs. “That’s… nice of you. Thanks.”

A long break thickens the air. Finally, Colt’s fingers twitch against mine like he remembered that we aren’t standing here basically hugging for the fun of it.

It is fun though, isn’t it ?

How is it so easy to feel safe in his arms? He makes me feel small, too, but that’s not a bad thing. I enjoy it, just how I enjoy the way he moves my body along with his instructions. Decisively but with care.

“You need a steady stance,” he says, a slight strain in his voice. “Think of it like makin’ a triangle with your feet. Left leg forward, right leg back. Balance is key to reduce the recoil.” His boot gently nudges mine, and I shift my legs. “Better. Any questions?”

I let out a hysterical giggle. “No, I’m fine.”

Except for those damp panties under my jeans .

“When you shoot, hold the gun as tightly as you can.” He squeezes my hands. “Dad says you know you’re holding a pistol the right way when your hands start to shake, but I prefer a slightly less tense approach. Don’t take it that far.”

I grip the gun harder. “Like this?”

“Seems about right. Focus on the front sight and align it with your target. When you pull the trigger, it should be a smooth motion. If you jerk or twitch, you ain’t gonna hit your mark.” He switches off the safety and cocks the hammer. “Let’s do a dry run.”

Colt’s large index finger curls around mine, guiding it. My breath hitches as his hips press against my ass, his holster digging into me.

That is his holster, right ?

Our hands move as one when he pulls the trigger, applying even pressure until the gun makes an empty click.

“You feel that?” he asks.

The trigger or your groin against my ass?

The words stick to my throat. “Uh-huh.”

“Smooth,” he whispers.

As he pulls the trigger again, a tiny jerk inches his hips forward, and I suppress a weird moan.

Are shooting lessons always this up close with hip action ?

“Easy like that,” he says, but nothing, absolutely nothing is easy right now.

I’m getting turned on by my dead husband’s brother who I hate, but also don’t hate. Not as much at least. Not anymore. Not at all.

Or do I?

“Are you good to try a live shot?” Colt asks.

“I think so,” I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking. The gun is exciting, but that’s not what’s throwing me off balance. It’s the man teaching me.

Life was so much easier when my emotions made sense and Colt was still despicable.

Despite the summer heat, an odd shiver runs through me when he steps away. He takes the loaded magazine from his back pocket and gives it to me. “Slide it in.”

I snort. “That’s what he said?”

“Hell nah. I don’t ask. I just take what I want.” A hint of red crosses his cheeks and blushing must be contagious because I flush, too. “Enough talk. Do as I said, Spitfire.”

The magazine locks in. Without Colt’s hands guiding mine—and without his body distracting me with all its muscular perfection—I realize how powerful it feels to hold the pistol. I like it.

“Alright, try for the brown bottle with the billy goat on the label.” He points.

My lips pinch as I remember the stance he showed me, widening my legs and raising my arms. His warm hand lands on my bare forearm, adjusting my position, and my belly tingles.

“Don’t stretch your arms all the way. Give a little slack at the elbows, but not too much or you’ll hit yourself in the face from the recoil. Take your time and when you’re ready, shoot. ”

I inhale deeply and my eyes focus on the front sight. Then, as evenly as I can manage, I pull the trigger.

Everything happens at the same time.

My ears ring with a bang as the weapon kicks. Recoil snaps against my hands, reverberating through my arms and shoulders.

Then it’s already over.

I whoop. “Hell yeah! Watch out, world! I’m quickshot Hailey Grace and I could kill a man with the twitch of a finger!” I squint at the bottles and my face falls. “Wait, I missed ?”

Colt laughs, his hand dropping on top of my head. He tousles my hair and my heart pings around in my chest.

“Take it easy, outlaw,” he drawls. “That was your first shot. Nobody expects you to be a master marksman right away. I wasn’t, either. My first time, I was a mile off target, smacked myself right in the nose, and broke it. Granted I was like ten.”

My eyes linger on the small bump on his nose and I smile. It’s still strange to see more than an enemy when I look at Colt. Until I learned the truth about the prank, he was almost like a one-dimensional caricature of a villain to me.

I never considered him to be a man with a past, his own hopes and dreams and feelings, but now I wonder what they are. Would he tell me if I asked?

He gives me a soft nudge. “Try again. The second time’s gonna be less of a shock.”

I wait until my breath has calmed, cock the hammer, aim, and shoot. The bottle splinters into glittering shards.

Colt whistles. “Well would you look at that! You’re a natural!”

Pride warms my chest. I giggle, shaking with adrenaline. “Thanks. Can I try again? ”

“I insist, ma’am! Maybe I can learn a lil somethin’ from a savant like yourself, huh?”

I pout. “Stop it! Don’t make fun of me!”

“Teasing, Spitfire. I’m teasin’ you. There’s a hell of a difference.”

Our eyes lock, and fire burns through my veins as Colt lifts his hat, running a hand through his hair. He’s the first to look away, jutting his chin at the bottles.

“Go on, I wanna see how good you are.”

Taking aim, I grin. “I’ll show you what a professional can do!”

I fire until the magazine is empty and my arms tremble with weakness.

“Six outta ten with twelve bullets is great,” he says, gently wrenching the gun from my stiff hands. “Do me a favor and put up another ten bottles on the fence posts. Walking around will help you shake off the tension, too.”

I shrug. “Sure.”

While I set up new targets, Colt reloads the pistol. When I’m back by his side, he quirks a brow.

“Now watch this ,” he says.

He raises the pistol and fires. It’s like the gun is an extension of his body, not an object.

Ten shots in rapid succession.

Ten effortless, flawless hits.

I clap. “That was incredible!”

His smile turns smug. “That was nothin’. You should see me hit a target from miles away with my sniper rifle.”

I slap his arm and words tumble off my tongue before I can think better of it. “You showoff! Did you want to impress me?”

His head tilts as he rubs along his jaw. “Did it work?”

I bite my lip, pinching my fingers. “Just a little. ”

Colt’s eyes flick to my mouth. He reaches out and I’m stunned by the most obscure, crazy thought.

Is he going to kiss me?

Then he sets a hand on my shoulder and something in my chest withers.

“I want you to try out a revolver,” he says brightly. “Afterward I have a surprise for you.”