He nods, that information not coming as a surprise to him. Does that mean they were talking about me?
I get a small twinge of excitement at imagining them talking about me outside of class. Does it mean he’s interested, or is he just being polite?
“Let’s see your target.”
I stand to the side as he recalls the target, and I diligently keep my eyes from noticing the fit of his jeans. If Parker were here, she probably would’ve mentioned them more than once, giving me the ability to look without feeling so weird, but she once again had to work.
“The clusters are getting tighter. Are you aiming at different areas with each magazine?”
“Yes,” I answer. “Jude suggested it.”
He clears his throat before turning back around to face me. “That’s good advice. Are you coming often to practice outside of class?”
“Just on Monday.”
“You’re coming every Monday?”
It feels as if he’s asking while mentally making plans to clear his schedule in a couple of days.
“I plan to. After work. I’ll get here about six thirty.” My face flames at giving him too much information, but he nods as if he’s filing it away.
“The more you’re able to practice, the better you’ll get. In the beginning, going longer between shooting may set you back to the beginning. Good job.”
He hands me the target and moves on to the next lane.
Disappointed the interaction is over, I gather my things and head out to the front, but after checking my rental back in, I find myself reluctant to walk out of here.
Each day, the fear of going home alone and of being watched grows instead of getting better. Time has done nothing but make my anxiety ramp up. Maybe coming every day to shoot after work is better than just once a week because at least I can postpone the racing heart I get each night as I pull up to my house.
I spend twenty minutes looking at the products the shop has to offer, stupidly reading the backs of the items without really understanding the purpose of them.
“Are you waiting on someone?”
Like a fool, I nearly drop the bottle of gun oil I’ve been holding as I look up at Quinten.
“Just, ah, shopping.”
“Most people use oil, not grease.”
“What?” My brow draws together in confusion until he points to the product in my hand. “Oh. Good to know.”
I know I don’t like being around lots of people, but when did I become unable to carry on a normal one-on-one conversation with a man?
I shake my head at how ridiculous I’m acting.
“It’s not included in the class, but I can teach you how to take a gun apart and clean it.”
I shake my head.
“Or the guys here can do it for you.”
“I haven’t decided what I want.” Honestly, I don’t know that I’ll ever actually buy a gun. Learning to shoot hasn’t built up much confidence, and I don’t imagine carrying a gun around on my person would help that either.
“The offer stands when you do.”
Even if the class is over? Am I confident enough to call this man up and hold him to it? Probably not.
“Okay. Well, thanks.”
Those three words should be enough for me to walk away, but I find myself lingering. He patiently waits, and if I was better at interacting with men I find attractive, I might think he wanted to stick around, too, but I’m not.
“You seem hesitant to leave. Is there something wrong?”
What a loaded question, and I pause for a minute wondering if spilling my fears and anxiety at this man’s feet is the best thing to do.
He did ask after all.
“My house was broken into,” I say, my eyes dropping to my shoes.
“That’s rough.”
I huff. “You have no clue. I changed the locks, but I still…”
“Having trouble feeling safe?”
Did he just close some of the distance between us, or am I swaying on my feet?
“It’s worse than I thought it was going to be. I’m having trouble sleeping.”
“What about an alarm system?”
I shake my head. “I’ve called, but the companies I contacted are busy. I’m on a few waitlists, but then I also worry about the company having access to my codes, and I’m probably just being paranoid, but—”
“No. It’s a legitimate concern.”
And that little piece of information doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Maybe you could—”
“Do you want to go for coffee?” I blurt.
His upper lip twitches. “No.”
“Okay,” I say and start to turn around. His quick refusal hurts a little more than it probably should for only having known him a few weeks. “So, see you next—”
His hand on my wrist stops me, but I can’t look him in the eye. Embarrassment has my face flaming.
“I just don’t think coffee is going to help with your inability to sleep. Maybe water instead?”
“Water?” I finally manage to look up at him, and a little grin plays on my lips at the teasing sparkle in his pretty blue eyes.