Page 60 of Her Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

But I relaxed. I told myself that Laura had long forgotten about Conor. Even if what I had planned for the end of the night would be a fine tribute to our misspent youth at the fairground.

We stopped off to play some games. Laura impressed me with her hoop-throwing abilities, but it wasn’t enough to win a prize. And we got into a heated discussion about the number of golf balls in the jar.

“It must be five hundred,” I said. “Count the bottom row and multiply it by the height.”

“Are you kidding?” said Laura. “No way. It’s got to be at least a thousand.”

“You’re overestimating because the jar’s so big,” I quarreled.

“You’re underestimating because you’re so pessimistic.”

“Am not.”

“Are too!”

“Come on,” I said. I was pretending to be annoyed, but the truth was that I’d relaxed by the time we’d played a few rounds.

Finally, we stopped off at the shooting range. I’d been terrible at it as a kid, but my marksmanship had improved considerably since then.

“Fancy trying your luck?” said Laura, as we passed the stall.

“I’ll give it a try,” I shrugged.

I picked up the little tin rifle. It was gas powered, and I felt the weight, judging the distance.

“Three shots! First to knock five cans off the tower wins a prize,” said the guy running the stall. “Unless sir would like to try for the bullseye.”

He pointed at a tiny, circular target mounted on the wall.

“What do I get if I hit it?” I asked.

“Why, you get him!” said the stall-owner, pointing to the biggest of a set of three enormous blue bears.

I shrugged. “It’s a fair price at three dollars. I’m in.”

“You sure?” said Laura. “That thing’s tiny.”

“Yeah,” I said, lifting the rifle to my shoulder and closing one eye. “But I’m a decent shot. When I’m sufficiently motivated.”

“That blue bear enough motivation for you?” said Laura cheekily.

I mused for a moment. “Hm, maybe not. Maybe I need a sweetener.”

“Oh,” said Laura, as she reached out a hand and felt my bicep. The beast in me purred with satisfaction as her light fingers squeezed the muscle. “Well,” she said mischievously. “How about this? If you can hit it, you can take me out on your fancy boat to watch the fireworks?”

I smiled. That was all the motivation I needed. I aimed, held my breath, and squeezed the trigger. PING! went the rifle.

I’d hit the target, but not the bullseye. My shot had graced the outside rim of the bullseye.

“Hm,” I said. “The ironsight’s off on this thing.”

I raised again and squeezed. PING!

I’d narrowly missed the bullseye.

“The barrel’s crooked too,” I said. Finally, I raised the little pop gun again and fired.

It hit the bullseye clean, dead in the center.