Axe, too, watched the delightfully unpalatable scene unfold, gleeful when a goblet of pumpkin juice was thrown in Dimitrov's face, the object of his crazed affection storming out of the room. Of course, he considered his behavior that night as being on his very best. Certainly, there was trouble and misbehaving, but it wasn't him doing it… only that he lent a bit of a helping hand, really. And over the course of the evening, he'd only shot six of the love-tipped arrows, a little treat for himself for every pleasant conversation he suffered through without a barb, every reporter-fielded question without a punch, every half hour that passed without him wanting to wrap the laurel wreath around his neck and pull very hard, and so on.
"Music to my ears." His mouth quirked up automatically at her response, having half-expected Therese to lecture then quite possibly drag him off by the ear to the nearest disciplinarian. Not that he couldn't find half of that scenario intriguing, but having just been given the go ahead to turn Thomas McCormack, asshole extraordinaire, into a lovesick goon for the rest of the night from his therapist, Axe was perfectly pleased with the answer. He deeply wished the man's ex-fiancée was present tonight, but she'd somehow announced her disinterest with the sport after finding her name struck off several invite lists of the bigger events of the season…
"Better hope you're not in his line of sight, mon chou, or that's another patient you'll need transferred," he said tongue-in-cheek as he nocked the arrow and aimed, pulling the bowstring back just as McCormack stepped right into his path and firing, watching his handiwork sail through the crowd to meet its target.
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