Kaysie cranes her neck. “She’s clutching him like he’s the last Prada bag at the Black Friday sales.” She makes a disgusted sound. “Grubby by name, grubby by nature.”
It always struck me as ironic that Paige would call me Dirty Percy given her unfortunate surname, but the woman is not exactly imbued with self-awareness. “Ugh,” I mutter, looking over Kaysie’s shoulder. Paige hasn’t just invited Otley to check out her shiny Mustang; she’s hugging his arm to her ample chest and swinging her hips like she’s on the deck of a floundering ship. “Jesus, could she be a little less…?”
“Grabby McGrubbyhands?”
I shake my head, although if it wasn’t for Otley’s name-calling ban, I’d be cheering Kaysie on instead of nudging her towards the door. “Go hydrate our customers before there’s a mass fainting epidemic.”
“Yes, boss.” Her nose ring winks at me as she hefts the tray in expert hands. “And what areyougoing to do about that hostage situation out there?”
I look grimly out the window as I snatch my floral shears off the counter. “Remind Grabby McGrubbyhands that we don’ttugflowers here; we snip them.”
After all, Otley can’t exactly censure me on name-calling if he’s let himself get bespelled by one of the wicked witches of Knotty Falls.
In the end, I’m saved from doing Paige bodily harm by Tristan, who neatly intercepts the pair. Words fly between them, and I’m not sure what he says to Otley, but the alpha frowns at Paige, who blushes and mutters something I don’t catch. He shakes his head and both he and Tristan turn their backs, striding in my direction. As I meet them near the barn, I can feel the other omega’s glare all the way from the parking lot. I have to swallow hard to keep the growl out of my voice as I ask, “What didshewant?”
Otley doesn’t look impressed. “She said she had an important delivery for you. I told her I’d collect it, so you wouldn’t have to deal with her yourself.”
I raise my brows at him. “Let me guess. No delivery?”
Tristan snorts. “More like she was trying to lure him into her Mustang so she could deliver herself into his lap.”
I make an effort not to grind my teeth. “Well, if you want to go for a joyride with Paige, be my guest.”
Tristan bites his lip, but Otley looks like he’s tasted something sour. “Not if she was offering me the last cherry pie in Idaho.”
Oh.
Well, if he feels that strongly about it…
“Now that we’ve put that issue to bed,” Tristan says with a wide grin, “I happened to notice you have a bunch of archery gear in the barn. Is there any way you could give us a demonstration?”
I look at him curiously. “How do you know it’s mine?”
“I stopped in at Kaysie’s coffee shop yesterday, and she showed me a newspaper article from your high school days.”
“Really?”God knows what else my so-called best friend let slip.“She makes a living from fiction, so I’d only believe about half of what she tells you.”
“But you were the state champion,” Otley murmurs, his intense gaze still glued to my face. “That’s a very impressive achievement, Lily.”
I huff, feeling my cheeks warm. “Thanks. I actually had a scholarship to Sonoma State for track and archery.”
As I lead them into the barn, Otley stiffens, his gaze sharpening in the dim light. “You went to school in California?”
“No. That was the plan, but…” My gaze drifts to Leo’s miniature saddle, and I can’t keep the soft smile off my face. “Turns out, I had other things to focus on.”
Otley stares at the pile of pint-sized memorabilia, while Tristan makes a humming sound and walks over to examine the rack of bows. I have three; a training bow, a competition one, and a replica Shoshoni weapon, with a set of traditional Plains arrows. My throat tightens as I realize how long it’s been since I practiced with any of them. “You really want a demonstration?”
Otley turns his frown my way while Tristan gives me another electric smile. “That would be amazing, Lily.”
I think it’s pride that makes me pluck the competition bow from the rack. It’s a carbon fiber re-curve bow with an adjustable sight, and smells of bamboo and bowstring wax. I quickly check it over, then grab a bowstringer, my quiver of competitionarrows, and my hand and arm guards. Tristan and Otley have already muscled the practice target away from the wall, but they both pause to look me over. “Good?” I ask them.
“Yes, better than good,” Tristan grins, and I feel my cheeks grow hotter as we head out of the barn.
Despite the depictions of hunters on television, brandishing their weapons as they face down lethal predators, archery is actually a peaceful sport. Rather than grasping the bow, I cradle it. My breathing takes on a mechanical precision and my heart settles into a steady beat. My muscles clench, but only with the anticipation of a clean shot. Drawing a competitive bow requires more than fifty pounds of force, and the arrow can travel at speeds of over a hundred miles per hour, so everything about the sport needs to be measured and precise.
It still amazes me how quickly I can settle into the right mindset. Maybe it’s the ritual of putting on my protective gear, or the feel of the string growing taut as I prepare it for my first arrow. I run my fingers down the shaft, feeling the sun on the back of my neck, and what little breeze there is dancing across my cheeks. Tristan and Otley have set the target up against the barn and I can feel their eyes on me as I settle into my stance. I’d once dreamed of doing this in front of Olympic judges, although, even without Leo to derail those plans, I always knew it was a bit of a pipedream. Doesn’t stop me from enjoying the hell out of this moment, though.
Nock. Draw. Anchor. Aim. Release.
