“Breathing? I held my breath, but it didn’t help.”
“You see, that's where you went wrong. Well, that and having no clue how to use a bow and arrow.”
She lets out another light laugh, and the tinkling sound makes my belly buzz. It's the strangest sensation, and I don't think a woman's laugh has ever had this kind of effect on me before.
“You're not going to hit your target if you hold your breath. You need to exhale as you let the arrow go.”
“Like this?” She holds up the bow with another arrow, pulls it back and pushes out a breath. The arrow flops to the ground as the bow twangs.
She bites her lip as she turns to me, sheepish. “That didn't go quite as planned.”
Without pausing to examine any motivation other than teaching, I position myself directly behind her. “May I?” I ask as I hold my hands out.
“Of course,” she replies.
I place my hand over hers and adjust her grip on the bow. As our flesh touches, electricity shoots through me, just as it did in the library, and my heart rate kicks up. I’m close enough to catch her scent, something floral and pretty, perhaps with a touch of vanilla.
It doesn’t help me concentrate on archery, that’s for sure.
“The way you're standing is all wrong,” I say, my voice a little gruffer than I intend. I place one hand on her hip to turn her so her shoulders are correctly positioned in relation to the target. “Do you feel how you're aligned now?”
“I do,” she replies, her voice suddenly breathy, and it occurs to me that perhaps she feels more than just the right archery position. Perhaps she feels the intensity of our proximity the same way I do.
I lift her elbow, lightly holding it in position. For just a moment, something tugs at my memory. There’s something in the way she tilts her head, a familiar gesture I can't quite place. But it's gone before I can grasp it, lost in the distraction of our closeness.
“Now, pull the string of the bow back.” I guide her hand with mine, acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch. Her back against my chest, my arms bracketing hers, the way she leans slightly into my guidance when I adjust her aim.
Why did I put myself in this position?
“When do I breathe?” she asks, her voice soft.
“Breathe in as you draw back until the bowstring touches the corner of your lips.”
She does as I tell her, the bow creaking into position.
“Now exhale and release.”
The arrow jolts as she lets it go, slicing through the air and hitting the target.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say as I gawk at the circular rings.
“Is that a bullseye?” she asks excitedly, spinning around to face me. Standing close enough to me that I can see the light sprinkle of freckles across her nose, she looks up into my eyes, her own eyes gleaming, and I have the sudden urge to pull her roughly into my arms and press my lips against hers, to know how she tastes, this beautiful, feisty woman who’s invaded my brain.
My heart is thudding against my ribs like a wild animal, her enchanting scent filling the air, messing with my mind.
No.Nothappening.
Fabiana Fontaine is the last woman I shouldeverwant to kiss.
She’s the journalist who called me all those names. She’s the woman I’m being forced to spend a month with.
She’s the one responsible for rehabilitating my image.
But none of the reasons is enough to stop me wanting it. Wantingher.
“So?”
“Yes,” I murmur, my eyes sliding to her full, pouty lips.
