Page 39 of The Runaway Bridesmaid

‘Storm brewing, so there is,’ said Mike, unnecessarily. ‘Should have a half hour tops, Charlie, then we have to stop, okay?’

Mike handed them each a recurve archery bow and a wrinkled leather quiver stuffed full of old-fashioned wooden arrows, gesturing towards the field in front of them and the two adjacent targets that were attached to straw bales.

‘Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll show Rosie the ropes,’ Charlie offered.

Mike smirked, clearly knowing when he’d been dismissed and left them to it. ‘Coffee in the kitchen afterwards, and some of your carrot and cardamom cake, Charlie.’

Rosie didn’t recall Charlie handing over a carrot cake to Mike when they’d arrived, but she shoved that thought from her mind because she was so looking forward to this activity.

‘Okay, this is how you hold the bow.’

Rosie followed Charlie’s instructions, nestling her body into his, the curve of her back snug against his stomach, taut as steel cable. She enjoyed the way his muscular arms wove around her slender shoulders to help her prime her bow with an arrow, then raise it up to her eye level, strong and firm. She could feel the whisper of his breath on her cheek and neck but feared twisting her head even an inch to the right, as she envisaged her lips would meet the welcome of his own.

As slivers of desire snaked through her abdomen and her heart hammered in her ribcage, she was certain Charlie would be able to feel the lustful beat through his chest. Her knees weakened when she caught a waft of his favourite citrus cologne lingering in the air between them, and she leaned further into his body as she prepared to release the arrow. She was more than a little disappointed, and surprised, when its flight fell way short of the target.

Charlie stepped away and released her from his circular embrace.

‘Do you think you’ve got the hang of it?’

‘Of course. I’m not totally useless, you know. In fact, how about a little competition?’

‘I feel honour-bound to tell you that Ihavedone this before, Rosie.’

‘Scared I’ll beat you?’

‘No way.’

‘So?’

‘Okay, the loser pays for dinner.’

‘Agreed,’ she smirked.

Charlie’s brow creased in concentration as he took up his stance, attached an arrow to the string, raised his bow, took aim, and fired off his shot. The arrow flew gracefully through the air in a perfect arc and landed in the red circle, scoring him seven points.

‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Rosie.

She pulled another arrow from the quiver slung around her waist, took up the stance Charlie had demonstrated on the shooting line, raised her bow, and directed her arrow to hit exactly the same spot on her own target as Charlie had on his.

Charlie reloaded his bow, and this time his arrow pierced the boundary between the red circle and the gold centre, scoring nine points. He glanced across at her, a satisfied smile curling his lips into a similar bow-shape.

As the sky changed from murky grey to dark and desolate, Rosie removed her third arrow, took aim, and once again hit the exact same spot on her own target as Charlie had, causing Charlie’s brow to crease slightly. However, he didn’t say anything, and simply withdrew his next arrow, took aim – his dark eyes pinned unblinkingly on the gold centre circle - then released the shaft, following its graceful flight path to the piercing of the centre of the target.

Seconds later, Rosie’s arrow replicated its cousin’s path.

‘Okay, what’s going on here?’

Rosie wished she had a camera to record the look on Charlie’s handsome face. At last, she had been able to impress this cockyguy. She took a moment to savour the feeling of satisfaction, as well as to send up a silent prayer of thanks to her father and Arnie for all the afternoons she’d spent in their company at the Stonington Beach Archery Club.

‘I’m impressed. You’re a dark horse, Rosie Hamilton.’

‘See, I told you I’m not totally useless.’

‘Come on, I think we should head back to the farmhouse.’

Heavy droplets of rain the size of grapes had started to splatter the field as Rosie sprinted in Charlie’s wake back to the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen, arriving with her tousled curls plastered to her cheeks. Mike tossed over a tea towel to both of them and gestured to the cafetière of ground coffee and a gooey slab of the promised carrot cake. ‘I’ll leave you to it, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to park up the bikes in the barn – looks like this storm is set for the night.’

‘Thanks, Mike. I had fun.’

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