Page 21 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

Stevie shrugged, still looking at Angie. She needed to stop that or else Angie was going to snatch her by the wrist and haul her into the house for a private chat, and by chat she definitely meant the kind of communication that didn’t require words.

“Keep it PG, coffee temptress,” said Stevie.

“I brought some leftover pastries for rewards.”

“I do love an incentive.” Angie slung her arm around Stormy’s shoulders again. If she kept her hands on Stormy, she might be able to keep them off Stevie.

“Let’s get to it, then.”

Stevie walked by Angie on her way off the patio. Their hands passed within centimeters but did not touch, so close Angie could feel the slight breeze from her movement and an imagined warmth. She felt the absence like a caress.

Was Stevie toying with her? Once, she wouldn’t have said Stevie had it in her; that was before Stevie had stripped in front of her. For her.

Fuck .

“You cold?” Stormy asked.

“What? No, it’s seventy-six degrees out, or something.”

“You shivered.” Stormy’s eyes followed Stevie. “Unless, of course, there’s something you want to tell me about?”

“Nope.”

Stormy’s chuckle was far too knowing for comfort.

Stevie had set up her new target earlier—a bale of hay with a circle spray-painted in blue, because blue was the color of paint she’d found in the barn.

In the evening light, the orchard glowed around the bull’s-eye, the greens softening and the wildflowers dotting the grass with luminous yellows and whites.

She’d never imagined living someplace this beautiful.

Now, she was about to launch a barrage of arrows at it. She hoped nobody hit the trees.

“Okay, this lesson is for Jaq so the rest of you can shut up and listen closely.” She winked at Jaq to indicate she was joking about the shutting up.

The lesson was for the kid, though. She was not entirely sure, frankly, how word had gotten out about it, but the comfortable laughter of her friends was welcome.

“First, this is not a compound bow. I probably should have gotten one of those, but I didn’t because they had too many strings attached.”

She waited for someone to get the joke.

“You’re the worst,” said Angie, a smile in the words.

The light softened Angie, too, despite her insult. Stevie looked away too late. The sight left her stricken, a heretic before a stained-glass saint.

She listed the parts of the bow for Jaq, then showed her how to string it. The forty-pound draw weight wouldn’t be a problem for Jaq if she’d been shoveling enough manure.

“You’ll also want these.” She held up her forearm guard and glove. “The string can leave some nasty marks.” Her eyes flicked to Angie. Lana left marks like that sometimes. Did Angie actually like that treatment? Could Stevie perform for her if she did? If Angie asked her to?

She was terribly afraid the answer was yes. Hurting Angie was the last thing she ever wanted to do, but marking her skin . . .

Stormy hummed the “Thong Song,” and Angie caught Stevie’s gaze with an expression she could not read in its entirety. Beneath the amusement, something else shifted restlessly.

“Since we’re on the ground, you don’t have to worry about keeping your seat.

Stand like this.” She demonstrated the stance she’d been shown when she first learned.

There were many ways to shoot. This one merely provided nice stability.

“Raise your elbow a little bit—yes, like that. How does it feel?”

“Good.” A woman of many words, Jaq.

“Try drawing, but don’t release.” She illustrated where her hand should fall in relation to her chin. “Nice! See that, folks? I expect the same from the rest of you.”

“Yes sir,” said Stormy.

“Stick an arrow in something, Jaq-o’-Lantern.”

“Absolutely.”

Jaq turned out to be a natural shot. This could not be said about the rest of them, save Stormy, who shrugged off her success with “years of mental practice taking out rude customers.”

Ivy was the next best, which didn’t surprise anyone.

They’d taught archery at her fancy prep school.

Emilia was terrible, which clearly irritated her though she hid it well.

Morgan wasn’t much better, which pleased Emilia and Stevie both.

Lilian hit the bull’s-eye twice and missed the bale completely the rest of the time, though it was worth noting that she’d hit the target when Ivy was teasing her—typical.

That left Angie. Dusk, now well on its way to falling, painted the orchard and the gnarled old apple trees purple. Angie accepted the strung bow from Stevie’s hands.

“Show me how it’s done, Robin Hood,” Stevie said, immediately feeling stupid.

“I think I’m more Maid Marian material.” Angie hefted the bow, testing its weight before she raised it. The muscles in her arms rippled.

Angie had the kind of muscles that hid. When she was relaxed, she looked averagely fit. It wasn’t until a person saw her wrestling a dog or trying to prop up one of the porch banisters that they realized she was ripped to hell and back, her muscles softly rounded and—

“Like this?” Angie nocked the arrow, her posture exemplary. There was no reason for Stevie to touch her, no irregularity to correct.

“Your form is perfect.” The others were talking rather loudly, Jaq’s voice occasionally piping up among them. Morgan seemed to have taken instantly to the kid, which figured.

“Should I drop my elbow?” Angie lowered her left arm, intentionally upsetting her position.

“Ange . . .”

“I’d hate to show you up in front of your protege.”

“I’d love it if you did.” Stevie lifted Angie’s elbow with two fingers, careful not to step too close. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“Seems fair, since you’ve shown me .” Angie drew the bowstring back as she spoke, not looking at Stevie, but concentrating on the target, which was so much hotter.

“If you are referring to certain services rendered in the name of art—”

“I absolutely am.”

“Then I expect you to get that shaft in ,” Stevie finished. Angie laughed, releasing the arrow, which went wide.

“Sabotage.” Angie turned to pout.

“Gosh.” Stevie plucked another arrow from the quiver at her belt. “Looks like you’ll need private lessons.”

“Shut up.” Angie shot, and the arrow did not hit the center of the target, but came damn near close.

“Your elbow dropped at the last second. It helps to breathe in, and then shoot with the exhale. Reduces the recoil.”

“Does it?” Angie accepted the next arrow, feigning fascination. “Like this?”

The arrow sank deep into the bale, an inch away from the circle of blue at the center.

“Clearly. Try again?”

“I don’t know.” Angie took the arrow anyway. “I was expecting a hands-on lesson, and all I’m getting are words.”

“Girl,” Stevie began, then looked over at the rest of the group. No one was paying them particularly close attention. “ Fine .”

She stepped closer to Angie, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body and to smell the heady floral scent of her skin. That smell, one part soap and three parts Angie, lingered in her mind like smoke.

“Elbow up.” She lifted Angie’s elbow again with her left hand. “And hold this arm steady.”

Putting her hand on Angie’s biceps was a mistake. She tightened her grip involuntarily, unable to help the jolt of longing that curled her fingernails into that smooth skin.

“Now breathe in.” She demonstrated shakily. Angie leaned into her, their bodies flush, utterly wrecking Stevie’s dignity. “And keep your hips square.”

“Show me?”

“Do you—” Stevie broke off, unsure what she had been about to say, but knowing it was inappropriate. Instead, she placed her hands on Angie’s hips. The arc of bone fit seamlessly into her palm, and the taut skin taunted her fingertips.

“Do I what?” asked Angie.

“Really think you can make a shot right now?”

“Watch me.”

As if there was an alternative. Stevie felt Angie’s exhale through her entire body. The arrow whirred away, landing in the hay bale with a solid thunk. Cheers rose from behind them.

“Well, fuck me.” Stevie stared at the arrow still vibrating in the center of the target.

“You do know that I would, don’t you?” Angie said the words so softly no one else could have heard, for which Stevie was grateful.

Those were her words, too precious to share, a confession that verbalized, at last, the thing that had always bound them.

The thing she’d hoped wasn’t just tangled around her own heart.

Her grip on Angie’s waist tightened as if it were the only thing holding Stevie up.

Maybe it was; the orchard, their friends, the evening—everything faded.

There was only Angie, asking, “Another arrow?”

Stevie couldn’t think. Couldn’t let go of Angie’s hips where her hands had grown roots.

“Stevie, give me an arrow.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice unrecognizable to her own ears. She pulled one from the quiver and set it into Angie’s hand. Angie’s fingers closed around hers, drawing them with her as she drew the bow. As they drew the bow together, Angie sweetly pressed between her arms.

The shot went wide.

“Should have left room for Jesus,” said Stormy, eliciting a laugh from the rest of their friends.

Stevie stepped away, shoving her hands into her front pockets to stop them from shaking and tried for nonchalance. “Jesus took the wheel and crashed.”

“I’ll help you pick up the arrows,” Angie offered, lowering the bow.

Stevie was thankful for any opportunity to walk away from the group before they could see the emotions drawn in permanent marker across her forehead. She tracked down her arrows in a haze, grateful for the orange fletching. Her brain seemed to have malfunctioned on multiple levels.

“You do know that I would, don’t you?”

Crickets sang their evening chorus. There were fewer than there used to be. Fewer tree frogs, too. She felt as overheated as the planet. Soon their friends would leave. And then what? If Angie slipped into her bed tonight, she would not be able to stop herself from rolling Angie beneath her.