turn them into schematics the sample makers can work from.”
The face he made said he hadn’t realized such a job existed. “That’s rather interesting.”
“It’s really not. It’s the least glamorous and creative gig there is in fashion. I’d
much rather do the actual designing, or at least the sewing.” She loved making clothes.
For the longest time, the only way she’d been able to fit into each season’s cute
new styles had been to make them herself. But sadly for Merry, she’d proved too good
at her job these past five years, too quick and too accurate, and too meek when it
came to appearing ambitious or dissatisfied. Or maybe her fashion-obsessed bosses
just didn’t take her seriously, since her figure hadn’t reflected the company’s waif-worshipping
ethos. Whatever the reason, she’d be fixing that when she got back home.
She watched as Rob lined up his last arrow. “It’s not all bad, though. We’re one of
the few major manufacturers that actually has its production a hundred percent stateside.
And the clothes are cute,” she added with a smile. And she actually fit into those
cute clothes, now.
Rob’s final shot found the tree, if a bit low and off-center. He squinted at it, frowning,
then headed across the grass, dog on his heels. Merry joined the parade, watching
the way Rob’s shirt shifted back and forth between his shoulder blades. Watching the
motions of his hips, the flex of his triceps, the lift of his overgrown hair in the
breeze; watching the rhythm of this lean body and its mysterious owner. Restlessness
personified.
He let her help him pluck the shafts from the tree. Judging by the pits drilled into
the trunk from all sides, this was no rare diversion.
“Where’d you learn archery?” she asked, tugging another arrow free.
“From my father, when I was a kid. Then I retaught myself when I moved out here.”
He shot her a tight smile. “Even hermits need hobbies.”
She laughed, startled and pleased to find this man was capable of cracking a joke.
“I wanted to take a class last summer, but it sold out. Because of all the kids into
The Hunger Games
.”
“Into the what?”
“Oh, right—you probably don’t have a subscription to
Entertainment Weekly
. Anyhow, archery’s very hot at the moment.”
“Good to know I’m on trend.” Rob tugged the final arrow from the trunk, and Merry
fetched the few that had found the ground.
Two jokes, now.
She’d discovered some little doorway into a different version of this man. She wanted
to keep her foot jammed in the gap, keep the guarded, anxious Rob from returning and
scaring this smirking fellow away. She handed him the arrows.
“Thanks,” he said, and slipped them into the quiver-thing. His equipment looked sporty
and modern, the shafts some kind of lightweight metal, with flexible plastic fins
instead of feathers.
“Do you hunt with these?”
He shook his head. “I hunt with a rifle. I’m not such a great shot that I’m likely
to ensure a humane kill.”
“I dunno about that,” she said, eyeing the tree. He’d been quite the dead-eye . . .
up until an audience had arrived.
“If all the deer deigned to stand still, a hundred paces from me,” he mused, “then
maybe. But I think I’ll keep sparing them the flesh wounds and myself the lost arrows.”
“What’s it like, killing an animal? I can barely stand to peel shrimp.”
“It’s, um . . .” Rob held the bow with both hands, resting it along his shoulders
behind his head. “It’s humbling. It’s hard to explain.” His arms flexed, and that
and the three-fingered leather glove on his right hand were giving Merry pleasant
feelings.
“So,” he said, dragging her attention off his biceps. “Your head’s still sore. How’s
your stomach?”
“Better. Way better.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
She nodded, brain going fuzzy as her gaze caught on his. Those eyes really
The face he made said he hadn’t realized such a job existed. “That’s rather interesting.”
“It’s really not. It’s the least glamorous and creative gig there is in fashion. I’d
much rather do the actual designing, or at least the sewing.” She loved making clothes.
For the longest time, the only way she’d been able to fit into each season’s cute
new styles had been to make them herself. But sadly for Merry, she’d proved too good
at her job these past five years, too quick and too accurate, and too meek when it
came to appearing ambitious or dissatisfied. Or maybe her fashion-obsessed bosses
just didn’t take her seriously, since her figure hadn’t reflected the company’s waif-worshipping
ethos. Whatever the reason, she’d be fixing that when she got back home.
She watched as Rob lined up his last arrow. “It’s not all bad, though. We’re one of
the few major manufacturers that actually has its production a hundred percent stateside.
And the clothes are cute,” she added with a smile. And she actually fit into those
cute clothes, now.
Rob’s final shot found the tree, if a bit low and off-center. He squinted at it, frowning,
then headed across the grass, dog on his heels. Merry joined the parade, watching
the way Rob’s shirt shifted back and forth between his shoulder blades. Watching the
motions of his hips, the flex of his triceps, the lift of his overgrown hair in the
breeze; watching the rhythm of this lean body and its mysterious owner. Restlessness
personified.
He let her help him pluck the shafts from the tree. Judging by the pits drilled into
the trunk from all sides, this was no rare diversion.
“Where’d you learn archery?” she asked, tugging another arrow free.
“From my father, when I was a kid. Then I retaught myself when I moved out here.”
He shot her a tight smile. “Even hermits need hobbies.”
She laughed, startled and pleased to find this man was capable of cracking a joke.
“I wanted to take a class last summer, but it sold out. Because of all the kids into
The Hunger Games
.”
“Into the what?”
“Oh, right—you probably don’t have a subscription to
Entertainment Weekly
. Anyhow, archery’s very hot at the moment.”
“Good to know I’m on trend.” Rob tugged the final arrow from the trunk, and Merry
fetched the few that had found the ground.
Two jokes, now.
She’d discovered some little doorway into a different version of this man. She wanted
to keep her foot jammed in the gap, keep the guarded, anxious Rob from returning and
scaring this smirking fellow away. She handed him the arrows.
“Thanks,” he said, and slipped them into the quiver-thing. His equipment looked sporty
and modern, the shafts some kind of lightweight metal, with flexible plastic fins
instead of feathers.
“Do you hunt with these?”
He shook his head. “I hunt with a rifle. I’m not such a great shot that I’m likely
to ensure a humane kill.”
“I dunno about that,” she said, eyeing the tree. He’d been quite the dead-eye . . .
up until an audience had arrived.
“If all the deer deigned to stand still, a hundred paces from me,” he mused, “then
maybe. But I think I’ll keep sparing them the flesh wounds and myself the lost arrows.”
“What’s it like, killing an animal? I can barely stand to peel shrimp.”
“It’s, um . . .” Rob held the bow with both hands, resting it along his shoulders
behind his head. “It’s humbling. It’s hard to explain.” His arms flexed, and that
and the three-fingered leather glove on his right hand were giving Merry pleasant
feelings.
“So,” he said, dragging her attention off his biceps. “Your head’s still sore. How’s
your stomach?”
“Better. Way better.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
She nodded, brain going fuzzy as her gaze caught on his. Those eyes really
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