“So that seems to be going well.” I nodded back toward the Marlowe Stage and Stacey’s smile lit up her whole body.
“It really is.” She sighed and hugged my arm closer, and I patted her hand. I’d seen her at her worst, and Mitch and I had taken her to the Maryland Renaissance Festival last summer so she could make up with Daniel. It was good to see her so happy.
Shit. Mitch.
I’d done my best to not think about him lately, with varying degrees of success. I’d seen him briefly across the bar at Jackson’s when we’d all gone out for Emily’s birthday the weekend before, but we hadn’t spoken. Not talking to him felt more and more like a breakup, which was wrong since we’d never been together. Things had gone back to normal, to the way they’d been before that night he saved me from that annoying guy in the gray suit at Jackson’s. He was back to the bevy of women he rotated through, and I was back to my extensive vibrator collection.
See? Normal.
Normal kind of sucked.
“Are you all right, love?” We’d run into Emily on the way to the chess match, and concern creased her brow when my steps faltered on the path.
“Yeah,” I said. “Fine.” I was not fine. I’d caught sight of Mitch at the edge of the chess field. Kilt. Boots. Very long sword. Lots and lots of muscled, golden skin. It had become hard to breathe when faced with a sight like that. But I was stubborn. I was going to play this off. “Just tripped on . . . on a twig.”
Stacey nodded knowingly. “One does need to watch one’s step around here.” She’d slipped back into an accent that matched her ensemble, much like Emily. I was the only one in our little group dressed like a civilian, and next to these two my jeans and T-shirt was the outfit that stood out.
We reached the benches that ringed the chess match, and I got a good look at the field—a roped-off patch of land painted in alternating white and grass-colored squares. For all that Mitch had talked about rehearsing this year’s show that took place here, and for all that Emily had told me about what it was like to watch it, I’d never actually seen it in action, and while part of me was fascinated, the rest of me tried not to look at Mitch and wished I were anywhere but here.
Emily ran ahead to the chess field itself, and a man dressed in red and black, wearing a hat with a huge red feather, went to greet her. It took me a second to recognize Simon, and then only because I’d seen pictures of him in costume on social media and that one video on Mitch’s phone. Emily’s mind-mannered English teacher husband was transformed into a roguish pirate. It wasn’t just the outfit, though photos didn’t do justice to how good he looked in leather pants. His smile, the way he moved, everything about him was different. I watched him bow over Emily’s hand before drawing her in for a kiss and I couldn’t keep from smiling.
“God, those two.” Stacey blew a lock of hair off her forehead and led me to one of the benches toward the back, away from the tourist crowd. “Just obnoxious, don’t you think?” She’d dispensed with the accent; it was something that came and went with her. Must come with living this life on the road.
“Ahh. It’s kind of cute.” I followed her to sit on the end of the bench, brushing the surface with my hand before sitting down. “About as cute as you and Daniel, I bet.”
“Guilty.” She grinned at me and flapped her skirts around her knees in an attempt to cool off. “I mean, we try to keep it to a minimum, but you’ve seen him. I can’t keep my hands off him.”
“Hmm.” I frowned as I looked at Stacey. Sweat beaded her hairline and her cheeks were flushed. I was hot too, and sweating like crazy, of course. But I wasn’t wearing a million skirts and a restrictive bodice like she was. “You okay?”
“Oh, sure. Just a little warm. But you know, it’s July and all that.”
“How long till the show starts?” I checked my phone: five minutes to two. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
The tavern was just across the way, and it didn’t take long for me to duck under its canopy. They were doing brisk business, but the red-shirted volunteer caught my eye almost immediately.
“Water?” He was a mind reader, bless him.
“Please.” I held up three fingers, and he passed three icy cold plastic bottles of water across the bar to me. When I dug into my pocket for cash to pay, he scoffed.
“Nope. Volunteers get free water, you kidding me?”
“Eh, I’m feeling generous.” I stuck a five into the giant tip jar, and another volunteer rang an obnoxiously loud bell.
“Huzzah to the generous tipper!” Her voice was as loud as the bell, and I tried not to swear. Talk about no good deed going unpunished.
I jogged back to the chess field and slipped into my seat next to Stacey, passing one of the bottles to her.
“Oh, you are the best!” She uncapped the bottle and drank three long swallows, then screwed the lid back on. “Thanks for that. I keep forgetting to get water.”
“In this heat? It’s a wonder you’re still alive.” That came out harsher than I’d intended; the heat was making me cranky. But Stacey was used to me, so she just batted me on the shoulder while I took a gulp of my own water.
“Good morrow, ladies.”
Of course. Of course Mitch would choose that moment to approach us. Of course he would wait until I had a mouthful of water before he came over here, all shirtless and kilted and golden-haired and Scottish accented. Was he trying to drown me here?
But Mitch wasn’t looking at me. While I struggled to swallow my water, wishing desperately for gills, Stacey bounced to her feet and gave him a deep curtsy, and he turned his smile to her.
“Good morrow, sir!” Stacey trilled as she offered him her hand. “I cannot tell you how good it is to see you again, Marcus MacGregor. It has been too long.”
“It has indeed.” He took her hand and bowed over it, his lips brushing the top of her hand. I felt an answering jolt of heat even though he wasn’t touching me. I knew what those lips felt like. I wanted a refresher.
Nope. No lips. Stop thinking about his lips.
“Come to see the fighting, eh? I do hope you have a strong stomach!” Mitch—or Marcus, I guess—spoke in a deep, rumbling accent, the r’s rolling to amazing effect. I squirmed in my seat while trying to not be obvious about it. And he was full of crap. Strong stomach? Pretty sure Simon wasn’t letting him perform a ritual disemboweling twice a day on Faire weekends.
I must have made some noise—a scoff, probably—because Mitch turned to me. “And how are you enjoying the day, milady?”
I’d just swallowed a ton of water, yet my throat went dry. There was just too much to take in. Mitch’s green-and-blue-plaid kilt, brushing just below his knees. His surprisingly good Scottish accent, which did flippy things to my stomach. Those blue eyes turned to me, reminding me that beneath this brash and bold character he played at this Faire, he was just as brash and bold in person. When he gave you his attention it was worth basking in. I hated how much I’d missed that.
I had no idea how to put any of that into words that weren’t “take me home and to bed right this second,” so instead I sloshed my icy cold water bottle at him. “Hot.” The word came out sharper than I’d intended, but it was hot as hell out here and I didn’t feel like dealing with Mitch. Or Marcus. Or whoever the hell he was right now.