Well Played
ran past me, headed for the lemonade stand. The sound of a tin whistle floated from somewhere nearby.I ducked inside a booth displaying hand-tooled leather items, inhaling the heady scent. Inside, the wire-mesh walls were lined with leather goods of all kinds—vambraces and belt pouches, as well as modern-day accessories like belts and wallets.
“All handmade,” the attendant said, not bothering with a faked accent. She was my age, maybe a year or two older, but definitely not more than thirty. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a long plait, and she wore low-key peasant garb: a long, dark green skirt and loose chemise, pulled in with a leather waist cincher.
“Do you make all this yourself?” I touched a soft blue backpack made of buttery leather that hung on the end of one display.
“My husband and I do, yes.” She bent down to scoop up a toddler in a long chemise with grubby bare feet. Even the kids dressed period here at Faire.
I pointed at the child. “Made that too, I assume.”
She grinned in response and bounced the child on her hip, smoothing the babe’s snarled hair. “Oh, yes. Though between you and me, the leatherwork’s a lot easier. Do you have kids?”
“Oh, no.” I shook my head hard. I didn’t have a boyfriend. Kids weren’t even on my radar.
She shrugged. “No rush, believe me.” She turned to greet another patron who had ventured out of the sun and into the cool shade of the booth. As she walked away, she looked over her shoulder at me. “Anything you like, let me know. You’ll get the Rennie discount: thirty percent off.”
“Oh. Thanks.” A warm feeling went through me at her words. Not at the discount, but at what it represented. She considered me one of them. As much a part of the crew as those who traveled the circuit with her. Even though I put a lot of effort into this Faire each summer, I’d never considered myself to be on the same level as the performers and the vendors who came through every year. They had their own culture, almost their own language, and I was just a local, on the outside looking in. After today these woods would be empty while the acts and vendors around me moved on to the next Faire, and it was a sharp pain to the heart. As if life were moving on without me, and I was being left behind. Sometimes I wished I was the one packing up and moving on. Sometimes I was tired of standing still.
I blew out a long breath, trying to chase those unsettled feelings away with it. Where had this come from? The Renaissance Faire had been my happy place since I was eighteen, but I didn’t like the way I was feeling now. Had I outgrown the Faire? Or had it outgrown me?
I took one more glance at the blue backpack before making my way out of the booth. One necklace wasn’t enough retail therapy to keep this melancholy at bay. Thirty percent off . . . I was going to have to come back for that.
I continued to wander the lanes with no conscious destination in mind, trying to get my thoughts in order, when my feet brought me to the Marlowe Stage. The Dueling Kilts’ last set was about to begin. Perfect timing. I slipped into the back of the crowd, between a couple costumed vendors, right as the guys took the stage.
The Dueling Kilts were a trio of brothers—the MacLeans—who played Irish standards mixed with slightly naughty drinking songs, all on a hand drum, guitar, and fiddle. Their instruments were acoustic, their kilts hit just at the knee, and they were all very, very easy on the eyes. My eyes strayed, as they usually did, to the guitar player. Dex MacLean. The best eye candy at Faire. His red kilt was shot through with just enough dark green to keep him from looking like a stoplight, but it was still bright enough to draw attention. As though his powerful legs weren’t doing that well enough on their own. The hem was a little ragged, and he wore it as casually as he’d wear a pair of jeans. Dex carried himself like a man who’d been born with plaid wrapped around his hips.
His off-white linen shirt did nothing to hide his broad, muscled shoulders, and he stomped one booted foot in time with the music he played. He shook his long dark hair out of his eyes as he turned to his compatriots, and his smile made something thud in my chest. Dex MacLean had been my favorite part of Faire for the past two summers. The man had a body like a Hemsworth, and I’d explored just about every inch of it. Just as he’d explored mine. He’d been clear from the start, of course. No strings. Just sex. I was fine with that. I wasn’t looking to settle down anytime soon, and I didn’t like Dex for his conversation. Again, body like a Hemsworth. What kind of fool would I be to pass that up?
After last summer, I’d been looking forward to a repeat of our sexual acrobatics this year, but things had turned out differently. He’d lost his phone over the winter and had apparently gotten a new number as well, so my initial texts had gone unanswered. We’d managed a night or two together, and it had been just as electric as ever. But the urgency hadn’t been there as it had the summer before, and I wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t ask for my number again. I didn’t volunteer it.
No strings, remember? The man wasn’t relationship material.
So now I watched Dex play his last show on the last day of Faire with a curious mix of satisfaction, smugness, and regret. I’ve had that, the smug-and-satisfied side of my brain said. But why hadn’t I gone back for more? I pushed down the latter thought, opting instead to appreciate what—and whom—I’d