“I mean honestly.” I pitched my voice lower, even though I wanted to yell at him. No one was paying attention to us yet, and I wanted to keep it that way. “How am I not taking this seriously? I show up every weekend, almost always on time.”

“You’re on your phone during most of the history discussions. You can’t brush up on Elizabethan history if you’re scrolling through Instagram.”

Oh, the nerve of this guy. “I listen plenty, even though I can’t imagine needing any of this information. I mean, I’m a tavern wench, right? Is a patron going to give me a pop quiz while I’m selling them a beer?”

“They might!” My rage was apparently contagious, because he glared at me with stern eyes and a set jaw. “You never know when a patron is going to ask you about the time period. You’re going to want to know what religion you’re allowed to be then, and who supports and opposes the Queen, right?”

I rolled my eyes. “I know all of that. You know why? Because I’ve been here: Every. Damn. Weekend.” His eyes flared at my repeatedly foul mouth, but I’d stopped caring. “Don’t you think I’d rather sleep in on Saturdays, instead of setting my alarm clock to come here?”

“If this is such a waste of time, why are you here? No one’s forcing you. You can quit anytime.” He raised an eyebrow, and I knew he had me. If I wasn’t a part of this, Caitlin couldn’t be a part of this. I looked over at her again. There was no way I could quit, and he knew it. Asshole.

I tried a different tack. “Is Emma a period-appropriate name?”

He narrowed his eyes, and his only response was a nod.

“Then what’s the problem?” I met his eyes and he met mine, and we had a staring contest of hate for a good ten seconds. But I was too tired to fight. Not to mention too oxygen-deprived. “Look. I’m living in my sister’s guest room, taking care of her and my niece until she’s able to do it on her own. When I’m on my phone, it’s because I’m checking my schedule to make sure I’m not missing anything. My sister still can’t drive, so I try to consolidate errands, getting her stuff done as well as mine.” Shut up, my mind screamed. Shut up, shut up. He doesn’t need to know any of this. But to my horror my mouth kept going. “I don’t have a job. I don’t even know where I’m going to be living or what I’m going to be doing six months from now. I have a lot on my mind. So when I had to pick out a name for Faire, I took a shortcut by using something I can remember to answer to. Okay?”

I didn’t back down from his gaze. It was just him and me and his muddy brown eyes, but then he blinked, and something in his expression flickered. “Family’s important.” His voice was softer, kinder than I’d ever heard it before.

With those two words all my rage dissolved, and a warmer feeling bloomed in my chest. It was like we understood each other, finally. “Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

He watched me for another moment, then the moment passed and he was back to the same disapproving Simon he’d always been.

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice clipped. “The name is fine.” And with that he was gone, moving on to the next clump of cast members to terrorize. Probably to give them a pop quiz about their diets and their opinions of the Queen.

“Ugh.” I turned to Stacey. “Is he always that unpleasant?”

“No, you seem to bring it out in him. Good going.” She watched him walk away. “The thing about Simon is that Faire’s just . . . it’s his thing. He’s very protective of it. Everything has to go right.”

“Really?” I turned back around to see where he had stalked off to, but I’d lost sight of him. “Then why doesn’t he look like he’s having fun? Shouldn’t he be having fun?”

Stacey shrugged. “It’s a lot of work, I bet. I mean, he used to help his brother when Sean used to run things, but I’m sure it’s a lot harder when it’s all up to you.”

I shook my head. “Then he should learn to delegate.” No wonder he was a dick. I thought he and Chris jointly ran this thing. Was he responsible for everything? That was a lot for one person to take on. “Besides,” I said, “if he cares so much, then why does he look like he just rolled out of bed? The guy’s wearing sweatpants.”

Stacey chuckled. “I think they have extra fight rehearsal today. They usually do those on Sundays, separately from the regular rehearsal. But we’re getting close to opening now, so they’re probably doing an extra run-through of some of the fight choreography.”

“Oh, really?” So he wasn’t coming off a bender. He was wearing comfortable clothes he could move in. I couldn’t picture Simon fighting. That would require emotion, and he was one step removed from being a robot. “Who does Simon fight?”

“Looking good, Park!”

Oh, good. Mitch was here. He always entered rehearsal the same way: booming voice announcing his arrival, gym bag slung over one broad shoulder, passing out fist bumps to kids like they were candy.

Now that we were a few weeks in, I was used to Mitch. God bless his collection of tight T-shirts, and if his hair was dyed black he could cosplay Superman any day of the week with that chiseled jaw. But he had some annoying habits too. The unironic fist bumping. The nicknames. No one had ever called me Park in my entire life. But God help me, I answered to it. Every damn time.

But today, when I laid eyes on him, every negative thought about the guy flew out of my head. Because today, Mitch wasn’t Mitch. Today, Marcus MacGregor had come to play. Mitch was wearing the Kilt.

The Kilt. The kilt I’d been promised when I’d agreed to this whole shebang in the first place. It had slipped my mind with everything else going on in my life. But suddenly, volunteering for this Faire was the best damn idea I ever had.

Don’t ask me what clan the tartan was, I didn’t care. That wasn’t important. What was important? Those legs. In a kilt, Mitch transformed from goofy jock-douche to a man. A man who didn’t skip leg day. A man with calves that could have been carved from marble. There were muscle and power in those legs, and I’d never wanted to touch a guy’s legs the way I wanted to put my hands on Mitch’s.

But then he strutted over in our direction, his eyes focused about six inches south of my chin, and I bit back a sigh. Yes, the boy was hot. But, much to my libido’s chagrin, looks weren’t everything.

“Thanks.” I straightened my chemise a little, even though I’d just finished doing that. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” I gestured to his kilt. “So this is the famous kilt, huh? You wear that every year?”

“Sure do. The kilt’s been a thing for a while now,” he said to my tits.

“Oh, it haaaaaas.” Stacey turned to me with a grin. “I’m telling you, Em, this is my favorite part of rehearsals. I like to think of it as Kilt Day.”

I snorted, a little awkwardly in the costume, while Mitch dragged his eyes upward; he shrugged and tried to look self-deprecating, but he was far too pleased with himself to pull it off. The guy practically preened. “The girls love it.”

“I’m sure we do. Er, they do. I’m sure they do.” But there was no saving it. I flushed bright red while Mitch laughed. And when the man laughed, he laughed. Loud. And long. Heads turned in our direction, and most of them turned away again with a bemused smile at Mitch being Mitch. But Simon, standing at the lip of the stage, frowned before shaking his head and going back to whatever he was saying to Chris, turning a black hat with a giant red feather around and around in his hands.

“Good job,” I said. “Because the boss isn’t mad at me enough.”

“Who?” Mitch followed my gaze and scoffed. “Oh, the Captain? How’d you piss him off?”

Mitch had a nickname for everyone, apparently; even the head of this whole operation. “Captain” was probably a better nickname than “Dickhead.” “Who knows? Showing emotion? Having a good time?”

“I’m telling you,” Mitch said. “That guy seriously needs to get laid.”

I choked. “Ugh. Who the hell would volunteer for that?” I couldn’t imagine a worse way to spend a night. And I’d worked closing shift in a bar on St. Patrick’s Day.

“You’d be surprised,” Stacey said. “There was that one girl, remember, Mitch? A couple summers back? She was what, a dancer? Something? I remember her being . . . limber.”

Mitch snorted. “Fight crew. They lasted all of a minute.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t count.”

“Well, yeah, but that was . . .” Stacey trailed off like she was looking for the right word. “It was a couple years ago. His head wasn’t in the game.”

“Is it ever? The guy’s been like a monk ever since Sean’s been gone.”

I blinked. What did his brother leaving town have to do with Simon having a girlfriend? It must have made sense to Stacey, though, since she tsked at him. “Can you blame him? It’s not really fair to . . .” She trailed off again. Why couldn’t she find the words when it came to Simon?