The arrow went wide, missing the target completely and embedding itself in the grass twenty feet to the left.

  "Again," Tom said from behind her.

  Goldilocks reached for another arrow, her fingers fumbling slightly as she nocked it. Her mind wasn't on the target. It was on her magic mirror, tucked in her bag near the bench. On the number she'd entered into it yesterday. On whether she should call him today or wait until tomorrow or—

  "Focus, Goldilocks."

  She drew the bowstring back, aimed, released.

  The arrow hit the outer ring of the target. Barely.

  "Your form is sloppy today," Tom said, his tone ft. He moved closer, adjusting her stance with practiced efficiency. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Elbow up. You know this."

  "I know," Goldilocks muttered.

  Tom stepped back, crossing his arms. He was lean and weather-worn, with the kind of face that looked older than it probably was—too much sun, too much squinting at distant targets. He'd been her archery instructor for six months now, hired by her father because Goldilocks had decided archery was romantic and interesting and she wanted to learn.

  She'd gotten bored with it after three weeks, but her father was paying Tom well, so the lessons continued.

  "What's distracting you?" Tom asked.

  "Nothing."

  "You've missed more shots in the st ten minutes than you have in the past month. So it's not nothing."

  Goldilocks lowered the bow, turning to face him. "Can I ask you something?"

  Tom's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. Guarded. "About archery?"

  "About men."

  He sighed. "Goldilocks—"

  "Just one question. Please?"

  Tom rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether this was worth the effort. Finally: "Fine. One question."

  "If a man gives you his number but doesn't ask for yours, does that mean he's interested?"

  Tom's jaw tightened slightly. "Did he ask for yours?"

  "No, but he said we could get together again."

  There was a pause. Tom's eyes flicked away from hers briefly, then back. "Well," he said carefully, his tone measured, "if he gave you his number, that shows... some openness to contact."

  Relief flooded through her, warm and immediate. *See? He IS interested.*

  "So I should call him?"

  "That's... up to you." Tom gestured toward the target. "Can we get back to archery now?"

  "Yes. Sorry." Goldilocks turned back to the target, raising her bow again. But she was smiling now, her chest light with vindication.

  Little John had given her his number. He'd said they could get together again. That meant something. Tom had just confirmed it.

  She drew the bowstring back, aimed, and released.

  The arrow hit dead center.

  "Better," Tom said behind her.

  They finished the lesson twenty minutes ter. Tom packed up the equipment while Goldilocks grabbed her bag from the bench, her fingers already reaching for her magic mirror.

  "Same time next week?" Tom asked.

  "Yes. Thank you, Tom."

  He nodded and walked toward his cart, leaving her alone in the practice yard.

  Goldilocks pulled out her mirror, its surface shimmering to life at her touch. Little John's number glowed on the screen, waiting.

  She should call him. Right now. Or maybe tonight? Or maybe—

  *No. Tonight. I'll call him tonight.*

  She smiled to herself, slipping the mirror back into her bag.

  Everything was going to work out perfectly. Little John was interested. Tom had said so. All she had to do was call him, and they'd get together again, and this time he'd really see her. Really pay attention.