My immediate confusion is obvious because he repeats the question, this time gesturing upwards, with flat hands, from his shoulders.

Oh, you mean weights?

I shake my head.

No, I don't, my wrists aren't strong enough.

Then, I guess maybe you're a 10, or a 15...?

The question is rhetorical. His voice fades as he strides away, meticulously selects the correct key from his chain, and slides it into the large lock on the double doors of the lean-to cabin in the middle of the woods. It opens to reveal shelves laden with bows, and quivers filled with arrows, occupying the floor space below.

Leftie or rightie?

And then in response to my answer, he carefully selects and hands me a bow.

That's a 10 pounder, right there!

He smiles...and I note the draw weight engraved on its arc.

We walk the few yards to the range and he proceeds to demonstrate the art of archery to me.

So, the arrow is held firmly but not too tightly between the index finger and the middle and ring fingers, two fingers below the knocking point, one above. The fletching end of the arrow sits neatly above the knocking point on the string, you see that?

He points toward the gold bead positioned halfway down the string between the two bow ends.

The tip end of the arrow aligns with the arrow rest on the front of the bow. You stand square, pull back whilst you breathe in, using your shoulders to open up. Then aim. Breathe out. Release.

I listen attentively. He turns to face me.

Now you try.

I select an arrow from my quiver, and press its nock into the string, conscious of his watching eyes. As I pull back effortlessly, he chides gently:

Too far! Be careful... a bow can be dangerous in untrained hands. Pull the arrow back too far and it may snap back bruising your arm, or worse, and too little and it won't have the propulsion to stay its course.

He motions for me to watch again, but my eyes are no longer on his technique.

What I see instead is his intensity and concentration, the way in which his every movement sings in tune with the next, in perfect rhythm. The way his fingers gently caress the nock and the bowstring as he pulls back on the arrow, and the fletchings brush softly across his cheek. His muscles flex and then, when he releases, everything in his body relaxes at once.

I drop my guard.

The arrow hits its mark.

Now, let's do this together.

He looks up from his bow and smiles, his dark brown eyes dancing in the dappled light. He is unconventionally gorgeous, tall, dark, brooding, soft curls framing his face, and has a boyish charm that would steal any woman's heart.

We stand at 90 degrees to the target, feet apart, square, align the arrow with nock and arrow rest, pull back on the bow, using our shoulders, maximum kinetic energy achieved, aim, breathe out, release.

I miss the target and the arrow flies high and wide.

I make a schoolgirl error...

on purpose.

He grins.

Keep both eyes open when you aim, and don't fall forward. Breathe out before you release so that you remove any potential for movement from within, which could disturb the arrow's flight at the last moment. Let go effortlessly; relax.

I shoot the entire quiver. Each arrow spirals through the air and most miss their target...we gather them up and I try again.

I pull back on the string, one eye on the centre of the circular target, the other on my prize. The arrow slides back, brushes against my cheek, I aim and release. It flies over the target, yards clear of any scoring opportunities, or so I allow him to think.

Watching him shoot - he clearly practices a lot; dedicated, diligent, focussed, in fact, the whole experience is mindfulness in action, almost meditative.

We shoot a couple more quivers and I purposely hit the target every time he walks me through the process... He is well pleased and it shows.

I think we may just have the next Katniss Everdeen here on the range...

he chuckles.

I think he is happier for me than I am. He films me shooting and points out bulls-eyes that I have achieved.

In return, I... simply film him.

Then he tells me about the compound bow he wants to acquire. His eyes light up and he speaks passionately. He has clearly given this a lot of thought. He is as taken with the sport as I am with him.

I really want to go hunting, but for now... uh...hang a sec...next best thing...

and he motions with his hand for me to stay back, turns tail and marches off to collect all the arrows, and then disappears momentarily behind the target line. The next thing I see is the semblance of a deer's head flying out from the side of the range followed by its polystyrene body. It is a legless mannequin... I laugh. He emerges a few seconds later, polystyrene legs in hand, and settles down on the range putting the deer back together again, ready to be taken down in a hail of arrows.

Right let's hunt!

he says cheekily.

Don't aim for the head...too small a target, aim for the midriff of the body.

He points to a rectangular area smaller than the size of the bulls-eye on the big round targets that I have already struggled to hit.

I miss the first few attempts, arrows landing wide of the mark. He hits the target with relative ease. I then land 2 unconscionable blows to the poor defenseless styrofoam deer. The first hits his hind leg...

That ok?

I ask.

Well he's not going anywhere now,

comes the bemused reply and we both start giggling.

My next one flies wide, and the final arrow hits just left of the kill zone. Not bad for a beginner.

His joy is palpable.

Temptation runs wild.

I am on a high. The woods are alive with wonder and Cupid's arrow rests in my hand.

We should do this again, sometime.

he says, with a wink.

Bulls-eye!

The art of misdirection is a funny thing... Of course, I know what a recurve bow is. I've shot with them all my life. But I like this guy. He interests me. So I play coy. I hide my sporting prowess. I make him believe I need him. I use my skill to its full extent, because... at the end of the day, the temptation is too great, and I must have him.