He exhaled slowly, laying his head back. His mind replayed Elizabeth cowering then nearly losing it. In the beginning, all he’d wanted was to see her afraid, just to prove she was like the rest. A horrifying beast, capable of ripping her to shreds, and she wanted to befriend it. Then a coward of a man takes advantage, and her eyes widened with a fear he had begun to think she wasn’t capable of. And now the image of fear in her eyes haunted him.
It haunted him so much he almost wanted to take back their deal. She accepted him in his monstrous form. It was something he would never understand, yet he found himself yearning for that acceptance. Perhaps, if he could persuade her to go outside, he could determine why she understood him, why she wasn’t afraid, and even why he felt such an intense connection when meeting her eyes.
He hid that connection during the day, or tried to. It was becoming more difficult to be his false self with her, the self he’d taught himself to be: cold, distant, and pretentious. But letting his guard fall wasn’t an option, because of all the people he wanted to protect, Elizabeth topped the list. Recently, she was the only one on it.
This morning, when he’d interfered with Brian’s plan, Henry worried he may have dropped his guard too low to rebuild, but he’d already seemed to build it again when walking by Jean’s on the way to the diner, an hour later than normal. Through the glass door and windows, it appeared that Regina was the only customer. Elizabeth had been resting her elbows on the counter, smiling as they chatted over steaming coffee, and though she wore a happy face, the disappointment in her eyes was unmistakable. He’d wanted to come in, not just because he’d been craving her coffee, but because he’d been craving the sight of her, and in that specific moment, the sight of her smile. It announced she was whole, announced that Brian had lost.
Such a realization had reaffirmed his will to avoid her, however, and when she straightened, noticing him through the window, he’d simply kept walking.
When he entered the diner, all eyes fell upon him. It was annoying to the point of nausea, the way every man moved according to Henry’s will. It was supposed to be this way, the way he’d intended. But he was growing exhausted by it all. At least he no longer had to worry about Regina being one of them, since she’d already been converted to Team Elizabeth.
Upon realizing this, he had sighed and said, “Go,” and a few of them stood, while the rest appeared confused. “Ms. Ashton deserves your business, so go. I know you all want to.” Eustace looked at his cup of coffee with a sudden disgust, and he was the first to rise. He walked to the door with nothing but a respectful nod in Henry’s direction, and the rest followed. The only ones who stayed were Nicole and Brian. Brian eyed him warily, his split lip a most pleasing sight, and Nicole ran her fingers through his hair like he was some baby. Would she be so loving if she knew how he earned the wounds she was babying, or would Nicole only blame Elizabeth?
After a long look, Brian rose, but Henry said, “Not you.” Brian glared. Perhaps he was getting a backbone of his own as well.
“I was drunk, Mr. Clayton. I…it wasn’t me.”
Henry stepped closer. “On the contrary, Mr. Dane. I think it showed us exactly who you are.”
“What’s he talking about, Brian?” Nicole asked, eyeing the slice on his lip. “I thought this happened in Portland.”
Brian studied Henry a few seconds longer, then looked down. “Nothing, Nicki. I think I need to go home and sleep.” He left without a goodbye, leaving Henry and Nicole alone. It was awkward, but Henry reminded himself it was worth it, better than the alternative.
Now, as Arne pushed the button on the middle console and the gate opened ahead—the gate that would always bear the initials of his father—he mentally prepared himself to face Elizabeth. More importantly, facing her at the cottage. He wouldn’t have offered his help, had Brian been decent enough not to ask for sexual favors in exchange. Really, Henry had no choice.
They drove around the house and entered the garage, and as it closed behind them, leaving him and Arne in darkness, Arne said, “It’s just a pipe, Henry. Not a death sentence.”
Henry didn’t respond as he left the car, not waiting for Arne to let him out. Not that he ever did when it was just the two of them. Upstairs, in his loft of a bedroom—with a bed he hardly ever used—he changed into a white t-shirt and jeans. He found his old set of tools—the same he and his mother used when living in that very cottage—and added the repair sleeve he’d bought in Portland to the tool belt.
When he knocked on her door a few minutes later, he straightened his shoulders, attempting to make himself taller, more threatening. She was Ms. Ashton. Not Elizabeth, as he’d only recently begun to think of her.
She didn’t answer, and the part of him that allowed her to fuel his annoyance sparked. He ran a hand over his face, still not used to the whiskers he hadn’t shaved in three days. Here he was, offering his help, and she wasn’t even here. Her car sat on the street but that didn’t say much, given it was Elizabeth, and she liked to walk everywhere in town.
Then a thought struck him: she was Elizabeth, and it was sunny. He walked around the house, to the place he’d found her and Arne a few days before, the same place he used to find his mother whenever the sun had been shining.
Crouched on the porch, Elizabeth tinkered with a potted plant: a small, young azalea, only one pink flower in bloom. While one of her hands poked at the soil, the other—whose thumb wore a bandage—reached to her lower back and rubbed. From this angle, only part of her cringe was visible, but it was enough to fire up the same trigger from that morning, the one that felt like an explosion of heat had blown inside him. It was bad enough she already had to recover from the sore ribs he’d given her only days before, but this was unforgivable. And it also made him no better than Brian.
Her hair spiraled from her head in loose curls, some strands pinned away from her face. She wore a large sweater with sleeves pushed to her elbows, and surprisingly, he found her more attractive this way than he had in their meeting at the bakery, when she and her business attire were soaked through. Both the breeze and sun played with her hair, making him exhale a sigh—silently, since he wanted another moment to admire her before he had to play the enemy.
She straightened then, her back to him. It happened every time she sensed him watching at night, and even now he wondered how she knew he was there. She stood, not bothering to wipe her soil-stained fingers, and looked around her, her mannerisms hopeful as she glanced up to the suddenly darkening sky. But it was just deceiving cloud cover, and when she saw him she slumped. Was she hoping to see someone else? Perhaps the other form of himself?
“Mr. Clayton, you…startled me,” she excused with instantly pink cheeks, closing her sweater. He wished she hadn’t, since the shirt beneath was snug, flattering, and particularly low-cut. She also wore the same silver locket around her neck she always wore. The chain was long, allowing the oval-shaped pendant to rest low on the bare skin of her chest. He wondered what pictures it stored.
“They won’t survive in there,” he said, stepping closer.
Her brows pulled together.
“The azaleas.” Her eyes found the pot, basking in the sun. “That pot won’t allow the soil to drain well, and the sun will fry it. You’d have better luck over here,”—he pointed to the earthy ground below him, just beside the deck, where the overhang would provide sufficient shade all day long—“since the soil here is well drained. Azaleas thrive in the shade.”
She stared at him as though he was a stranger, and he reprimanded himself for saying too much. In and out, he had told himself before he came. Then she said, “I…didn’t know you were an expert on flowers.”
“Just rhododendrons.”
A trace of a smile. “I always pictured Arne doing the gardening.”
“We both do it.” He wanted to smile back, but instead looked away and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t have much time, so—”
“Yes, of course. Come in.”
>
As he climbed the steps, he said, somewhat shamefully, “Ms. Ashton, about your car…”
She turned to him, raising a hand. “No, please. It’s fine, Mr. Clayton.”
“It’s not fine. I’ll pay for the repairs.” He scratched his head. “Not by Brian, of course, but somewhere in Government Camp maybe.”
She studied him.
“You’ll accept my offer, Ms. Ashton, no questions.”
She only nodded.
“And…” he began, taking a hesitant step. “You’re…Are you hurt?”
Again she studied him in a new light.
“Because if you are, I’d like to cover the medical exp—”
“No.” She scrunched her eyes and waved a hand, appearing annoyed. Perhaps humiliated. “There won’t be any medical expenses. I’m fine, just a little sore. It’ll go away.” She gave a half-smile, lifting her thumb. “And this didn’t need stitches.”
He nodded, and it seemed she couldn’t swallow as she looked to his feet. “I,” she began. “I wasn’t myself after…I mean, I’m sorry for…”
“For what? Wanting to defend yourself?”
“For being a monster. I’m not usually like that, not…like him.”
He ground his teeth, trying with all of him not to be offended. “You’re not a monster. And you could never be like it.”
“It?” After a perplexing moment, recognition relaxed her brow. “Oh. I’m referring to Brian, Mr. Clayton.”
He fumbled over his thoughts, foolishness leaving his face slightly warm. He’d never heard anyone claim another man was more of a monster than himself. “It’s…no matter,” he said, even though it did matter. Because seeing her “monster” left him strangely comforted. It left him strangely connected to her.
She hardly nodded before turning, apparently just as eager to move on. He followed her through her back door, his eyes taking an involuntary detour down the curves of her backside and hips, snug in her jeans. The heat had just begun to coil within his abdomen when a scent hit him like a wave—a joyous, overwhelming wave. The cottage smelled of baking, of the bakery, of his mother. It was the smell of summer afternoons and even most mornings. It was the smell of flour-dusted aprons and safe-havens. And now it would be the smell of Elizabeth.
She closed the door and his eyes adjusted to artificial light. It was clean and tidy, though she had too many belongings for such a small living space. All of it was mismatched, too, not the slightest rhyme or reason to it. It looked as though she’d collected random pieces over time, all with different meanings. But he liked it, liked the way it looked homey without looking like his old home. Here, he only saw Elizabeth. A massive bookshelf nearly reached the ceiling, and most of its occupants were cookbooks.
After a second of observance, he looked down and found her staring at him. For a brief moment, he stared back, noticing how the splash of afternoon sun through the kitchen window hit her cheekbones and elongated her eyelashes. She looked down quickly, her nose wrinkling. “Sorry,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “I’m just adapting to the sight of Mr. Clayton in a t-shirt and jeans.” She met his eyes and moved her fingers over her chin, making him wonder if her skin was as soft as it appeared. “It looks good on you,” she added, referring to his newly acquired beard.
He cleared his throat and adjusted his weight, uncomfortable with the way they were getting too comfortable. But luckily, before he could dwell on the thought of how badly he wanted to kiss her, even just once, she said, “In the bathroom,” and left him alone. He followed but paused on his way, caught off guard by the book on the coffee table. Not just caught off guard; barreled over, really. The oval table it rested on was on its last leg and pushed closely to the fireplace, probably to allow for more walking room. The book he knew well lay open wide, the large pages parted at the spine. The words curse, and monster, and eternity screamed at him from the pages. She closed it in a hurry then pulled it from the table, cradling it to her chest before putting it on the bookshelf.
“Fairy tales, Ms. Ashton?”
“It was just something my father and I used to read. It was his book, actually.” Her smile said she was dwelling on a fond memory or two, and he dwelt on her smile, the way one side lifted slightly higher than the other. “Fairy tales and legends were his thing. They were our thing. I’ve never seen a grown man believe in things so impossible.”
“He actually believed them?”
“For a while I thought it was only to make me believe, but I realized before he died that he always had.” She paused, looking to the side. “He’s the reason I came here, to Oregon. He always talked about it, how magical it was.” Her eyes focused on his again. Clearly, if he wanted to shun her, the only way he would gain the proper courage would be to refrain from making eye contact with her. “It never made sense to me, believing the stories. From the time I was a young teen I always thought magic was something people created to cure a boring life.” Then, her eyes—the ones he couldn’t look away from—grew hesitant, perhaps even fearful. “To me, logic was…reality.”
He swallowed. “Was?”
“When I came to Hemlock, I couldn’t think of them as nonsense anymore.”
“They are nonsense.”
“Maybe some. But can you honestly tell me, Mr. Clayton, that some sort of magic doesn’t exist in this forest? You of all people should know it.”
He almost flinched. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve lived here much of your life. You live in the best part of the forest. And no matter how impossible it is to the rest of the world, a mysterious beast roams it. Surely you’ve thought—maybe as most in this town have—there might be something to these myths.”
He lifted a brow. “I hardly think a children’s book is the place to research our monster, Ms. Ashton. And I suggest you stop researching anyway, because you’ll get nowhere.”
She nodded, her eyes knowing, as usual. And how he wanted to be in her head, to see what she knew exactly. “It wasn’t research, Mr. Clayton. Just trying to refresh old memories.”
He would never tell her he owned the same book, practically had every word memorized—especially the third chapter in section three. Arne had found it online ten years ago, during Henry’s most desperate thirst for knowledge. It had opened his eyes to many things, and that was exactly why Elizabeth needed to keep believing it was nonsense.
He stepped around her and into the bathroom, hardly big enough for two. She squeezed in there with him anyway, the small space filling with their body heat. There, on the floor behind the tub, the pipe was separated at the joint. Wet towels were piled on the floor, and beneath the pipe was a bowl, collecting water that still dripped from the pipe. “I turned off the water cut-off valve last night, but it’s still leaking,” she said.
Removing the tools from around his waist, he lay on the floor, propped on his side, and edged his way behind the tub. He pulled the rubber repair sleeve from his tool belt and began fitting one of the pipe’s broken ends through, adjusting the sleeve around it. He did the same with the other end, fitting it into the other side of the sleeve, but only after a short battle between him and the pipe—where if not for his strength, he wouldn’t have been able to manipulate it to fit. Really, this whole house needed new pipes, but he reminded himself it wasn’t his house anymore.
With a restrained grunt, he rolled to his back and inched his way directly beneath. Water dripped in his face and he wiped it away. He reached for his screwdriver and screws; they were too far and his fingers scaled the tile, but before he could ask, she handed them to him. He couldn’t see her, but knew she watched him. And to his own dismay, he liked the way it felt.
Still wiping away the water that dripped in his face—trying to keep his face out of the way—he engaged four screws in the sleeve to keep it in place. After tightening them, he waited, waited for the dripping water. It didn’t come.
With another grunt, he maneuvered himself out and sat. A small towel wa
ited for him, held in Elizabeth’s outstretched hand. He eyed her a moment and nodded as he took it, wiping his face, neck, and hair. She rubbed at the back of her own neck, looking to the side as though flustered. The slight blush in her cheeks left his own warm. “Mr. Clayton,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough—”
Holding up a hand, he stood, returning the towel to her. “Don’t thank me yet. I need to make sure it holds.”
He followed her to the skinny closet in her bedroom, the one holding the smallest water heater he’d ever seen. He tried not to look around the room, since even the idea of him being here felt strange. It was too informal for the formal relationship he wanted to keep. It was impossible, however, not to notice from the corner of his eye her unmade bed, sheets the color of red rose pedals.
There, behind the water heater—since she had no crawl space, cellar, or basement—was the water cut-off valve. He turned it back on, the handle moving with difficulty and even giving off protesting squeals.
Back in the bathroom, with his hand on the right-hand knob above the bathtub’s nozzle, he looked at her. “Ready?”
“Wait,” she said, shielding herself with a towel. From behind it: “Okay, go.”
He chuckled. With the slightest hesitation—and he would admit with the shielding of his other hand—he turned the cold water knob in a counter-clockwise direction. After a faint groan, it came blasting through the nozzle in the intended way. He lowered his hand, and she lowered her towel. He then turned on the left nozzle and let them both flow, the pressure strong. It wasn’t long before steam began to rise.
He turned them off, not bothering to hide his smile. “I think you’re safe.”
She draped the towel over the tub and with a smile of her own, left the bathroom. “I have something for you, Mr. Clayton,” he heard.
He sighed to himself, rising with reluctance. She was impossible.
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