by R.K. Ryals
~Peregrine Storke~
I woke up tangled in the sheets, Foster’s arm and leg a heavy weight on my chest and hip. My gown had ridden up to my thighs and was bunched under my back. Foster’s skin was hot, leaving my flesh clammy where his arm rested. It wasn’t the least bit comfortable or romantic. Horribly tangled hair rested against my shoulders, my chin stiff from dried drool. I might not snore, but I often slept with my mouth open.
Foster stirred, his auburn hair in spiky tufts. A crease from his pillow marred his cheek. Waking up with a guy wasn’t anything like the movies. It wasn’t stylish or heartwarming … or maybe it was if you had sex with them. Otherwise, it was just embarrassing. Self-consciously, I cupped my hand over my mouth and blew into my palm. It was as close as I was getting to checking for bad breath.
Sunlight slanted across the room, slowly climbing over the bed, the soft orange glow turning the comforter more cream than white. A breeze pulled at the gauzy canopy, its early morning chill raising goose bumps on my neck.
“You kick when you sleep,” I complained.
Foster wasn’t the only one who didn’t like silence. Silence was louder than noise. I often filled it with awkward, nonsensical conversation.
Foster sat up, his gaze sweeping my face, his body no longer weighing me down. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran his hand across his jaw. There was stubble on his chin, the short bristles the same color as his hair.
“You drool,” he muttered.
Heat climbed up my neck.
He pulled the tunic he’d worn the day before from the headboard and tugged it over his head, his gaze finding my face. “Drooling is nothing. I dated a girl once who liked to slather mayonnaise on her face right before bed. Some fool notion about mayo and smooth skin. She smelled like the mess even after she washed it off. It was like sleeping with a sandwich.”
He shuddered, his reaction breaking the tension in the room.
I stood and moved to the armoire. “You don’t like mayonnaise I gather.”
Foster exhaled. “Not mayonnaise, tomatoes, or watermelon. Nor cabbage, carrots, or seafood. And definitely not anything with those in it.”
Yanking the gown straps down my arms, I pulled the blue tunic over my head before letting the gown fall to the floor. I wore lacy panties beneath, but no bra. I might have pasted pictures of girlie underwear into my fantasy world, but what girl truly wants to wear a bra unless they have to? I was paying for the oversight now. It had been easy to overlook the day before, but sleeping next to a man, even without truly touching him, made me more aware of my body. Now I’d worry about my nipples showing.
I crossed my arms. “You live in Louisiana, Foster. What the hell do you eat?”
He pulled on his boots. “Asks the girl who draws fairytales.”
Laughter bubbled up, escaping my lips before ending in a snort.
Foster glanced at me. “Did you snort?”
My palm came up to cover my mouth, leaving my braless chest exposed. My mother used to tell me I laughed like a hyena. She was right. My laugh was terrible and almost always ended on a snort. Like a hyena wrestling with a pig.
I was saved by a fairy.
Nimble burst through the window, violet dust flying. Foster scowled.
“Good morning!” she greeted, her purple teeth flashing as she flew into the bed’s canopy. The gauzy lace caught her. She struggled, her giggle loud as she untangled herself. “We’re ready to go!”
Foster’s eyes widened. “We’re?”
Nimble pulled herself free of the lace. “Well, of course! You can’t go alone, you know. Elspeth, Weasel, Herman, and I are traveling with you!”
There was too much chirpiness in her statement, as if her cheerfulness would somehow dispel the thunderous frown marring Foster’s face. I wanted to laugh-snort again, but swallowed it. He didn’t need a reminder of why Awkward was a perfect place for me.
Foster stood, his height and breadth causing Nimble to fly backward, her gaze wary. She crashed into my tangled hair, her thrashing and violet dust causing me to rethink my love for watermelons. Nothing tasted good in large quantities.
“You should really brush that,” Nimble said, her small fingers jerking at the strands and tugging the roots from my scalp.
I plucked her free and searched for a comb.
Foster pulled the glass ball Queen Norma had given him out of a pocket in his tunic. The small orb had been a cloudy yellow the day before. It was shot through with green now, the colors just beginning to mingle.
Nimble gasped. “We need to hurry!” she said.
Foster’s gaze met mine.
I glanced at Nimble. “What exactly happens if we don’t make it to Prince Dash before the ball turns black?”
Her face fell. “Awkward dies.” This wasn’t new; I knew Awkward was in danger of disappearing. Nimble brushed her wings against my cheek. “It’s not just Awkward,” the fairy added, her gaze finding mine. “If we die, then you die. Perfection isn’t just defeating our kingdom. She won’t chance leaving alive the girl who brought us to life.”
Chapter 11
“That awkward moment when you realize the world you thought would last forever could be the world that destroyed you.”