“Why wouldn’t guys be interested in you?”
He was either sweet as syrup on a candy cane or a little delusional. She didn’t want to take a guess at which was accurate.
“There really isn’t a great demand for women who spend most of their time thinking about fairies. Especially not women who lack the necessary curves to attract men in the first place.” She wrinkled her nose and fully turned in his direction. “Sorry. Talk about being bad company, right?”
He didn’t smile or shake his head or offer any answer to her question. Instead, he watched her carefully. “I don’t date much. Most women want me to … you know … talk.”
“And here I thought you were just so awestruck by my charm that I shocked you into silence.”
A deep laugh broke into the muted sound of insects chirping and buzzing in the background. Clint’s smile was so genuine that it created little crinkles around his eyes. “Sassy little weirdo.”
She let her mouth drop open at those words, finally giving him a mock glare even though she couldn’t keep the corner of her lips from rising into a grin. “Tell me what you really think of me,” she demanded, her heart pounding as he took her hand in his.
“Willow Sharpe, fairy painter, feistiest woman I’ve ever met.” He sobered a little as his bright eyes lingered in that sweet spot where they focused on her own. “I confess, I have a thing for you.”
Her face broke into a smile while her heart fluttered inside her chest. Trying to keep from launching herself at him, she traced the lines on his palm with her finger. “What are we going to do about this, then?”
Clint swallowed as he watched her finger move against his hand. “Does something have to be done about it?”
“I think so. I don’t spend nearly enough time with you for my liking. It’s growing very difficult for me not to touch you, as you can see at present. And I wouldn’t be opposed to having you kiss me … thoroughly and often.”
He nodded his head as he appeared to thoughtfully process her statements. “Seems reasonable. Is now a good time for you?”
Willow closed her eyes with a smile as she leaned into Clint’s hand against her cheek. “Now is actually perfect.”
Chapter 8
Finally, at long last, Arabelle felt that it might be possible to find love after all. #willowfairies
The cabin was going to cost her a fortune if she continued to rent it through the summer months, but Willow couldn’t make herself care. She’d paid her fee for the month of July to Mr. O’Neill that morning, even though it was only halfway through June. She’d rent the place for five years if she had to, if it meant continuing to live the near-perfect existence she was living.
Arabelle had found her niche here in Tennessee. Her social media followers were loving her relationship with Flint, most everyone declaring him dreamy or rugged or a real man’s man (for a fairy, of course). And Willow was happy in her own skin for the first time in …
Well, ever.
It was liberating to have someone like her for who she was. Her parents had tried to make her into something she wasn’t. The company who published her books tried to get her to follow certain storylines. Even Sammie occasionally told Willow how to act when they went to parties together.
But Clint was unique. On paper, the two of them were as far apart as night and day, but he embraced their differences and liked her anyway. She’d never felt more free to create, or even to breathe in the space she was occupying. And in the month following their date to Dollywood, she’d never felt more loved.
The mere thought made her smile all over again as she adjusted the magnifying glass and studied the miniscule mug Arabelle would be drinking from. It needed just a hint of gold paint on the upper rim. Moving the magnifying glass to her left, she grabbed her finest brush and reached for the paint at the same time her phone began trilling with the sounds of a harp being strummed. Replacing the brush, she grabbed the phone instead, hitting the speaker button before glancing through the glass on her forehead once more.
“Hi Sammie.”
“Willow. You haven’t returned my calls, what could you possibly be doing out there in the middle of nowhere?”
“Living,” she breathed almost dreamily with a smile as she picked up the paint brush once more.
“Living. Becoming a hermit is more like it. Things are going really well here, and I’ve met so many people. People who want to meet you, fairy girl. I’ve been spreading the word about you like crazy.”
Peering through the glass at the enlarged details of the mug, Willow spread a hint of gold near the handle. “That’s sweet of you. Thanks.”
“When are you coming to see me?” Sammie asked. “I can’t wait to show you around.”
Barely touching the tip of the brush in the gold paint again, Willow used her other hand to scratch her cheek. “Why don’t you come and see me? I’d love to show you some of the sites, and take you to Dollywood.”
Sammie laughed on the other end of the line. “Oh Willow, I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. There’s a house I have my eye on, and it will be just perfect for us. Let me know what day works for you and I’ll schedule a tour so we can look at it together. Now that you’ve got this earthy, woodsy phase out of your system, we can do L.A. like we were meant to.”
The tiny splash of gold gleamed at the edge of the mug like perfection. Willow tilted it back and forth to make sure nothing needed adjusting before setting the paint brush down. “Sammie, you were the best roommate. The best. But I don’t want to move to L.A. I like it here. In fact, I—”
“Please don’t tell me this has something to do with your lawn man.”
Taking a deep breath, Willow pushed away from the table. “Clint isn’t just some random person. He’s … my person.”
“I’m your person. He can’t be your person.”
“I know. I know. But something’s happening here, Sammie. It’s like heaven leaned down and kissed the earth, like God filters through everywhere and into everything. And I think maybe I belong here just like Clint. He’s part of this place, and I love it.”
“You love it, or you love him?”
Willow leaned against the wall, peeking through the curtains to that one slightly taller section of grass. Every week she watched as he mowed around it so carefully, growing ever more grateful for the simple pleasure of knowing him.
“I’m in love with him. I admit it.”
Sammie sighed on her end of the phone, like the words were disappointing somehow. “Honey, I’m sure you’re lonely there and the guy is paying attention to you so it makes you feel good. But please don’t buy into that, okay? A little stop over, that’s all your getaway was supposed to amount to.”
“Paying attention to me,” Willow repeated, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared at her makeshift workspace, filled with paint, fairy paraphernalia, and paper. “It’s not like that, honestly. Clint looks at me like I’m the most amazing person he’s ever met. He treats me like I’m the most fascinating creature on the planet.”
“He mows lawns. He can’t have that many prospects, Willow.”
“When did you become such a cynic? I didn’t hold much stock in romance when I came here, you know. I wanted to give Arabelle a love interest, and it was almost impossible because I didn’t believe it existed. But I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I’ve felt sheer joy from simply being in another person’s presence. That’s not something that we can produce in one another simply by pretending to like each other’s company. Clint has made me a better version of myself, and I can’t go back to living at half-brightness. Not when I’ve seen the light up close.”
“You sound just like the dreadful romantic comedy I’m working on right now.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“I know. You’re in love and it makes you do nutty things. I get it. Why couldn’t you fall in love with someone here? We have lawn maintenance people. The one at my place doesn’t speak English, but
he seems nice enough.”
“Sammie—”
“I’m kidding, mostly. And trying to be happy for you.” She sighed, and Willow picked the little Arabelle figure up from her place on the table while she waited for her friend to continue. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I will, and best of luck on your romantic comedy.”
Sammie said her goodbyes, and Willow whistled while she gathered her supplies and prepared to take them outside. She didn’t take pictures of the fairies often—only on special occasions. But lately life felt like a special occasion. And today was Clint’s birthday. She’d snap her pictures of the fairies, pick up the cake, and then they’d have a wonderful evening.
Carefully setting Arabelle next to the mushroom hut, she placed the mug next to her on the ground. The little redheaded beauty with the butterfly wings would be telling Flint she loved him soon. It was time. Past time, really. Flint had shown himself to be more than worthy.
Pulling her phone out, Willow checked the time. Eleven-thirty. She told Ruth she’d pick up the cake at eleven. Time had gotten away from her again. With a long look at the mushroom huts, she pondered her options. It was unusual that Clint wasn’t around yet to mow the lawn. She could pop over to the café before taking the photos, though. He knew the drill with the grass and the fairies.
Practically skipping to the house, she grabbed her keys and checked her appearance in the mirror. The magnifying glass contraption had left some red marks around the side of her forehead, but otherwise she looked fairly normal. She smiled at her reflection, blowing herself a kiss. Stupid, she knew, but she felt giddily ridiculous. It was going to be an unforgettable day.
Willow arrived at the café right before noon, and Ruth ushered her to a table at the corner. She wanted to talk about Clint’s birthday, she said, as soon as she got a break. So Willow ordered a sandwich. And a milkshake. And a piece of lemon pie. And it wasn’t until she was so full she felt like she wouldn’t be able to walk that Ruth was finally able to slide onto the chair across from her.
Of course she wanted to chat about the surprise pop-up birthday party they were having for Clint. Willow knew without a doubt that Clint would be mortified, but she couldn’t seem to talk the younger woman out of doing something for her daughter’s favorite uncle. And if she knew Clint, which she thought she did by now, he’d be kind of calmly present, smiling every once in a while, but secretly wishing he could be anywhere else. In the most gracious of ways, naturally, because he was a gentleman. Without a doubt, though, he’d be pining for an escape.
Willow hoped to be the escape by showing him the perfect place she’d found while hiking the woods around her cabin. The place where she’d set up the chairs so they could just sit in silence and watch the stars that evening. She was suffering intense anticipation herself, although she tried to hide it.
Ruth didn’t seem to notice, going on and on about anything and everything. Had Willow talked to Clint yet that day, she wanted to know. Which of course she hadn’t. Hadn’t called him the day before either, because he was busy reroofing someone’s house. So it had been nearly forty-eight hours since she’d seen him, heightening the anticipation that much more.
By the time Willow finally headed back to the cabin, cake in hand, it was nearing two in the afternoon. The sun would be directly overhead, which might make her picture more difficult to take, but she’d manage. Clint would likely have come to mow her lawn and gone already, but she tried not to be disappointed. After all, it wasn’t like she wouldn’t see him soon.
As she pulled down the final stretch of the road leading to her cabin, a shiny white truck brushed past her. Odd, since hers was the last cabin on the road, but maybe it was some tourist checking the place out. Pulling up in front of her temporary home, she carefully extracted the cake from the passenger seat and turned to glance at the place. It looked nice and clean, like always. Freshly mown.
So he’d been here, then. The little twinge of disappointment snaked up her spine, even though she knew it was silly. She could go a few hours without seeing the man, couldn’t she?
But something looked different. A little too perfect, really. Like a picture on a postcard instead of the yard she’d been staring at every day through the window, keeping an eye on her …
The cake box slid from her fingers, landing on its side by her feet, as she placed both her hands over her mouth.
“No, no, no.”
Her first step was impeded by the cake box, causing her to trip enough to place one hand on the grass in front of her, but it didn’t slow her momentum. Reeling forward, she fell all the way into the grass, taking big, gulping breaths as she crawled on her hands and knees toward that familiar spot where she spent so much time. Not surrounded by taller grass. Cut short, just like everything else.
She stopped at the edge of the little bare spot, knees aching from her fall and fresh grass stains on her palms. But it didn’t matter. Arabelle lay on her side about a foot away, one of her wings wrenched from her body. The mug she’d spent her time on that morning was pressed into the dirt, the fresh paint marred and scratched. And the little mushroom huts that had taken her weeks to perfect, both decimated.
Cradling Arabelle in her hand, she dropped her head to her knees and let the tears come freely.
Chapter 9
Arabelle wished no present contact with her neighbors. Assistance would prove impossible, and their sympathy unbearable. #willowfairies
“Clint?”
His head pounded, but he tried to clear the fog enough to see where that voice was coming from. With a blink, he squinted his eyes against the light overhead. He hadn’t turned a light on. He’d probably remember that.
“Uncle Clint? Mom, he’s in bed.”
“Clint? For heaven’s sake, what’s going on? I’ve tried and tried to call you, and you wouldn’t answer. Em, step back honey. Uncle Clint looks like he’s going to be sick.”
“I’m fine.” He waved them away with one very heavy, nearly impossible to lift hand. “Just need to get up and moving.”
Cool flesh pressed against his temple. “He’s burning up. Have you taken your temperature, Clint? Taken anything for your fever?”
“Wha— No, I don’t get sick. Just a headache.” He attempted to sit up but couldn’t seem to make himself move.
“I’ve no doubt you have a headache, but you’re feverish too. See what he has in the bathroom, Em.”
The blankets were strangling him. Who tucked them in? He never tucked them in. Jerking against them once more, he gave up and plopped back against the pillow.
“You hot under those blankets?” Ruth lifted the blankets away from him as though they were nothing.
“Mom, Uncle Clint doesn’t have anything in his bathroom except beard stuff and armpit perfume.”
That hand touched his forehead again, and the cool feel of it against his hot skin actually felt good. Maybe he was sick.
“Okay, don’t move. Em and I will go straight to the drug store and pick something up for you, so you just relax. Or sleep, or whatever makes you comfortable. We’ll just be a few minutes.”
He didn’t even answer. It would have taken too much effort. Instead, he squeezed his eyes closed and tried to forget everything.
With a start, Clint sat up in bed, sweat prickling against his forehead. The sun was already streaming in past the curtains, and he had a lot of work to do. The mere thought instantly irritated him. He wasn’t prone to oversleeping.
Throwing back the covers from his bed, he spun his legs around and attempted to stand, having to prop his hand against the wall for balance. Man, he was weak. Sleeping through breakfast wasn’t a great idea either, apparently.
His gaze drifted across the glass of water and the bottle of pills on the nightstand. Ruth. She’d been in his bedroom, and Emily too. Forced him to take pills when she said he had a fever. Flickers of memory started filling in all the blank spots. Nearly falling off the roof when he got dizzy. Jenkins telli
ng him to get home before he passed out. Actually passing out. Thank God it only lasted one night.
So it was Wednesday. His birthday. He grabbed the phone on his way to the bathroom, checking the time. Ten-thirty. Not as bad as he thought it might be. So he’d be running late, but wouldn’t actually miss any jobs.
He’d feel better once he had a shower, he told himself. Heated it so hot that it nearly scalded him, then turned it to ice cold to force life into his bones. Brushed his teeth while he stared into his lifeless eyes in the mirror. His body needed fuel. Fluids. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he crossed into the kitchen, pouring himself a cold glass of water.
Sinking onto the couch, he breathed a sigh of frustration as he searched his phone for O’Neill’s number. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sick. Couldn’t stand being weak and not being able to do what needed to be done. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the couch and rubbed one hand through his wet hair as he waited for O’Neill to pick up.
“Yeah,” came the abrupt greeting.
“Hey, I’m running a little late today. Must have come down with some kind of bug, but I’m up and around. Just wanted to tell you in case anyone asked why I hadn’t come by yet. I’m on my way out.”
“Oh, Clint. Hang on.” He yelled some orders to someone in the background before continuing. “Listen, you should just take it easy. Jenkins called and told me you were sick, that you’d gone home. I had Atkins fill in for you on the lawns.”
“Well, just call him and tell him I’m on it.”
“I’m sure he got through them all yesterday. Just take it easy today, buddy. No worries.”
O’Neill dropped his end of the call, and Clint furrowed his brow as he glanced past the window again, studying a sun-splashed spot on the wall. Why would he do them yesterday, unless …
He pulled his phone back into his line of vision, pressing the button to activate the screen. Thursday. No, it couldn’t be Thursday. Thursday meant he slept through an entire day. It meant he missed the surprise birthday thing Ruth and Emily were plotting. It meant he’d missed his date with Willow.
Love at First Laugh: Eight Romantic Novellas Filled with Love, Laughter, and Happily Ever After Page 15