Willow. Why hadn’t she called or come by or texted or … anything? No missed messages from her on the phone at all.
This time, the sick feeling churning in his gut had nothing to do with a virus.
As soon as he got some food in his stomach and felt human again, Clint drove to Willow’s cabin. Her car was in the driveway, which only gave him a fleeting sense of relief. Closing his truck’s door, he shoved the keys in his pocket, scanning the area for anything out of place. The only thing he noticed was the dented white box plopped haphazardly in the yard.
His steps seemed like they were happening in slow motion as he moved in the direction of the box. It looked like an ordinary bakery box, if it weren’t for the ants crawling out of the side and over the white cardboard. Flipping it open with the toe of his boot, he studied the cake inside, which was broken down the center and smashed against the side of the box. The ants were making quick work of their task, swarming the sticky sweet icing. It was easy to see them disappearing into the short grass.
Short grass. His eyes lifted to scan the yard, and immediately he settled on the section that he knew to avoid. The section where Willow painstakingly set up the little fairy huts. Every ounce of his breath left his body as he took the few steps to the designated spot in the yard, dropping to his knees. Carnage. Fairy carnage. The huts were missing their tops, shattered into dozens of pieces scattered across the dirt. The mailbox had been crushed, probably beneath a lawnmower tire. No signs of anything else she might have used to decorate the space.
Closing his eyes, he let what must have been her acute disappointment wash over him. The pain she must have felt at having her work destroyed like that. But she didn’t even call to let him comfort her. He should have been there for her, and he would have been. Had she stopped by the house and thought he was ignoring her?
God, help me, he breathed as he rose to his feet. His steps were still a little shaky, but he tried to remain steady as he crossed to the front door, climbing the stairs. She was notorious for peeking out the blinds, which usually put a smile across his face when he was mowing the lawn, but there were no signs of life. Knocking on the door, he waited with his fist resting against the door frame. She didn’t immediately answer, so he banged on the door again.
Surely she wouldn’t have left. Especially not if her car was still sitting there in the driveway. Rubbing a hand against his forehead, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed the number of the café. Lunch rush. Definitely not the best time to call.
“Um, yeah, can I speak to Ruth please? It’s an emergency.”
“She’s got a slew of tables. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Clint. Please, it’ll just take a second.”
The woman who answered the phone yelled Ruth’s name, and Clint tried to slow his breathing as he paced across the porch.
“Clint, everything okay? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”
“What? No, I’m feeling much better.” He lifted a hand to try to peek into the cabin, but couldn’t see anything past the blinds. “Have you talked to Willow at all today?”
“No. I tried to call her last night, but she didn’t answer. I figured maybe she’d been by to check on you or something.”
He covered his mouth with his fist, staring out at the cake box in the yard again. “If you hear from her, let me know. I’m sure everything’s fine. Sorry to bother you.”
With one deft move, he canceled the call and placed the phone in his pocket. His breath hitched in his chest, the same way it had the day he saw her on the ground in front of his mower. Willow felt things with all her heart. The slightest little thoughtful gesture could make her day. How low would something like this take her?
Turning back to the door, he turned the knob, but it didn’t budge. Bracing himself, he rammed his side into the door. A little splinter started near the doorknob, and he shoved his body against it again, hearing the cracking sound as it gave beneath his weight. He shoved his fingers into the gap and worked at the latch, fumbling to get it open. As soon as he released it and pushed the door open, he felt a wave of embarrassment. Two months he’d spent trying not to act like a hillbilly brute in her presence, and the instant the opportunity arose he did just that.
Shaking his head, he looked around the living room. A little figure of Arabelle rested on the table near the door, one of her wings missing and her leg broken off. The area around her was a mess of paint and fabrics and sketches, the odd magnifying glass Willow used sitting awkwardly atop them.
“Willow,” he said, voice relatively quiet in comparison to the way he busted into the place. When she didn’t reply, he stepped further into the house, glancing around as he did so. Her phone sat on the kitchen counter, blinking enough to inform him that she had messages. He pushed the button and saw that it was only at around ten percent and hanging on by a thread.
“Willow,” he repeated, stepping tentatively into the hallway. Fear gripped his chest as he wondered what he would find, then told himself to stop worrying. God, he thought again, unable to even finish a prayer. Please.
He’d never been inside her bedroom before, and as he stepped into the space, he couldn’t help but notice that the bed was made. The space was tidy, no clothes littering the floor. Nothing out of place. It made him feel better and worse at the same time.
The slightest groan sent the hair on the back of his neck straight on edge. Turning, he let his gaze drift to the bathroom door. It was barely open, just enough to see that the light was on.
“Willow? Willow, I’m coming in.”
She didn’t answer, so he pushed the door open, nearly gasping at the sight of her form on the bathroom floor. Her face was pressed against her arm, which was propped under her head, the rest of her body curled up in a fetal position.
“Hey,” he whispered, brushing her hair away from her face. “I’m here.” She didn’t move, but the feel of her hot skin on his fingers motivated him enough to act. Sliding one arm beneath her neck and the other under her knees, he lifted her from the floor, leaning back just enough that her head rolled against his chest. He could feel the warmth emanating from her even through his T-shirt.
She couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds, but as he placed her head against her pillow atop her comforter, he braced himself against the side of the bed. His strength obviously still hadn’t fully returned. He’d managed pretty well, though, since he was able to break into the place. He started to sit next to her on the bed, but the action shifted her body in his direction, so instead he knelt on the floor.
“Willow, can you wake up?” He pressed the back of his hand against her cheek, feeling utterly incompetent. “Hey, I just need to know you’re okay.”
Her eyelashes fluttered, and the brief glimpse of her eyes told him they were glassy. “I’m dreaming,” she whispered, barely audible even though he was right by her side.
“No, you’re sick, but I’m glad to hear your voice. It’s Clint. What can I do for you?”
She rolled her head from one side to the other but didn’t open her eyes. “Clint can’t be here. I want to look nice.”
“You’re always beautiful to me.” He pushed all the hair away from her forehead, grimacing a little at how warm she felt to the touch.
A slight smile pulled up one corner of her pale lips. “That sounds like something Clint would say. Isn’t he wonderful?”
He couldn’t decide whether to be concerned at how delirious she seemed or smile at the compliment. “How are you feeling? I want to help you.”
A tremor shook her entire body. “Cold.”
Lifting her slightly, he pulled back the comforter. She was wearing those barely too-short running pants that people wore - what did they call those again? Not that it mattered. He wasn’t about to change her clothes, but he could find those giant wooly socks she was always wearing. Pulling out the top dresser drawer, he closed it almost immediately when he realized it contained her undergarments. Instead he we
nt for the second drawer, finding almost a whole compartment full of those giant socks. Jerking out a pair, he unfolded them and knelt beside her once more, taking her icy little foot in his hand.
“I’m going to try to get you warmed up,” he explained as he gently slid the sock over her foot and up her calf muscle. “If you have what I had, hopefully it won’t last much longer.” The second sock was on her foot, but he let his hand linger on her shin. Would the same virus hit her harder, since she was so much smaller than him? That probably wasn’t how such things worked, but he really didn’t have experience with caring for sick patients.
He grabbed the comforter and pulled it over her legs, dragging it all the way up to her chin. Once he got it there, he rubbed his hands against her shoulders, trying to be a little gentler when a tiny groan escaped her lips once more. Leaning down, he kissed her forehead, once again being reminded of the fever raging in her body.
“Got to get the fever down,” he whispered, rising to his feet and heading back to the bathroom. The rug next to the tub was wrinkled and shifted to the side where she’d been centered on it, and he moved it out of the way, straightening it before he glanced through the bathroom drawers, trying not to be nosy. She had a thermometer right on the top, one of those old-fashioned numbers that had the mercury in the middle. Trying to think fast, he grabbed it and then looked for something to treat the fever. He found a couple boxes of pills that might be helpful, so he studied the ingredient lists and their suggested use before he decided on a winner.
Before going back to her side, he located a plastic bag in the kitchen and filled it with ice, wrapping the makeshift ice pack with a dish towel. By the time he had a glass of water, his hands were more than full. Jostling everything, he stepped back into her room, where he watched the rise and fall of her chest. He placed all of his supplies on the table beside the bed and laid one hand on her cheek.
“Willow, can I take your temperature?” Her lips were slightly parted, but he didn’t want to try to do anything without her consent. “Willow, hey, can you hear me? I’d like to take your temperature.”
She roused herself just enough to flutter those eyelashes again and drop her mouth open a little more. It made his heart ache the way she instantly did what he asked, but he ignored the feelings rising inside as he placed the thermometer beneath her tongue and tipped her chin up to get her to close her mouth. He vaguely remembered his mom taking his temperature when he was a kid, so he held the thermometer in place while he moved the ice pack against her head. She shoved the thermometer aside with her tongue, but he pushed it right back and tapped her on the nose.
“Hold still now, or it won’t be accurate.”
It seemed like an eternity while he waited for her temperature to register, but he finally pulled the thermometer back and held it aloft as he tried to read it. And tried, and tried, and tried, rolling it around in his fingers. One tiny glimpse of the red line indicated that her temperature was close to one-hundred-and-four. If he read it correctly, of which he wasn’t convinced.
Sliding his hand behind her neck, he tipped her head up, keeping his arm behind her head for insurance purposes. “Come on now, you need to drink some water. Do you think you can swallow a pill?”
Those wide violet eyes slowly opened, gazing directly at his own only inches away. “Are you really here?”
“Of course I am. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”
“I dropped your cake.”
“You think I care about that?” he whispered, keeping his eyes focused on hers. “I care about you, which means I want you to take these pills. Will you do that for me?”
“For you I’d do anything.”
God, I love this woman, he thought as he tried not to smile. More than I thought possible.
Setting the ice pack aside so he could grab the pills instead, he gently placed one against her lips. “Let’s start with the pills and then talk about that,” he teased quietly. She took a drink from the glass, so he gave her the second pill. When she was done, he asked her to drink more of the water, which she took while she looked up at him with that same awestruck expression that usually filtered onto her face at some point during any conversation.
“Get some rest,” he whispered, placing the glass on the table. He moved the ice pack back to her forehead, and she rewarded him with the makings of a smile, allowing her eyes to drift closed.
Chapter 10
Arabelle must know, of course, that everything Flint did … It was for her alone. #willowfairies
Clint checked the latch on the door, making sure it was secure. He didn’t feel guilty for barging through it to help Willow, but he’d wanted to fix it as soon as he knew she was okay. Helping her feel better was one thing, but keeping her safe inside her cabin was just as important. At least he could rest a little easier knowing that the door was off his to-do list.
Wiping his hands against his jeans, he went to the back of the cabin, poking his head into her bedroom. Eight hours he’d been inside the space with her, beside the little stint of time picking up the new door. She’d been sleeping most of that time, only waking up when he asked her to take more medicine. It made him feel helpless, the waiting.
He touched her forehead with the back of his hand. Still too warm, although the medicine was doing its job. Leaving the premises definitely wasn’t an option. She didn’t stir, so he went back out to the living room, looking around to try to decide how to fill his time.
The house was clean, other than her work space, which he wasn’t about to tidy up without her permission. Even looking at the broken fairy figure made him uncomfortable. Would she be able to replace the wing easily? And the leg? Or would she have to switch to sketches and paintings instead?
Letting out a sigh, he ran his hand against the back of his neck, trying to work out the tension that had gathered there. If her little huts had been full-size dwellings for human beings, he could have done something to help her. But fairy-sized mushrooms weren’t really his specialty.
He slowly released his neck, opening the front door and staring at the bare spot in the yard. It wouldn’t hurt to check everything out once more. See if it was salvageable. His boots seemed loud against the porch, set against the backdrop of only insect noises. Swinging his hand, he waved a mosquito away as he sank to his knees once more in the grass. The colorfully-painted tops of the mushroom huts were definitely not going to be reparable. The bottoms were mostly intact, though. And the mailbox, although the metal was smashed, wasn’t torn or damaged otherwise.
Leaning down, he took one of the mushrooms between his fingers, lifting it enough to place it on his palm. The structure was probably about the size of Willow’s hand, although smaller than his. The woman was so creative, it made his mind spin. The way she dreamt something up from nothing. He certainly didn’t have that ability. The closest he could come was fixing something that needed repairs, like shingles on a roof.
“Shingles on a roof,” he whispered, staring down at Arabelle’s damaged home. The circular frame that gave it that signature look. The little wooden door at the front, its rounded top featuring a tiny window. The little curtains hanging at the larger side window, navy blue with pink polka dots.
It didn’t need to be created all over again. It needed repairs.
Repairs were totally up his alley.
Willow groaned as she shifted her body to the left, tugging the comforter away. The thermostat must have malfunctioned and turned on the heat instead of the air conditioner. Flinging the back of her hand up to her forehead, she cringed when she realized she was perspiring. But she didn’t feel half-dead like she had before. And the sweating meant the fever broke, right?
Sitting up in bed, she swayed as she attempted to adjust her eyes to the light in the room. Natural light from the window, letting her know it was daylight. Blinking a couple times to try to clear the fog from her eyes, she pushed her hand up into her hair and glanced at the doorway, considering whether she should get up and head to
the bathroom.
Her gaze instead landed on the man in the corner, his legs stretched long against the floor, back against the wall, head tilted slightly up like he was trying to sleep.
“Clint?”
His eyes popped open, and he awkwardly attempted to rise from the floor. It was obvious to her that his stint sitting there had been uncomfortable, simply by the fact that his movement was impaired.
“Hey,” he said gently, sitting himself at the foot of the bed. “Feeling better?”
“I think so, yes.” She drew the comforter back up to her chin, holding it between her fists. “You stayed with me?”
Without bothering to answer that question, he rose and stood by the door, glancing into the hallway. “There’s fruit in the kitchen, and some canned soup. Oh, and bread for toast. Do you want me to fix you anything?”
She couldn’t help but smile, because she knew she didn’t have any canned soup. He must have gone shopping. “I’m sure I can manage. How did you get in here? Did I leave the door unlocked?”
“Hmm…yeah. Definitely make sure you lock the door.” His hand went to the back of his neck, that telltale sign that he was nervous. “You sure you don’t need anything? If not, I should probably—”
“Thank you. I don’t even know what to say.”
He pressed his lips together, taking a step back into the hall. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
She nodded, and he gave a quick wave as he disappeared from her line of vision. The sound of his boots on the hardwood floor gave way to the door clicking closed, and she knew he was gone. Allowing a huge grin to spread across her face, she dropped her chin to her fists, still holding her comforter in place. Sweaty and clammy and pale as she was, she’d never felt more desired in her life. A good man … No, a very good man, cared about her enough to completely disrupt his life and sleep on her floor, waiting for her to feel better. She could almost sob at the sheer joy of it, except she felt a little too dehydrated for tears.
Love at First Laugh: Eight Romantic Novellas Filled with Love, Laughter, and Happily Ever After Page 16