He was back, right on schedule. A little later in the day than he had been the other times, but exactly one week from the last time she’d seen him. And even though he hadn’t knocked on the door before he started, he still avoided that little section of the yard that she’d fought so hard to guard.
The mere sight of him swinging the mower in a circle around the area made her feel like something was doing backflips in her stomach. It was irrational, having a spark of attraction for the burly southerner who did her lawn maintenance. But no matter how she tried to convince herself of that fact, that spark still managed to settle itself somewhere deep inside, enough so that she found herself drawing his face for Arabelle’s mate. And naming him Flint … a desperate plea for help if she ever heard one.
The urge to snap a picture of him struck her, but she didn’t dare move. Much better to commit his face and physique to memory than to be caught hounding him like a member of the star-struck paparazzi. Even imagining him catching her snapping photos made her blush like a teenager.
His face turned in the direction of the cabin, and she released the blinds and stumbled back, pressing her hand against her heart. Enough, she told herself. No more staring at the poor guy. Sitting down at the table, she pulled her sketch pad closer, ready to plan a new adventure for Arabelle. Her fans had already fallen in love with Flint, even though Willow wasn’t sure she was willing to allow Arabelle that same luxury. Flint could turn out to be a jerk, after all. Or he could just manage to be wishy washy and spineless like most guys she’d had the pleasure of knowing.
Silence settled over the cabin, and she realized that the noise from the mower had ceased. She could go peek out the blinds again, but he’d likely be securing the mower on his trailer or climbing into the cab of his pickup. Best to stay put and focus on Arabelle.
Her pencil touched the paper right as a knock sounded on the door, sending the tip of the lead off course until it left a dark trail all the way to the corner of the sketch pad. It couldn’t be someone new, because there hadn’t been enough time since she sat down for another person to arrive. Which meant he was knocking again.
Why would he be knocking?
Pulling her hair over her shoulder, she twisted it around her hand as she rose from the chair, heavy wool socks shuffling against the hardwood floor. She’d spent her fair share of time sliding back and forth across it like her own personal skating rink in the short time she’d spent there, but that was out of the question at the moment. Instead, she carefully stepped to the door, twisting the doorknob as she pulled it toward her.
“Hi,” she said, her gaze lifting until she’d swept it across his muscular forearms while on the path to his face. By the time she got to his eyes, she was already feeling self-conscious. The weight of the tattered sweater on her shoulders reminded her to fold her arms protectively across her chest.
“Clint.”
He thought she might have forgotten his name? Her heart swelled just a bit. “Yes, I remember.”
His eyes bore into hers for a minute, and then he flipped his gaze to his truck, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck. “I grew up around here.”
She used his distraction as an opportunity to peruse him more closely. The little sliver of skin that separated his beard from his ear. The thin white line that scarred his cheekbone. The way his facial hair looked curlier the closer it got to his neck.
“So you grew up here, on this land?” she finally asked, leaning against the door frame.
“No, not right here, just in the general area.”
The guy was awkward as all get out, which only made her like him more. “Fascinating.”
“I know the land,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Not specifically this land, but—”
“The general area.” A huge smile made its way to her face. “Sounds like you’re a good guy to be acquainted with.”
His cheeks reddened above his beard, but he kept those ice blue eyes focused on her. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Willow.”
“Willow.” The way he said her name made her feel like she’d just been wrapped in a blanket of sunshine. “If you’d be interested in having someone show you around, I know the land.” One hand slid out of his pocket and came up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. “I said that already.”
A laugh trickled out as she crossed one of her socked feet over the other. “Maybe so, but I liked it each time.” One corner of his mouth tipped up, and that only served to embolden her. “Thank you for your offer. I accept. Should I get my shoes?”
“Oh.” He brought his arm up, glancing at the watch on his wrist. “I have to be home for Emily soon.”
Emily. The three syllables dragged her heart down to the pit of her stomach as he said them. Married? He didn’t have a ring on his finger, but sometimes guys working manual labor didn’t wear them for safety reasons. No wonder the poor guy was having a hard time spitting out his words. He was trying to be neighborly, and she was throwing herself at him.
“I understand,” she managed to squeeze out.
“She usually shows up at the house around four.”
The more her heart ached, the more she wanted him off her deck. “You should definitely go home then.”
“But you can come with me, if you like. My niece will only be there for a few minutes, between the time she gets off the bus and when her mom’s shift ends.”
His niece. The man watched his niece when the bus came. Uncle Clint, superhero.
Willow’s erratic heart came back to life beneath his watchful gaze, and she reached up to fiddle with a piece of her hair. So maybe her first impression was right. He was trying to flirt with her? If so, there was no hesitation whatsoever in her spirit. Grabbing the door knob, she stepped inside, holding her fingers aloft in front of her in an expressive gesture.
“Give me five minutes.”
Chapter 5
Arabelle feared she had proven herself unladylike, but Flint was only thinking of the way her fine eyes were brightened by the exercise. #willowfairies
Clint glanced at Willow walking beside him as he stepped over a rock embedded in the trail. He’d tried not to stare when she emerged from her cabin earlier, hair pulled over her shoulder into a multicolored braid. Tried even harder when she was in the truck cab with him, her cargo shorts settling about halfway up her thighs. Wanted to ignore the way the tank top hugged her frame under that baggy button-up shirt, the ends of which were knotted together near her waistband. Didn’t even want to think about how practical her tan hiking boots were.
Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice his silent perusal.
“This is why I didn’t move to L.A. with Sammie,” she said with a sigh as she glanced at the greenery surrounding the trail. “I’ve had enough of the concrete jungle to last me a while.” Two more steps forward, she started inspecting the ground around her feet instead. “Sammie was my roommate in New York. She’ll be a great Hollywood composer someday, so you’ll have to remember that name. Samantha J. Moore.”
He thought about agreeing with her, but before he had the chance to open his mouth she started in again.
“It really does creep into your soul, doesn’t it? The land, I mean. Sometimes I feel like it could totally envelop me.” She paused to glance at him, pushing a little pink strand of hair away from her eyes. “Am I talking too much? I have the tendency to do that when I’m nervous, and since I barely know you, I think this qualifies. Barely know you … I don’t know you at all, really, besides the fact that your name is Clint and you mow lawns and you’re extremely polite in your manner of speech. I’m sure you’d like to say something too, so go ahead.”
He focused on the ground, avoiding another rock as his mind reeled. Whether he preferred to say something or not, doing so under pressure wasn’t so easy for him. Clearing his throat, he glanced at her again.
“You like to wear baggy clothes?” His conscience cringed so hard, he could actually feel the
constriction in his chest.
Willow glanced down at her outfit, shrugging her shoulders. “Not especially. The tank top will be good in case I get hot, and the shirt over it will keep the sun off my shoulders or serve as a jacket if I get cold. I tend to be susceptible to the sun, with the blonde hair and the fair skin. But I’m sure you’re probably also referring to that sweater I always seem to be wearing when you see me. Just to be perfectly clear, I don’t wear that in public. It’s my work gear.”
Letting her control the conversation was a far better option, so he feigned the appropriate level of interest and repeated her words. “Work gear?”
“There was a woman who lived two floors beneath me when I first moved to New York, Mrs. Campbell. Her family had emigrated from Scotland when she was six years old. Growing up, her mother had told her the most fascinating fairy stories. She’d tell me about them over the most horrible tea imaginable, and then I’d go upstairs and sketch them for her. She was the first person who really believed in my talent, although I’m sure I could have given her childish drawings and she would have loved them. The woman was ninety-three, so I think she was just reliving the past through me somehow. But I didn’t mind, because it was nice to have someone—anyone—tell me that something I made was good.” She paused and looked in his direction again. “Did I tell you that I sketch fairies? I sketch fairies.”
The woman did a lot more than sketch, but he tried to hold back his smile as he shook his head.
“That was her sweater, the one I’m always wearing. She was cold there in her apartment, so she never took it off. After she passed, I stole it. No one would have missed it anyway, since the poor woman didn’t have any family that anyone knew about. Someone would have cleaned out her apartment and thrown it in the garbage, but that sweater …” Her eyes drifted heavenward as she stared past the trees to the blue of the sky. “That sweater reminds me that, whatever my talent is, regardless of how it appears to other people, there’s a Mrs. Campbell out there somewhere who needs fairies. Maybe I’m destined to be a fairy doodler and nothing more, but we changed each other’s lives, Mrs. Campbell and me. That has to count for something.”
She quieted for the first time since she’d stepped foot inside his truck, and it couldn’t have come at a more inopportune moment. He could make small talk well enough, but how was he supposed to follow a story like that? So, weather’s nice, ain’t it?
“Clint.”
The way she said his name, all breathy and captivated-sounding, made him stop in his tracks. He turned his own mesmerized gaze in her direction, but she wasn’t looking at him at all. She was looking straight past him, to the area where the waterfall spilled over the rocks in front of them.
“Gorgeous,” she whispered.
It was. The waterfall. It was gorgeous. But she was too, and he couldn’t pull his eyes away while he watched the wonder cross her face. She took three steps in his direction, never removing her gaze from the scenery in front of her. When she slid her fingers into his hand, standing there so close, he could do nothing but watch her expression shine through those large violet eyes.
“I think God settles in these hills,” she breathed, leaning even closer as her hand tightened around his, her fingers seeming small and fragile against his own. “Wouldn’t you, if you were Him? The minute I got here, it felt like He was closer to me.”
“Maybe you were closer to Him, in the peace and quiet.”
Apparently he’d chosen his few words wisely that time, because she tilted her head up and smiled. “Maybe you’re right.” Her free hand closed around the back of his palm, and she lifted both of her hands to her chest, his fingers held tightly between them. “But it was so good of Him to send you to mow my lawn, so you’d bring me here. I’m indebted to you, and to Him too it would seem.”
The thought of God arranging his first meeting with the beautiful artist, sprawled out in front of his mower, almost made him want to laugh. Almost, because laughing would have proven impossible with her staring at him like that. Holding his hand so firmly between her own.
Turning her gaze back to the waterfall, she kept her firm grip on his hand. “Do you hunt God here, in places like this, where it’s quiet and peaceful? I think I would, every chance I got.”
He looked at the waterfall too, his gaze dipping so he could see the top of her head in his line of vision. “Sometimes I find Him here. And other times He finds me.”
Willow stepped onto her deck, secretly loving the sound of Clint’s boots tapping against the wood behind her. She’d imagined his face in front of her many times, daydreaming some rendezvous or another for Arabelle. He was always stoically riding in to sweep the little fairy off her feet. It had been fun creating a personality for Flint, but this was different.
Clint was solid, real, and sturdy, like an immovable wall. A quiet, handsome, strapping immovable wall. Simply being in close proximity to him was making her a blubbering imbecile. She’d barely taken a breath the entire time they’d been together, but she couldn’t seem to stop the words from pouring forth. A nervous habit that she thought she would have outgrown by now.
“How tall are you?” she asked as she reversed course at the door, bumping straight into his chest. The man didn’t even move as she stumbled back a step.
“Six-foot-two.”
Her clumsiness had placed her close enough to him that she had to tilt her head to look into his eyes. “No wonder you seem like a giant. I’m five-foot-three, probably five-foot-four with these boots on. But you’re wearing boots too, so that would make you an inch taller as well, so I’m sure it evens itself out.”
“Maybe so,” he said simply, staring down at her. His eyes were far more fascinating than the waterfall, but she wasn’t about to blurt that along with everything else she’d blurted during the course of their time together.
“Thank you for the lovely evening,” she added, her fingers reaching out to touch his abdomen. Fingertips connected with navy blue T-shirt against muscle right before he flinched. Jerking her fingers away, her eyes went wide. “The lovely hike, I mean. I had a …” She caught herself right before she said lovely again. “I’m grateful that you showed me the waterfall. Thank you.”
Why had she touched him? All night long, one thing after the other, she hadn’t been able to keep her hands off the poor guy. Back at the waterfall, she’d been staring at the scenery and mumbling something about how beautiful it was when she realized she had his hand clamped against her chest. And like a trooper, he never said anything about how weird she was acting.
He continued to watch her, seemingly unaware of her inner turmoil. “It was my pleasure.”
“I’ve dominated the conversation, and I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” A smile tipped up the corners of his lips, and she let herself relax just a bit. One thing she’d been sure of as they hiked down the trail tonight: she’d never felt so safe. The simple way he watched her as they walked let her know that he’d do whatever it took to protect her.
“There’s a space in my yard where I set up my fairy houses. I’m really not crazy.”
“Where you had the stakes,” he added.
“Yes. I mean, not crazy as in I wouldn’t sacrifice myself for grass, but still the crazy person who makes fairy houses for a living.”
“So a normal amount of crazy.”
If he didn’t say something rude, and soon, she was in danger of falling for the big lug. “I should say good night.”
He nodded, taking two steps away from her. “Good night, Willow.”
Sliding the keys from her purse, she unlocked the front door and pushed it open. When she stepped through the threshold, he turned to walk down the steps.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she called to him.
Stopping in her yard, he glanced her way and touched the brim of his cap. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 6
Arabelle talked as a rule while flying. Spending half an hour in Flint’s company without conver
sing would have been entirely too overwhelming. #willowfairies
The front screen door banged closed, and Clint jerked his gaze up from his phone where it rested on the kitchen counter. Too early for Emily to be home from school, wasn’t it? But the clock near his stove told him otherwise. Time had gotten away from him again.
Emily stepped into the kitchen, dropping her backpack on the ground. Her hair had some flyaway static from the backpack fabric, and she smoothed it down as she stepped to the cabinet that held his stash of snack food.
“Something small,” he reminded her, just like he did every day. She grabbed a chocolate cupcake and worked the wrapper while he watched. “Last week of school?”
“Next week,” she mumbled as she stuffed a bite of cake into her mouth. “But we’re not doing work.”
“I remember that. Goofing off the last week of school. It’s a rite of passage.”
“A right of what?” She licked her fingers, transferring the cupcake to her other hand.
“It’s just a figure of speech.” Grabbing his phone, he swiped to activate the screen and stared at the drawing again.
“Looking at fairies?” Emily asked, her “r” sounding like a “w” with her mouth full of her snack.
“Yeah.” With a tug at one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table, he lowered himself to a seated position as he continued to study the picture. Emily plopped down next to him, looking over his arm. “Why are women so complicated, huh? I feel like I spend half of my time trying to read minds and the rest trying to figure out what I screwed up.”
Emily shrugged and popped the last bite of the cupcake into her mouth. “You’re bad at girls.”
“You too?” Giving her a fake growl, he pressed his lips together. Careful study of the outings Willow created between her fairy couple had given him ideas for every date they’d shared. If she would have even called them dates. He wouldn’t really go that far himself, because he didn’t have the nerve to ask her out as such. Despite the fact that Ruth insisted they could be a couple, he remained unconvinced. She was the most fascinating woman he’d ever met, but what would she want with him? He couldn’t even uphold his end of the conversation most of the time.
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