Someone who didn’t belong walked into my woods.
I sat forward, responding to the trespasser. Or was I responding to Austin?
The heat in his eyes consumed me, made my thoughts hazy. Electricity crackled through the air around us. He pulled his feet down from the ottoman, slowly, purposefully, bracing them wide and leaning his elbows against his knees, a predatory look in his eyes.
My body would not move, caught in his stare, in his intense focus—nervous for reasons I didn’t understand, excited for the same reasons. A crease formed between his brows, as though he was wrestling with his thoughts.
The stranger on the property came into sharper focus. The timing was terrible. I didn’t want this moment interrupted.
I needed this moment interrupted.Thirteen“Miss!” Mr. Tom pushed open the door. “Miss. Your parents are farting around the garden. Your dad found a used wine barrel on the side of the road with a ‘free’ sign and, after rolling it all the way home, is now trying to decorate the garden with it.”
“Not now, Mr. Tom,” I said, needing the lifeline he was offering but not wanting to take it. The fresh air would surely clear my head, but sitting in these close quarters with Austin, I wanted nothing more than to lock us in and throw away the key.
“Yes, miss, I can see you’re winning a stare-off with Austin Steele, and let me tell you, that is an outstanding accomplishment, but I cannot get them to go back inside, and the basajaun is making haste toward the garden. His disguises aren’t good. You need to get your parents into the house before he shows up, or your magical cover will surely be blown.”
The crease between Austin’s brows deepened. His eyes flicked toward Mr. Tom, as though he was just now starting to comprehend the words.
“You might need to slap me, Mr. Tom. My mind is rolling down the gutter,” I said.
“Of course, miss—”
“If you lift a hand to her, Earl,” Austin growled, “I will rip it off and beat you with it.”
“Ah. You do make a compelling argument, Mr. Steele.”
I shook myself out of my stupor, feeling a strange mix of regret and gratitude, wishing the moment could go on forever, and also that Mr. Tom had interrupted us ten minutes sooner.
The basajaun was moving fast, loping through the wood, straight for the backyard. If he got there and ate all of Edgar’s flowers, I’d never hear the end of it. That outcome would be so much worse than my parents seeing Bigfoot.
“When it rains, it pours.” I hurried out of the house and to the back door, finding my parents doing exactly what Mr. Tom had described, positioning an old, multicolored, stained, and badly weathered wine barrel next to the gorgeous cherry tree getting ready to bloom. The contrast of ugly and beautiful had never been so stark. Niamh stood off to the side, watching, looking bemused.
“What’s… What’d you find?” I asked, out of breath from my run and the situation I’d left behind in my private sitting room. I put my hands on my hips, trying to play it cool while monitoring the basajaun’s progress through the trees.
“Your father found another free thing,” my mom said, wrestling herself up under the tree. “He just can’t leave them alone.”
“Why would someone throw this away?” My dad hiked up his retreating pants, the belt not quite doing the trick. “Look at it. It’s perfectly good. You’d have to pay fifty or a hundred dollars for this in a store.”
“It’s super weathered, dad,” I said. “It’s been sitting in someone else’s yard, clearly, and they’ve realized it has outlived its glory days. It’s a wreck.”
“Well, if that isn’t a commentary on this house, I don’t know what is,” Niamh murmured.
“Nah, it’ll be fine.” My dad tried to wipe away a dark stain that did not plan on going anywhere. “You can just sand it down, stain it, and there you go. It’ll look really good. Too bad we didn’t bring the truck, or I would take it home. Maybe if we go look around in the streets, we can find another one.”
The basajaun was a hundred yards out. Time to make a move.
“Right. Fine.” I motioned them toward the house. “Mom, Mr. Tom needs a little help with dinner. He doesn’t know if he can handle cooking for this many people.” Mr. Tom’s lips tightened, but he didn’t comment.
“Oh yes, of course,” my mom said, lighting up. “I thought we could have Cornish game hens tonight. What do you think, Sir Tom?”
“Mr. Tom, madam, and that would be fine.”
“Well, with the cape ’n’ all, I thought maybe you’d like sir over mister. It really elevates the name, don’t you think?” She led him to the back door. “There is always Monsieur Tom. Now that would be snazzy, wouldn’t it?”