Deceptions (Cainsville 3)

"You and your practicality."

He chuckled as I climbed the incline to the grassy rise. I stood on the edge, face lifted as the wind whipped my hair back.

"My porch will be here. And if you mention the high probability of erosion, I will throw this bottle of wine in your general direction."

"It's a magical spot. There's no erosion."

"Thank you. I'll sit on my porch with my coffee and my book every morning. I might even, on occasion, bring work. You will not, however, be able to check that I'm doing it, because I will have no cell service."

He looked at his phone. "Actually, there is--"

"I will find a provider that doesn't cover this spot, except on Tuesdays, if the wind is blowing north and I hold my phone just right. Otherwise, I am out of contact."

"That might not be safe."

"It'd be safer for everyone else. I can't call for help and get you guys killed by a roving pack of evil elves."

I moved to the edge of the bank and lowered myself to the ground. "Come and sit on my porch. It's time to open the wine."

He climbed up, then looked at the spot beside me.

"Yes," I said. "There is dirt. The earth is made of it."

"I was actually checking for bird droppings."

"There are those, too, in the dirt."

He sat beside me and pulled the corkscrew out of a pocket. "I thought you wanted a house of ruins?"

"I do. And a pretty little cottage on the beach. And a ramshackle cabin in the woods. Also, a Victorian with English gardens. Oh, and a condo with a view."

He pulled the cork. "Which are you going to get first, once your trust fund comes in?"

When I didn't reply, he said, "Wrong subject?"

"I want the freedom money gives me, but I'd rather have earned my own."

"It is your own."

"You know what I mean. If anything, it should go to the Tylwyth Teg, for finding me rich parents. Which brings up a whole other category of subjects I'd rather ignore tonight."

"I always wanted a Victorian house," he said.

"Like Rose's?"

"No, I want a haunted one."

I laughed. "You want pet ghosts?"

"Not haunted by ghosts. Just haunted." He passed me the wine. "We forgot glasses."

I drank from the bottle. "Mine now. I have cooties. Little guys, with wings."

He retrieved the bottle. "I believe I have the same ones."

"So, your haunted house," I prompted.

He drank deeply, his eyes tearing at the corners, as if he were slugging hundred-proof moonshine instead of Bordeaux.