She's wearing leggings today and a jumper that's too big for her. Why do I want to see her inmyjumper?
Her hair's pulled back in a plait, and she's got her arms wrapped round herself, like she's bracing for impact.
And Christ, she's a fucking sight for sore eyes, this unbeguiling woman. Part of me is half glad I didn't know the real Erin in school. I needed to grow the fuck up before I could meet her match.
“You came,” I say.
“You told me to.” She stops a few feet away, her head cocked to the side. The garden beds and vines, the stone path. Cataloging everything. “This is where you keep the sprites? And what’s the story with them?” Her eyes twinkle at me.
“Aye. Your wee sprites and fae. They’re taking over the whole garden. Come on.” I push off the fence and gesture toward the wildest section, where the plants have gone mental. “Let me show you what your magical friends have been up to.”
“I’m surprised. You’ve got siblings and cousins younger than you, and you let a few wayward sprites get to you?”
“Aye. After I texted, I sent the lot of them to time-out in the shed.”
She smirks. “Did you, now? Or did you use their misbehavior to get my attention, Cavin?”
I shrug. “Might’ve done.”
Her gaze finally lands on me. “You wanted to talk.”
I push off the fence and gesture toward the barn. “Let's walk.”
She hesitates, then follows. Inside, the smell of hay and horse and leather fills the space. It's quiet here. Bronwyn’s a horse lover, and Da liked to put the barn on the property to good use.
“Horses,” she breathes out. “You have horses.”
“Aye. They’re Bronwyn’s.”
Here, it’s peaceful… almost. I lead her past the stalls—Midnight, Banshee, Finn—until we reach the tack room in the back.
I grab two stools, then set them facing each other. “Sit.” When she quirks a brow at me, I tack on a “Please.”
She does, perching on the edge like she might bolt. Her hands rest on her knees, fingers tapping. One, two, three, four. Over and over.
“You do that a lot,” I say, nodding at her hands.
She stills them immediately, clasping them together. “Do what?” Her pretty cheeks flush pink.
“The tapping. Counting.”
Her jaw tightens. “It helps me think.”
“Helps you think, or helps you cope?”
Her eyes narrow, but her voice drops. “What's the difference?”
“One's about problem-solving. The other's about surviving.” I lean back, arms crossed. “Which is it?”
She doesn't answer right away. Just stares at me, weighing whether I'm taking the piss or if I actually give a fuck.
“Both,” she says finally. “It's both.”
Fair enough.
“Look,” I say, “we're doing this thing. Getting married. And I know you didn't sign up for it willingly, but neither did I, so we're even there.”
“Even.” She repeats the word like she's testing it. “You think this is even.”
