I am both extremely ahead and pitifully behind.
Also, also, it’s probably not good that I am riding both physically and emotionally on the fumes of Samson’s sandwich. I said I’d take better care of this cute body, dang it, yet I proceed to offer it a single meal a day. At this rate, I will lose my pigeon plump and return to the gangly limbs I had in my first life.
No thank you.
Samson deserves a cute wife in the same way Austin deserves a throat punch.
“Anyway, start me off with an axe, blacksmith boy. I’ve got a farm to clean up.” I twist on my heel, facing the smithy exit. “Bye.”
Aurelia chirps, “He’ll get right on it! Promise! Let me know if there’s anything more than babysitting my silly brother that I can do to help! I’ll bless your axe free of charge, of course, but anything else, just let me know!”
Grinning, I toss a smile over my shoulder. “Thank you! I will!” And I saintly do not suggest that she couldreallyhelp me out by putting a muzzle on her brother.
Humming merrily, I see myself to the tavern for some fish and chips, then I march myself to Chrysa’s sweets shop for the day’s bribe.
’Tis standard farm sim procedure. Two gifts a week result in much relationship advancement.
I must fetch an offering for my future husband to ensure that he falls steadily in love with me.
“Morning, neighbor!” Chrysa waves eagerly as chocolate floods my senses. “What can I get for you today?”
While the heady scent of chocolate clouds my mind, I take in the modest assortment of breads, pastries, and cakes filling the display counter.
Do I want to try for another together breakfast with Samson?
And let on that I once again think 11:00AMis an appropriate breakfast time? Samson will think I’m a lazy slug. Men likeSamson prefer women with excellent work ethic, I’m sure. Not to mention, I did just eat, so suggesting I haven’t yet would be lying, and dishonesty is a terrible way to start a relationship.
If I get Samson a bag of salted caramel chocolate to thank him for his help yesterday, I can not only sneak one for myself, but I can also play it off like I’ve beensoobusy I couldn’t come around until now. And that’s not lying. Because Ihavebeen too busy until now!
Thrilled by my own genius, I point at the chocolates, show ten fingers, and thank the realism mod for making the tiny chocolates an affordable price instead of two hundred and fifty coins each.
My brilliant plan dissolves some when I make it to Samson’s and find no big beautiful man out with his animals or in his hay fields or tending his modest garden. Surprised and distressed, I check my journal for the date and time.
Wednesday, 5thof Spring, 10:37AM.
Seeing a time that doesn’t end on a multiple of five is wiggy enough, but knowing Samson should be feeding his chickens right now when he isn’t outright unsettles. I’ve had Samson’s schedule cemented in my brain since the beginning days, when I memorized his Wiki page with a commitment that should have committed me.
He’s not at his chicken coop.
He’s not anywhere visible on his farm, which, unlike mine, is perfectly tended so that the rolling slope’s mud-strewn decline is apparent from any part of the property. No giant, broken trees. No massive boulders. No stray limbs and branches. No sign of storm residue beyond a spattering of muddy patches—many of which appear already filled with dirt.
Short waves of wheat and hay flesh out the land beyondthepond.
The pond.
It occurs to me I have not checkedthe pondfor my Samson. Cautious, I glance at the quiet waters, breath held.
Then I chastise myself for the subsequent disappointment when I don’t find him bathing.
I’m an addict, it’s true. I got one hit of bare, glistening muscles adorned with scars and tattoos, and now I am dependent upon them.
Putting my journal back, I clutch the bag of chocolates and teeter on the edge of Samson’s stone path walkway, looking up the flat stone steps set between his animal pastures on either side of the front porch.
I could knock.
He doesn’t leave his farm, usually. Not on Wednesdays, ever. He does not like people.
What a relatable king.
