So far, everything had gone exactly to plan. It had been a risk, ordering food from the club — too many questions could have been asked, too many lies she’d need to tell. It would have been far safer to have patronized one of Cambric Creek’s many restaurants, but she was eager for Tate to sample the Elvish cuisine from the club, could close her eyes and easily envision him there, having brunch with her family and taking tea at her side, across from the approving eyes of her grandmother. It was her favorite fantasy: one that involved no dramatic confrontations with her parents, no compromises on her lifestyle, and no shift in her social circle. Tate would simply appear at her side, welcomed by her family and accepted by the elves in her community; accepted because it was clear he and Silva belonged together, embodying her most favorite storyline —fated mates.
She had recently joined a book club with Ris, and while the monthly wine-soaked meetings were an enormous amount of fun, outside the parameters of the club, Silva found herself falling back into a hobby she’d not indulged in since undergrad — burning through romance novels. Reading at her desk when the projects requiring anything more than busywork were given to her more assertive coworkers; reading in the evenings during the week, alone in her small, tastefully decorated apartment. Reading in waiting rooms and on her break when her friends weren’t around. She’d bought herself a brand-new e-reader in a dusty mauve with a rose-printed sleeve, and had taken to carrying it around in her handbag, saving herself from unkind comments over the pulpy covers of the sweeping historicals she preferred, needing to force herself to push through whatever book had been chosen as the group’s book of the month.
Unlike those university afternoons spent binge-reading in the sunny window nook of her sorority house, she now avoided Elvish romances. When she’d been younger, she couldn’t get enough of the starry-eyed tales: always formulaic, always featuring a devastatingly handsome, supercilious male lead whose icy heart was melted by the polished Elvish lady, the story ending in marriage and babies. Now she sought out novels from authors of other species, reveling in the variety of the storylines and appealing love interests. She liked to imagine herself in the role of the female leads, regardless of the species portrayed: harpy businesswomen and dryad ingenues, all braver than she was; Scottish duchesses who managed to live happily ever after with their rakish selkie lovers, regardless of who their families wanted them to marry. The shifter who hosted the monthly book club would engage the group in serious discussion of how cathartic finding oneself in the pages of a book could be, and she was right. Silva loved escaping into the pages of stories about women who weren’t afraid to pursue their happily ever afters, who allowed love to conquer all and found comfort in her preferred genre’s reliability that the couple would always wind up together despite all of the obstacles in their path, no matter how prim the princess or how much of a scoundrel her rake seemed at the beginning.
"Are you hungry? Did you already have dinner?" She turned, having pulled each of the takeaway boxes from the bag, separating that night’s meal into a pyramid of plastic containers, only to find him slumped against the wall with his eyes closed.
"Dinner?" He squinted blearily, as if his mind couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of the word. "No . . . Cym puts water in my hand and I drink it, that’s it today."
"What?! Tate, that’s so bad! You shouldn’t be working so hard, this is why your back hurts! You need to make sure you’re taking breaks like everyone el—"
She cut off when he pushed off the wall, lurching across the room to where she stood, pinning her against the counter. Tilting her chin with a massive hand, Silva bit her lip to hide her small smile as he squinted down at her.
"Dove, I’ve been at work since six o’clock this morning moving cases of veal in the walk-in, of which there issofucking much, I’m a bit concerned it came from a minotaur nursery and we’re going to be raided at any moment. I opened every case to make sure there weren’t any wee blankets forgotten inside. Last night I had to bar back in my own bleedin’ pub because the shite-for-brains langer Rukh hired decided he’s going to fuck off to be an actor. The boggart in the cellar chewed through the wiring on the conveyor, so I had to drag the kegs up the staircase myself, andthenthe cunty little bastard grabbed at my foot through the steps and nearly pulled me through. My shoe is still down there somewhere. I had a biscuit with my tea yesterday afternoon, and I’m relatively certain I haven’t eaten since. Just in case you’re keeping score, Silva, this is just the last twenty-four hours. My back feels like it’s broken in no less than three different spots. I’m in pain and,yes, dove, I’m fucking starving. I also smell like swordfish and sweat, so all I want to do right now is get in a shower and burn at least three layers of skin off my body, eat something, and go to bed to die. I seem to remember mentioning I wouldn’t be very good company this weekend."
Silva couldn’t help the smile that stretched across her face, any more than she was able to swallow down her small bubble of laughter at the visual of him struggling on the staircase, limping into the Pixie’s bar floor with only one of his scuffed boots. Tate scowled, and that only caused her giggle to escape. Everything was funnier in his accent, she had decided weeks earlier, and that included his dramatic recitation of the previous day’s tale of woe. He was adorable with his face screwed up that way, and she couldn’t resist stretching up to kiss the tip of his scrunched-up nose, noting that hedid, in fact, smell a bit fishy.
"Go then, go take a shower while I get things heated. Jammies. Dinner. Then bed. That’s it. Good company is not required, but no one is dying on my watch."
She found the grey joggers in one of the dresser drawers, laying them out on the bed with one of his ubiquitous black tees while he stood beneath a scalding hot shower, steam billowing out of the partially open bathroom door as she moved down the hallway to the bedroom. She already knew he possessed a closet full of clothes, discovered during a previous thorough snooping session. There was a full wardrobe of black and grey with the occasional pop of oxblood and royal purple, at least a hundred of the same snug-fitting, black v-neck t-shirt; half a dozen pairs of jeans that showed more of his long, green legs than they concealed, a shelf of finely-crafted brogues and oxfords, scuffed Chelsea boots and motorcycle boots, a garment bag that contained several suits . . . butnothingin his closet would ever be able to compare with the thin grey joggers, she decided — turning from the kitchen counter to watch as he crossed the room, winding his long, wet hair into a loose topknot. The grey sweats sat low on his narrow hips and hugged the round curve of his ass, accentuating his long, muscular thighs . . . Silva felt her pulse quicken, trying and failing for several seconds to pull her eyes from the long, thick bulge resting against his thigh, the pants seeming to go out of their way to highlight its heft.
"Shower.Jammies," he mimicked her voice, pulling her attention away from the delectable sight. "I hope you took dinner out of the boxes, because I might just eat the styrofoam."
If he’d found the club’s food unsatisfactory, it hadn’t stopped him from devouring everything she’d artfully plated, inhaling the food as she nudged her bare foot against his leg, testing the softness of the material. She wondered if he would go to tea with her at the club, a favorite pastime since she was a little elf, putting on her prettiest dresses and begging her grandmother for a tiny dab of perfume behind her long ears. Tea in the formal day room was often thought of as a ladies-only event, but Silva had spied couples sitting together at the small tables, sampling the menu before announcing their engagement in an afternoon affair, hosted in the club’s outdoor dining garden. Working in a pub might not be a desirable profession for the match her mother and grandmother planned for her, butowninga pub was a different story; a pubanda bistro, both successful, from what she could tell. He might use coarse language, but Tate possessed refined manners, a sign of a good upbringing, she thought. They might be resistant to his appearance at first, but Silva could too easily envision him at her side in the tea room, sampling tiny cakes and petit fours, quietly planning their big announcement to the community.
"It’s good, right?"
"Delicious," he assured her, grunting when he pulled himself up from the table, pinning her against the counter once more where she rinsed the plates, burying his face in her hair.
"Hmm . . . I feel like you would say that about anything at this point, even minotaur veal."
The rumble of his laughter vibrated against her back, and Silva grinned unseen in satisfaction, vindicated in her decision to come and take care of him for the weekend.See? He needs you here. Hewantsyou here.She turned in his arms, pressing her lips to the base of his throat before her eyes dropped to his waistband, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sweats from a different angle.
"I don’t think I’m going to last long on my feet, dove."
The joggers were well-worn and soft, and as he staggered back a step, releasing his hold on her, Silva decided they were the only article of clothing she ever wanted to see him wear again.What–what did he say? Something about your feet? Using your feet?She imagined herself sinking into the sofa cushions with her legs stretched across him, her toes caressing the tantalizing, cotton-encased shape of him until he was thick and straining, moisture darkening the material as her toes worked their magic.He wants you to use your feet?
"Okay, yes!" she’d blurted excitedly, cheeks coloring, imagination working overtime, blood pounding in her ears at the thought.
"What?" Tate’s dark brows drew together in confusion, and Silva realized it was possible she’d not accurately deciphered his words.
"Oh! Oh, um . . . what?"
His fire-lit eyes had narrowed, examining her suspiciously before limping around her to reach for the bottle of painkillers beside the sink with a wince. Silva shook her head, knocking the lust-addled cobwebs the grey joggers had caused away.Another time. You’re supposed to be taking care of him! Maybe you can do that tomorrow after he’s slept . . .
"My poor Tate! C’mon, right to bed. Let me rub your back, I have oil in my makeup bag."
He’d not argued when she pulled him down the hall, dropping to the bed in an exhausted heap; hadn’t protested when her ineffectual hands had skated over his skin. Now though,nowshe was making a difference, and as she kneaded and pressed, his muffled curses subsided and he grew boneless beneath her.
"Dove . . ."
It would be different when they wereofficial, she thought, when she was around more to mind him and not let him work so hard. She’d make sure he took days off and fed himself, would plan outings and date nights and lazy Sunday mornings in bed that werenotspent waking at the crack of dawn to set up the dining room ahead of the brunch rush.
"Silva . . ."
A cozy love story with a guaranteed happily ever after.
"Silva, I’m going to fall asleep and it’s going to hurt your feelings, so here I am, making my apologies in advance. Mark it down."
