Elliott
Something that can get dirty.
Fern
Ooh ;)
With a huff of laughter, he headed off to shower. Short of tearing down his house and building it anew—which he couldn’t get done by four—he’d done everything in his power to impress her, to prove his worth. Thingsseemedto be moving in the right direction, and goddamn it, it was time to sit his ass down and stop running off.
Bythreeforty-five,Elliottwas camped out on the frontporch. By three fifty, he decided that was weird and went inside. By three fifty-five, he’d been sitting stock still on the sofa, tapped into his shifter hearing for a full five minutes. At four-oh-two, he finally heard the high-pitched squeal of her car in the distance and leapt up, rushing to the front door.
That was too close to waiting on the porch, which he’d already ruled out. So Elliott dashed to the kitchen and busied himself by poking the pizza dough until she rang the bell.
He could see her through the blown glass panes of his front door. Warped and wiggly in the sunlight, she was an abstract hourglass of brown and beige and black with a swirl of hot pink. After swiping his damp palms on his linen shorts, he swung open the door with a, “Hey.”
She looked much better in focus—stunning—with her hair in two braids threaded with pink, wearing a loose, cropped T-shirt and black leggings. She carried a reusable bag, and he wished it was groceries, not because he needed any, but because he was imagining her living there, returning from a quick run up to the village, home for the evening and—he was losing his fucking mind.
“Come on in, welcome to chez Fitzpatrick.”
“I have been here before, you know. Or does the back porch not count?”
“It counts. But I thought I’d give you the full tour today, if you’re interested?”
“Very much. I brought your things back.” Her yellow bag swung from the end of her outstretched arm, and he accepted it. “Shoes on or off?”
“Either’s fine,” he replied, relieved when she bent down to unhook the straps on her sandals and he was saved from having to decide whether to give her a hug, a kiss, or a handshake— Not a handshake, that was just dumb.
Fighting a frown when he noticed she’d cut her pink nails short, he peered into the bag and inhaled, hoping to enjoy more of her scent. All he found was Gain. She’d washed his clothes. Fuck. It was sweet of her, sure, but her fucking smell was gone. He should’ve told hernotto wash them. Would that have been weird? It would’ve been worth it.
“What’s first?” Fern asked, popping back up, beaming.
Her wide grin settled something in Elliott, and he realized what he wanted to do. “First”—he tossed the bag onto the couch and left his arms spread wide—“hug?”
He was pretty sure she lingered to lay her head against his chest as her arms squeezed around his torso. Taking their quiet moment as an opportunity, he smelled her, earning an appreciative growl from his bear, and Fern pulled back, smiling sheepishly.
Elliott gave her the short tour, wrapping up in the kitchen, where she gushed about the lightness of his home, the way he made it feel bright and welcoming yet still evoked the forest through his use of earthy greens, natural browns, and deep blues. She was particularly fond of the live edge on his kitchen island and spent a moment walking its length, avoiding the stools as she dragged her finger along the bumpy wood.
Her reaction shocked him as her fresh eyes took in his humble abode and found it… lovely?
With his chest puffed out, maybe more than metaphorically, he offered to take care of adding toppings to their pizzas.
“We’re having pizza?!” She squealed, hopping a bit.
“We are, but it’s probably going to be different than you’re used to.” He held up a cast-iron pan. “Want me to make them or do you want in?”
“I want in. Is that okay?” She came around the island and looked up at him, awaiting his response like she thought she was intruding.
“Of course.”
With her back to his, Fern washed her hands at the sink while he gripped the edge of the counter and grinned at nothing, more convinced with each passing moment that his concerns over her were surmountable.
Getting it together, he started the music, and shuffle kicked things off with “Jessica” by the Allman Brothers. It was perfect: seven and a half minutes of upbeat instrumentals.
The slight awkwardness of it being their first hangout post-hookup faded with each chord change, and Fern’s happily tapping foot landed on his a few times while he showed her how to mold her dough to the pan and spread the sauce.
They chatted about their backgrounds: He hadn’t bothered withcollege; she dropped out to pursue styling. They talked siblings: She had none, and he had a sister. Fern claimed Liv and Ben’s baby would be like a niece to her, and Elliott shared he was already an uncle, his sister had two cubs.
“Cubs?” she squealed, tossing some shredded cheese like confetti. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. Are they both bear shifters, then?”
