A rumble emanated from Elliott’s chest. Whether it was him or his bear, she couldn’t tell, but she could hear it, even though he hung back, leaning against his studio door. “Not a big house like Beck and Liv’s?”
She didn’t realize he’d been listening. “Ew, no. Too big to clean.”
He made a gruff sound, but she was pretty sure it was in agreement.
Saturday,Fernwoketothe muffled warble of a folksy harmonica song and the scent of eggs and bacon in the air. Clad in another of Elliott’s shirts, this one tie-dyed, she slunk into the bathroom to freshen up and fix her messy hair before joining him in the kitchen.
They ate breakfast sandwiches on the back porch before moving as one to the studio.
“Don’t forget your man-bun,” Fern reminded Elliott as he flicked on the light. “Speaking of,howdo you want your hair cut?”
“It’s up to you,” he offered, tendons flexing while he dragged his hair back and secured it.
It was definitelynotup to her, but she had enough experience by that point to read the signs and identify what a person did or did not want to do with their hair. He was close to letting her cut it, more relaxed when discussing it. He never complained about the length or it getting in the way, except the once, and he always had a hair tie on hand. She’d shape and trim it for him, but Elliott wasn’t getting a drastic cut, at least not straight away. She didn’t think he could handle it; she knew she couldn’t.
After a long day in the studio, breaking only for lunch, he was ready for hisfirstFerncut—the test run. It was in the middle of the kitchenwhere the lighting was best that she took her scissors to his tresses and trimmed off an inch—two tops. She needed to ease him into things.
Late afternoon on Sunday, they finished all the wedding crafts. The final painted magnet chips were laid to dry under the watchful eye of a fan, and Elliott planned to fire everything in the morning. When she went back to work for the week, he’d add a clear coat to each of the tiny favors to finish them up.
“I think I need more hair cut,” Elliott announced as they sauntered to the house after closing up the shed.
Fern had been expecting that.
He reiterated she could have at it, do whatever she wanted. But she liked his length and he liked his length, so she stuck to shaping it, bringing it up to the tops of his shoulders and adding a few layers so he could swoop it back from his face or pull it up in a bun as needed.
They worked outside to avoid cleanup, and Elliott’s folding chair creaked as he tilted back on the grass, handing the mirror over after surveying his finished style. With a grin, he tossed his head, swaying his hair while begging for a kiss.
She laughed and pecked him on the lips, unwilling to gettoointo it since she was still carrying scissors.
“Smoke, shower, dinner?” he asked, standing and beckoning for her styling supplies.
“That sounds perfect,” Fern agreed, handing everything over. She followed him out of the last patch of hot daylight and into the cool, shaded part of the yard. His home was picturesque this time of day, lit by the soft pinks and oranges of sunset, an earthy cabin tucked away amidst the pines. She really could stay there forever.
With his free hand, Elliott stretched out a lock of hair and glanced over at her. “So, no buzzcut?”
Her lip curled. “If youreallywant one, fine.”
“I don’t. Don’t worry.” He laughed and ushered her up the back steps ahead of him.
“Good,” she said, unsurprised. Turning back, she found an eager smirk lurking beneath his beard. Over the past few days, she’d learned that facemeant he wanted to be kissed. She could handle that.
Taking advantage of their positions, Fern leaned in and planted one on him with no warning. He made a pleased sound while his bear rumbled in his chest.
A pair of pipes awaited them on the back porch, ready-packed by Elliott for their enjoyment. Sitting at the table for two, they toasted bowls before taking their hits.
He tipped his chair back and exhaled at the ceiling. “I’m really blown away by how quickly you’ve picked up ceramics.”
“I made one floppy pot.”
He chuckled. “You were a natural. And underglazing with your level of proficiency? You’re a natural with that too. Fern: Multi-faceted Artist Extraordinaire.”
“Stop,” she dragged out, heat rising in her cheeks. “I can paint little tiny designs because I do nails, that’s all.”
He dropped a brow and popped the other, giving her a look that spoke volumes.
“Well, maybe I need to take up painting since people don’t consider hair and nails art.”
“Maybe you need to go into business with me,” he suggested offhandedly.
