Chapter 4
four
“This is bad,” I mutter. “Very, very bad. Terrible.” My gaze tracks the sexy faerie as he… picks up my tote bag and starts tossing things inside. Is he cleaning up?
“What are you doing?” I demand. Maybe he’s a killer faerie and he doesn’t want to leave evidence that I was here for the police to find after he murders me.
The dirty look he shoots my way makes me wonder if he can read my mind.
“Typical human,” he scoffs. “You think nothing of leaving your trash strewn through nature, upsetting the balance—”
“Are you lecturing me about littering?”
“This planet can’t continue to regenerate if humans don’t make an effort not to destroy it.”
Oh my god and sweet potatoes, the sexy faerie is an environmentalist.
That just makes him hotter, dammit.
He picks up the book that doubled as my beloved object and studies the cover, then slips it into his pocket.
“Hey! That’s mine,” I protest, even as part of my brain wonders how he did that. Tigana isn’t exactly a pocket-sized book, unless your pockets are tote-sized.
Hot Faerie shoots me an irritated glance. “No, it is mine.”
“Mate, it abso-fucking-lutely is not.”
His brows rise. “You used it in the summoning spell, did you not?”
My mouth drops open, and I sputter. “Nobody told me that meant I’d be giving it away! That’s my favourite book. Keep the saffron and the knife instead.”
To my utter… shock? Stupefaction? Consternation?… he holds out a hand, palm down, and the scattered filaments of saffron rise from the dirt and coagulate into a tidy bundle, which he then slips into the same pocket he put my book into.
“That’s going to stain the pages,” I mutter inanely.
“The spice is a worthy offering of wealth. The book is how I will learn about you. The blade is merely a tool, and I have no interest in it.” His eyes narrow. “Did you perform the spell with no understanding of what the components meant?”
“Of course not! The book is my favourite—and therefore valuable—and the saffron cost a bloody fortune, so of course it symbolizes wealth.”
He stares at me like he’s waiting for me to say more, but I’ve got nothing else to add. I kind of don’t understand what I needed all that stuff for. And I definitely don’t understand why he’s stealing my book. The spell didn’t mention anything about that.
Although, if he’s planning to use Tigana to learn about me, he’s shit outta luck.
My life is absolutely nothing like anything that happens in that book.
“Uhh, just so you know, that book isn’t my diary or anything.
It’s not even realistic fiction—it’s fantasy.
So I don’t know how much learning is going to happen. ”
Slowly, so slowly, he shakes his head. “You performed the spell without any understanding of it.” The pained tone reminds me of my Year Eight maths teacher trying to help me understand linear equations. This isn’t so different from that, in that I get the gist but not the finer details.
“I understood it just fine,” I insist stubbornly. “It worked, didn’t it?”
Rubbing a hand over his face, he says, “This cannot truly be my fate. How the gods must be laughing.”
I don’t know exactly what that’s supposed to mean, but I’m pretty sure he’s not paying me a compliment.
“Do you think it’s smart to be mean to the guy who gets to decide whether you sleep in a bed or…
here?” I gesture to the hard ground. “’Cause if you’re going to be a dick, I’ll go home and you can sort yourself out, mate.
” I stride forward and snatch my tote bag from him, then hold out my hand. “Gimme my book.”
He folds his arms across his chest and scowls at me. “No. It’s mine.”
“Did you save your allowance to pay for it? Did you spend forty-five minutes in a bookstore trying to choose between it and two other books? Did you get so involved in reading it at the bus stop that you missed the bus to school? No? Then it’s not your book!
” I yell, and around us, the night goes still.
It just goes to show how much I’m used to tuning out the sounds of crickets—I hadn’t even noticed how noisy they were until they stopped.
My sexy faerie isn’t as intimidated by me as the nocturnal wildlife is, and he stares me down.
“The spell asks for a valued object to allow the summoned—that would be me—to better understand the summoner—you. What you value tells the story of who you are. By using the book for the spell, you gave it to me to learn about you.”
I sniff. “The spell didn’t say anything about that. I want a refund.”
He blinks. “A… what?”
“I’ll trade you for my book.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Says who? The spell didn’t have a list of rules. It was supposed to summon a companion for me, and I’d rather have my book back than you.”
He doesn’t answer, studying me in the light of his magic glow ball.
I stand firm, trying not to show how close I am to bursting into tears.
This whole night has been a disaster. I must be the only person alive who can successfully summon a faerie companion who’s supposed to be attuned to me and have them dislike me.
And to top it all off, I’m not only going to be alone for Christmas, I’m also losing my favourite book and out the cost of half a packet of saffron. That shit isn’t cheap.
Just when I’m starting to think I may as well cry and get it over with—it’s not like my sexy faerie can think much less of me—he sighs.
“Perhaps we should negotiate.”
I laugh, a bit hysterically. “Yeah, nah. I read a lot, so I know I’m not going to come out ahead in a negotiation with the fae.”
“Not that kind of negotiation,” he snaps. “I’m not here for that.”
Uh-huh. “Sure.”
He grits his teeth. “I meant, I will consider your book a loan and return it to you after I’ve read it, and in exchange, you will allow me to fulfil the terms of the summoning.”
I consider his words carefully. The terms of the summoning—that was to keep me company on Christmas. So he hangs around for a few weeks, and then after Christmas, he’s gone and I get my book back?
“You’ll return it to me before you leave, even if you haven’t read it yet,” I counter, wanting all my bases covered.
He waves a hand, as though that’s a trivial detail. “Agreed.”
“Fine, then.”
Oh, fuck. Did I just agree to keep the sexy faerie around until Christmas?
“Perhaps we should adjourn to your home,” he suggests, confirming my fear. “You’re getting cold.”
I follow his gaze to my arms, which I’ve wrapped around myself. Even if I wasn’t hugging myself, the goosebumps on my skin would support his statement.
“Yeah,” I say, a little reluctantly. “I guess there’s no point staying here.” I glance around, making sure he’s collected everything. “Come on.”
The walk back to my cottage is a true lesson in humility. Even though I’m—arguably—more sober than I was earlier, the ground is just as eager to trip me up, and I stumble and stagger the whole way. In contrast, the sexy faerie glides along as though he’s walking on paving.
“You live here?” he asks when we finally reach my cottage. “It’s charming.”
I’m not sure if he’s trying to butter me up or not, because with the lamps still on inside and the windows aglow, my home really does look great. It’s cute during the daytime, but at night, it’s a cosy dream.
“Thanks,” I mutter, reaching for the door handle. “Come on in.”
It’s not until we get inside that practicality slaps me upside the head.
My cottage is cute, charming, cosy… all synonyms for small.
The main room has a functional kitchenette along the back wall, with the island chopping block I bought doubling as a work surface and a place to eat, because there isn’t room for both.
The couch is too big for the room, but I like to lie down and be comfortable when I watch movies, so I bought it anyway.
There are two doors opening off the main room—one leading to the bathroom-slash-laundry, and the other to my bedroom.
And that’s it.
How the fuck am I supposed to live with the sexy faerie for three weeks in a space this small? Where’s he going to sleep?
“This is very… you,” he says, and his determinedly neutral tone and expression make me think that’s not a compliment. I change my mind about offering to let him have my room.
“That’s a good thing, since it’s mine,” I snap. “The bathroom’s through there.” I point, then wonder if he even needs a bathroom. I don’t remember any of the mythology mentioning fae bodily functions, aside from sex, of course.
So many of them mention sex.
My mouth is suddenly dry, but I force myself to add, “You can sleep on the couch.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t argue, just wanders over to the bookshelf beside the TV. “Is this your library?”
“I don’t have room for many,” I say defensively. “Did you hear me? You’re sleeping on the couch.”
He glances over even as his fingers continue to run along the spines of my books. “I heard you.”
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t, and I’m left standing there, braced for an argument that doesn’t come.
“Good,” I retort eventually. “I’m going to bed.” I spin around and stomp into my bedroom, but before I can close the door, my manners reassert themselves and I grind out, “Help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen.”
And then I slam the door without giving him the chance to reply. The last word might be a petty victory, but it’s mine.