Chapter 14
Elliott has the best date of his entire life, and it changes his outlook on everything.
Elliott bustled around his house on Wednesday in a state of “doing things for Fern.” It was the only way to keep his bear calm while he waited for her after-work arrival.
Her abandoned clothes went into the wash.
He checked the favors for Ren’s wedding and flipped each one so the back could dry.
Fern’s clothes went over to the dryer, and he pulled out his dough from its overnight proof to rest on the counter.
He prepped vegetables for later. He cleaned every surface in the house: top, bottom, and sides, all while wishing he had the fine marble countertops and square footage of Northrop house.
Then he went out to his studio and neatened up. One hour went toward compiling the perfect playlist. He laid out every possible underglaze Fern could want and set up a station with his most comfortable stool, his best brushes, and a blank platter ready for her to test on.
It was only two thirty.
He couldn’t shower until the last possible second because his nervous sweats showed no sign of drying up. Noa had been ignoring his texts all day, and he hadn’t heard a thing from Olivia in twenty-six hours. So, he called her.
“Is everything okay?” Liv answered, voice alpha-like.
“Yeah.” He sat down hard on his daybed and had a staring contest with a squirrel on the hummingbird feeder. Greedy jerk.
“Are you sure? You never call anyone. What’s going on?”
He grunted and asked, “Did Noa talk to Fern?”
Clearly stifling a laugh, she confirmed Noa’s mission was a success. “She’s not replying?”
“Nope.”
“I bet she slept in and had to rush to the flower shop. You know how she is with alarms.”
“Did you talk to Janet yet? What did you learn about the sickness?”
Liv didn’t bother to stifle her chortle. “I’m meeting her for coffee tomorrow morning.”
“Dude, you couldn’t ask her on the phone? Text her about it?”
“No. I haven’t gone through it. What if it was the worst thing she’s ever experienced? I figured we should catch up in person before I broach the subject.”
“Fine. Thanks.”
“Is that all you need?”
“Yeah.”
He lowered his phone to hang up, but Liv continued talking. “One more thing...”
“What?” he snapped. “Sorry.”
Blatantly laughing at him, Olivia said, “Fern told Noa, ‘That’s the most romantic shit I’ve ever heard,’ after learning Ben and I are true mates. Bye!”
Elliott’s wide-open mouth morphed into a smile while his bear happily popped his jaw. After ten minutes shuffling around the kitchen, moving the table settings from spot to spot, he gave in and grabbed his phone. He had to text her to confirm she was still coming.
Elliott
Hey, dude. Still on for tonight?
Fern
Tonight?
Is four too early or should I wait until later?
Elliott
No, 4’s good
Fern
Kk. Just cleaning up the salon now, showering, and I’ll drive over
What should I wear?
Blinking at the screen, he typed “nothing,” then deleted it. “Something sexy—” Immediately deleted. “Whatever you want.” Bad idea, they were doing ceramics.
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.
Things seemed to be moving in the right direction, and goddamn it, it was time to sit his ass down and stop running off.
By three forty-five, Elliott was camped out on the front porch.
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 her not to 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 with college; 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?”
“The oldest is five now, and he’s a black bear like Danielle. The youngest’ll probably be a black bear or a polecat like her dad. She could be anything in the Carnivora order, though.”
“What the fuck is a polecat?”
“It’s like a weasel. Just don’t call him that when you meet. He’s a polecat. Got it?”
“Got it.” She winked.
“Toppings?”
“Oh, please.”
He slid the chopped veggies between them and went to town tossing his favorite flavors on chaotically.
Fern had some secret design in mind and placed each cherry tomato, onion slice, and piece of pepper to plan.
Sunflowers, he realized with a smile. This was why she was in charge of the detail work on the wedding favors—she had an eye for beauty.
He set the oven to preheat, set a timer on his phone, and they set out to the studio.
“Can I go barefoot?” Fern asked, pausing near the front door.
“I am.”
“Yeah, but don’t you have, like... tough outdoorsman’s feet or something?”
Chuckling and riding high from their fantastic conversation thus far, Elliott scooped her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and carried her kicking and laughing to the shed not twenty feet away.
He had his music set up to continue across the property, and Fern told him he was “fancy” when he set her down on the glossy concrete floor.
A quick tour was in order to show her his kilns, his products, and his works in progress. When he pointed out the station he’d prepped for her, she gushed over the platter, saying, “This is the most perfect canvas possible. Big and blank... I’m gonna ruin it.”
With his bear purring in his chest, Elliott said, “Spoken like a true artist. Do you know anything about underglaze?”
“No. No clue what that is. I have zero art training.”