Chapter 8
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City girl vs. country rodent.
My hubris is directly related to the amount of joy I possess.
Yesterday was bliss.
So, today, I am rightfully insufferable.
By the time Samson and I got back from the mines last night, it was late.
I could not gloat in front of Austin in the darkness, so I waited until this morning to haul my quarry to the smithy.
The way his eye’s twitching does not disappoint as over three hundred chunks of coal spill from my backpack into his reserve pile.
Behind him, hands pressed to her lips and tears in her eyes, Aurelia says, “This is so much. First, you helped Neptun and Laumon with their house. Now, you and Slate have reopened the mines?” Shimmering with gratitude, she sniffles. “And you’re giving us enough fuel to last weeks?”
Austin grimaces at his twin sister. “Lia…”
“I really am blessed,” Aurelia whispers.
The last chunk of coal skitters onto the top of the pile, so I beam at stupid Austin’s stupid face. “Giving is an exaggeration. I need better tools since I’m sticking around, for more than a week.” And accomplishing more than you have in your lifetime during it.
Austin narrows his eyes at me.
I flick my tongue out at him like a lizard.
The butt nugget lifts his chin and says, “I heard from Cobalt that Samson helped you. You don’t earn any points for having fancy gear, city girl.”
Aurelia’s hazel eyes bug. “Samson helped you? How did you convince him to leave his farm?”
I chuckle, setting my hand at my chin smugly. “Probably the same way I convinced him to make me a sandwich.” With my overpowering cuteness, duh.
“By standing around and looking helpless?” Austin drawls, plunging his fingers into his short auburn hair.
I scowl.
“Austin,” Aurelia snaps, “be nice. You were worried you wouldn’t be able to keep the forge fed before we had access to our mines again just this morning. Now you’re being rude to the person helping you?”
“Helping? This isn’t help, Lia. It’s a trade using Samson’s work as payment.” He braces his hands at his scrawny—compared to Samson’s—hips. “And it’s still going to cost you more than this for tools. This maybe covers one, if you can also get Samson to find the materials I’ll need to forge it.”
I really need to learn how to craft my own tools so I can bypass this loser entirely. In the game, you can set up an entire metalworking station on your farm, which makes Austin obsolete, as he should be.
I flick my tongue at him again, dump the iron I also gathered onto his floor—possibly aiming for his toes—and swing my bag back onto my shoulders.
“Well, I would really love to stick around and suffer insult at the hand of an emotionally-immature chipmunk, but I have very important things to do today.” Like dropping off the crops that I harvested earlier with Kaolin and completing that quest.
Also, since my mailbox doesn’t have a notification sound, I keep forgetting to check it. I’ve done a lot of things that should have prompted letters and other starter quests, but I haven’t even established all of the early-game tutorials.
I am both extremely ahead and pitifully behind.
Also, also, it’s probably not good that I am riding both physically and emotionally on the fumes of Samson’s sandwich.
I said I’d take better care of this cute body, dang it, yet I proceed to offer it a single meal a day.
At this rate, I will lose my pigeon plump and return to the gangly limbs I had in my first life.
No thank you.
Samson deserves a cute wife in the same way Austin deserves a throat punch.
“Anyway, start me off with an axe, blacksmith boy. I’ve got a farm to clean up.” I twist on my heel, facing the smithy exit. “Bye.”
Aurelia chirps, “He’ll get right on it! Promise! Let me know if there’s anything more than babysitting my silly brother that I can do to help! I’ll bless your axe free of charge, of course, but anything else, just let me know!”
Grinning, I toss a smile over my shoulder. “Thank you! I will!” And I saintly do not suggest that she could really help me out by putting a muzzle on her brother.
Humming merrily, I see myself to the tavern for some fish and chips, then I march myself to Chrysa’s sweets shop for the day’s bribe.
’Tis standard farm sim procedure. Two gifts a week result in much relationship advancement.
I must fetch an offering for my future husband to ensure that he falls steadily in love with me.
“Morning, neighbor!” Chrysa waves eagerly as chocolate floods my senses. “What can I get for you today?”
While the heady scent of chocolate clouds my mind, I take in the modest assortment of breads, pastries, and cakes filling the display counter.
Do I want to try for another together breakfast with Samson?
And let on that I once again think 11:00 AM is an appropriate breakfast time?
Samson will think I’m a lazy slug. Men like Samson prefer women with excellent work ethic, I’m sure.
Not to mention, I did just eat, so suggesting I haven’t yet would be lying, and dishonesty is a terrible way to start a relationship.
If I get Samson a bag of salted caramel chocolate to thank him for his help yesterday, I can not only sneak one for myself, but I can also play it off like I’ve been soo busy I couldn’t come around until now. And that’s not lying. Because I have been too busy until now!
Thrilled by my own genius, I point at the chocolates, show ten fingers, and thank the realism mod for making the tiny chocolates an affordable price instead of two hundred and fifty coins each.
My brilliant plan dissolves some when I make it to Samson’s and find no big beautiful man out with his animals or in his hay fields or tending his modest garden. Surprised and distressed, I check my journal for the date and time.
Wednesday, 5th of Spring, 10:37 AM.
Seeing a time that doesn’t end on a multiple of five is wiggy enough, but knowing Samson should be feeding his chickens right now when he isn’t outright unsettles.
I’ve had Samson’s schedule cemented in my brain since the beginning days, when I memorized his Wiki page with a commitment that should have committed me.
He’s not at his chicken coop.
He’s not anywhere visible on his farm, which, unlike mine, is perfectly tended so that the rolling slope’s mud-strewn decline is apparent from any part of the property.
No giant, broken trees. No massive boulders.
No stray limbs and branches. No sign of storm residue beyond a spattering of muddy patches—many of which appear already filled with dirt.
Short waves of wheat and hay flesh out the land beyond the pond.
The pond.
It occurs to me I have not checked the pond for my Samson. Cautious, I glance at the quiet waters, breath held.
Then I chastise myself for the subsequent disappointment when I don’t find him bathing.
I’m an addict, it’s true. I got one hit of bare, glistening muscles adorned with scars and tattoos, and now I am dependent upon them.
Putting my journal back, I clutch the bag of chocolates and teeter on the edge of Samson’s stone path walkway, looking up the flat stone steps set between his animal pastures on either side of the front porch.
I could knock.
He doesn’t leave his farm, usually. Not on Wednesdays, ever. He does not like people.
What a relatable king.
However, that said, knocking would bother him.
But, then again, what if something’s wrong?
Or what if I’m overreacting?
What if knocking makes him hate me?
“Don’t be silly, Citrus,” I whisper, taking careful steps up the path toward the front door. “You have chocolate.”
Samson couldn’t hate someone with chocolate. He doesn’t even hate Austin. And I’m way cuter than Austin. And Austin does not usually have chocolate.
Finding comfort in that rational thought, I knock on the door, hold my breath, and wait.
Several moments pass before Samson appears in disheveled glory, wearing naught but sweatpants.
My mouth falls open, eyes stuck on his main scar as it plays across his skin, dipping into and out of ridges of muscle while it cuts from throat to abs.
Blessed be.
My addiction.
I can stave off the withdrawals for another day…
Upon realizing I’m, well, me, he curses and tucks himself mostly behind his door, leaving only a slit for his crackling blue eyes to peer through. “I thought you were… I thought you weren’t…” He clears his throat and cusses again, wincing. “Sorry.”
“Were you…asleep?” I ask.
Refusing to look at me, he provides a curt nod and mutters, “Didn’t sleep well.”
That’s the second day in a row. Does this realism mod contain sickness?
Is he sick? Should I put this chocolate up for another day and get some soup at the tavern?
Samson has a kitchen… Do I offer to make him something from scratch?
Am I capable of making something edible from scratch?
I am a professional cook. But I’m also only a professional fry cook…
which means I’m basically Spongebob without the youthful passion…
“What do you want?” Samson asks, tone far softer than the coarse words might suggest.
I fiddle with my paper bag. “I came to thank you, for yesterday, but if you’re not feeling well…maybe sugar isn’t the best thank-you gift…”
He murmurs, “I’m feeling fine. And you don’t have anything to thank me for. My precaution was unwarranted. You can clearly take care of yourself. And, upon seeing that, I posed more danger to you than anything else.”
Um. Yes. The sword to my throat is ninety-five percent what I’m thanking you for, silly man.
I don’t say that, though. I say, “Your glow ring was helpful. I would have really struggled in the dark regardless of how well I can take care of myself against the monsters.”
Eyes darting elsewhere, he grunts. “Slate could have helped you with light. Might have gone with you, too. He’d have loved your random facts and statistics.”
My heart rate trips, because all I hear is the word loved as said in peanut and caramel tones. “A-anyway, I appreciated your help.” I thrust the chocolates forward. “I have to check my mail now. Bye!”
After he takes the bag, I stampede back to my farm, berating myself for being so graceless.
I guess what they say is true.
You can take the girl out of Florida and put her in a magical fantasy world…but you can’t take the astigmatism out of the girl. Which is why I’m grateful I’m out of Samson’s sight when mine rears, and I trip on a root.