Chapter 13
???
Bless this DLC.
“Here,” Samson says, ascertaining that one of his t-shirts falls well below my thighs when held up to my body.
“This should work.” This is ash gray. Cotton.
Well-worn so that when my fingers grasp the fabric, it’s soft in my hand.
“You can wear it after you bathe. If you need me to heat more warm water, just let me know.” Stepping back, into the hall and firmly out of the bathroom, he clears his throat.
“I’ll take your dress to Ines in the morning so she can clean it, assuming you don’t mind borrowing my clothes for that long? ”
My body heats, like the boiling water Samson just added to the bathtub behind me. Actually, my body’s probably hotter than it by roughly four thousand degrees. “I…I don’t mind.”
He nods, gracing me with an edge of softness in his expression that—for the umpteenth time today—threatens the stability of my legs. At least my pickaxe isn’t around to impale myself on anymore.
“Great. I’m going to rinse off in the pond and get started on dinner.
” Directing my attention toward a cracked door down the hall, he says, “You’re welcome to make yourself comfortable in my spare room until your house is something worth living in.
” He scratches the scruff on his neck. “Preferably, that means it includes indoor plumbing.”
My skin heats somehow further at the reminder my blurting you have a bathtub? resulted in a long, looong stare followed by: It’s small for me, so I prefer the pond during the warmer seasons.
I squeak, “You’re…letting me stay here? Not just letting me borrow your facilities?”
“If you don’t mind. It’s going to take more than a few seasons to get the supplies and resources required to make your farmhouse livable, and…something about you needing to start fires to stay warm in winter…gives me anxiety.”
I wince as though I wasn’t thinking the exact same thing during my sad girl days. “I promise I’m not completely useless.”
He smiles, setting a hand atop my head and rustling my hair.
“I know you aren’t, Lemonade. I knew that before I knew you were displaced in this world.
Honestly, if your world is filled with the kind of technology that makes leisure devices like video games commonplace, it’s commendable how well you’ve managed here on your own. You’re tough. I appreciate that.”
Tough?
Silly Samson.
I am made of jelly.
By some miracle of grace, he doesn’t wait around for me to untie my tongue. “Get cleaned up. We’ll talk more about our strategic approach to getting you adjusted over dinner.”
Yes, well. I’m sure we will. If I don’t become a puddle and slip down the drain before then…
Being clean—really, deeply clean—for the first time in over a week does marvelous things for my morale. Slipping into one of Samson’s shirts, feeling against my own flesh the places where his shoulders have shouldered, takes me some time to recover from.
His clothing is massive, draping over me like an unflattering tent. The neckline gapes, showing more of my less-impressive shoulders than I’d like, but the most I can do for modesty is latch the three buttons at the V-neck and pull it up so more of my back than my chest is revealed.
Citrus’s curves are nothing to ignore, and after deciding I’d rather die than put my disgusting bra back on along with the underwear I’ve been able to keep somewhat clean by washing it in the evenings and letting dry overnight, I’m praying that this qualifies as decent.
On the one hand, Samson considers it acceptable to offer me his clothes so he can drop his female neighbor’s clothes off at Ines’s to be washed.
On the other, he’s worse of a hermit than I am since necessity forced me to leave my house for work…
It’s safe to say neither of us knows what might be considered socially-acceptable behavior.
Which means he’s relying purely on what he himself deems okay.
Which means…he’s okay with me wearing only his t-shirt?
Oh no.
My jaw clenches, and I stop my frenzied pacing around the tub that takes up the center of the small, tiled room.
Tentative, I touch the top of my head.
He patted my head.
Like I’m a child.
My heart launches itself into my throat as panic hits me hard and fast.
The reasoning behind why strong, beautiful, perfect Samson isn’t a romanceable character is plain and simple: he’s thirty-eight. All the other romance options are in their mid-to-late twenties.
Please, please, please don’t tell me that Samson thinks of me as a poor, displaced little girl who needs a fatherly assist in this new world.
I will vomit.
Then cry a bucket.
Then throw up into that bucket.
And cry some more.
This age gap is barely age gapping!
He’s nowhere near twice my age, like some age gap romances I have accidentally found myself tripping into.
For my mental health, I am choosing to ignore that those romances were only recommended to me because most Samson fanfiction is tagged as age gap and the algorithm has me pegged as a promiscuous lass.
Unable to bear it, I drop to my knees by my bag, fish out my journal, and flip to the relationship page.
Question marks.
Still.
Why?
This whole afternoon and evening has got to count as a heart event, and you don’t let someone you have negative hearts with stay in your house. You just don’t.
“Pst,” I whisper at a quest page that confirms a little over half the stone quota has been obtained. And, you know, also that I’ve yet to learn fishing. I’ll get to that someday, I’m sure. If I survive tonight.
Yes? The word appears slowly, one letter crawling onto the page in the blocky Vale of Gems copyrighted font at a time.
It feels like the book is judging me.
Which is completely stupid.
Yet no less paralyzing.
What’s wrong? it asks.
“Never mind,” I whisper. “It’s stupid.” I gasp. “Wait.”
I am literally not going anywhere.
Yeah. Right. That’s true. Moving on… “Is it appropriate for me to wear this in front of a guy in this time period or setting or whatever you’d call the social constructs that surround the Gem Ridge society?”
My book, shockingly, does not answer me. Instead, it says, For someone so focused on wooing Samson, you don’t seem all too keen on seducing him now that you’ve been given an opportunity.
I clap my hand to my mouth, hissing, “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m adorable, like a baby orange, not seductive in any way.”
The more we get to know each other, the more concerned I am for your mental health.
Rude.
Scowling, I snap, “You are no help at all,” and clap the pages closed.
It takes one hundred percent of my strength to fold up my bra in my dress, hook my bag over my shoulder, and deposit both my clothes and it into the tidy spare room Samson pointed out before.
Samson’s already in the kitchen by the time I ease myself out into the hall, tug his shirt as far as it will go past my rump, and tiptoe across the living room.
I swallow as the full-bodied scents of simmering meat and potatoes flood my senses.
“S-sorry I took so long. I…have been cleaning up in a cold bucket of water for a week, so this was a luxury.”
His brow dips. “No worries.” He won’t look at me. “Is my shirt comfortable enough? My pants wouldn’t fit you, but if you fold up the legs and use one of my belts, maybe it could work if you want?”
I think the last thing I need is to swim in both his shirt and his pants. “N-no, that’s okay. Your shirt is practically a dress on me.”
His gaze flicks my way, and his every muscle stills. Moments pass. His head alone turns to face me while the rest of him remains rigid, facing the stove. His throat bobs, and he wets his lips before a gruff, “That it is,” pulls from somewhere deep in his chest.
Sudden, he whips his attention back to the stove and drags his hand down over his mouth as he turns over the meat in the cast iron pan. “Have a seat at the table. Food’s almost done.”
Flesh tingling, I look at the dining room set and see myself to a chair.
Circling a polished knot on the surface before me with a fingertip, I wait, patiently, not nervous at all.
When Samson’s footsteps start toward me, I don’t even startle.
And my shirt doesn’t even slip down my shoulder.
And his gait doesn’t even stammer as I tug the fabric back into place.
Crimson to my ears, I stare at the table when Samson plants a plate of food before me and drops heavily into another chair with his own meal.
Air leaves him, audibly. “I think…” he begins, voice rough, “…maybe I should ask Ines to make a house call tomorrow when I drop off your dress to be cleaned.”
“A…house call?” I pick up the fork with my free hand, still clutching the fabric for dear life with my other.
“So she can—” He shoves a bite of meat in his mouth, chews twice, and forces it down. “—get your measurements.” Breath expands his chest. “Making sure you have a handful of outfits is a good idea.”
I concur.
Samson gives his head a firm shake, fortifying himself before he meets my eyes. “So it’s settled. Getting you enough clothes, making sure you have things to wear in the coming seasons, is step one in getting you adjusted to life here.”
Nodding, I nudge the chopped cabbage in my plate with the prongs of my fork. “That sounds like a good place to start, yes.”
“Once we get more of the basics taken care of, I’ll talk with Gabbro and see what he’ll need to refurbish your farmhouse.
” Samson’s eyes drift to my neck, then he cements them on his plate.
“I know we’ll need iron, for pipes. I’ll work my schedule around spending time in the mines with you so we can continue compiling resources. ”
I choke on my cabbage.
Samson’s on his feet, in the kitchen, then back and shoving a glass of water toward me before what he said can compute.