Chapter 3
Lucy
G entle morning light filtered through the curtains as I hugged Mr. Whiskers close. His floppy ears and worn coat were a familiar comfort. "Big day today," I whispered, petting his soft fur.
The past few days had slipped by in a haze of avoidance. The task of renovating my childhood home loomed like a fortress I wasn't ready to breach. Each morning, the sunlight would dance across the Victorian wallpaper, casting intricate patterns that seemed to mock my indecision. Mr. Whiskers, with his steady purring by my side, became my silent witness to procrastination.
I found solace in the familiar routines of Small Falls. Marie's infectious laughter at The Daily Grind, the soft rustle of pages turning as I browsed through old novels at the town library, and the comforting scent of freshly baked bread from Mrs. Henderson's bakery all beckoned me with their warm embrace. Yet, beneath these comforting rituals lay the unspoken truth that I was avoiding the inevitable.
“I know, I know,” I said, giving Mr. Whiskers a squeeze, “I’ve got to get my butt in gear.”
I knew it wouldn't be easy, both physically and emotionally. But as much as I dreaded it, there was a sense of duty that weighed heavy on my shoulders.
As I sat in front of the mirror, brushing my hair, I couldn't help but feel like a child again. It was something about this house that always brought out my inner child.
I looked over at Mr. Whiskers sitting on my bed, his button eyes staring back at me with understanding. Talking to him like this was my secret—a way to let my little side out when no one else could see. I thought about leaving him safe at home today, but my chest tightened at the idea. After a moment's hesitation, I tucked him into my big tote bag and smiled at him.
"Just in case," I said softly.
With determination in my step, I made my way downstairs and headed out. The sun shone brightly overhead, warming up the crisp autumn air.
My plan for the day was to pick up some tools and materials at the hardware store (while avoiding drooling too much at the inevitable sight of Marcus Wilkins). But before that, I needed some caffeine, and maybe a pastry or two.
The rich scent of coffee and muffins enveloped me as I stepped into The Daily Grind. Marie rushed over and pulled me into a warm hug, her wild blonde curls tickling my cheek.
"Ready to take on the world, Luce?" Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she looked me up and down. "Casual Friday, huh?"
I nodded, my grip tightening on my bag's strap. "You know it. Today’s the day I start."
As if I knew where to start.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to tackle?”
“Paint?” I said, tentatively.
“So you’ve steamed off all the wallpaper?”
“Uhhh . . . don’t you just paint over it?” My heart-rate spiked.
“I mean, you can, but, it won’t look good.”
“Right.” I swallowed hard.
Marie tilted her head. "Nervous about something? Want me to come with? I can be your trusty sidekick. Make sure you get everything you need."
My shoulders relaxed. Having her there would help keep me steady. "I'd really like that, actually."
"Perfect!" She slung an arm around me. "Let's get this show on the road. Hammers and paint, here we come!"
She flipped the sign to closed, and joined me. As we headed out, my mind drifted to the monumental task ahead—and the chance I might run into Marcus at the store. My pulse quickened. Could I really handle flirting and big renovation decisions all at once?
Why was I even thinking about flirting? I was all over the place. I patted my bag, picturing Mr. Whiskers nestled inside. At least I had my special backup today.
The bell jingled merrily as Marie and I stepped into Wilkins' Hardware. I froze, jaw-dropping at the sheer enormity of it all—endless aisles packed with gleaming tools, buckets of nails, cans of paint in every hue. It was like some kind of handyman's labyrinth.
With shaking hands, I fumbled for my list, the crinkled paper covered in my messy scrawl.
Paint.
Brushes.
Paint thinner.
Sandpaper.
It wasn’t exactly an extensive list. Even so, I didn’t know where to start.
"God, where do we even begin?" I muttered, scanning the overwhelming array of supplies.
Marie chuckled and bumped my hip with hers. "Maybe there's a special section for clueless DIY newbies like us?"
A surprised laugh burst from my lips and I felt a bit of the tension drain away. Still, my other hand crept to my bag, fingers curling around the soft lump of Mr. Whiskers tucked inside. Just knowing he was there helped settle the butterflies raging in my stomach.
Taking a fortifying breath, I squared my shoulders. "Okay, paint first. That’s easy to find. Let's do this." I marched toward the paint section, Marie hot on my heels.
But rounding the corner, I stopped short, my heart leaping into my throat. There, stretching up to grab a box from a high shelf, was Marcus. Time seemed to slow as I drank in the sight of him.
Damn, he looked good. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. A hint of stubble shadowed his strong jaw and his thick hair looked effortlessly tousled, as if he'd just rolled out of bed. Heat bloomed in my cheeks at the thought.
"Wow," I breathed, unable to tear my gaze away. He was even more striking than I remembered, all rugged edges and quiet intensity.
Marie sidled up beside me with a knowing smirk. "Earth to Lucy. You're staring," she singsonged under her breath.
I jumped, heat flooding my face. "Shut up, I am not!" I hissed, forcing myself to look away.
Marie's elbow jabbed my ribs. "See something you like?" she whispered, eyes twinkling.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Shh! It's just Marcus," I hissed, tearing my gaze away. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Uh-huh," Marie smirked. "'Just Marcus' who's turned into a total heartthrob."
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips. "Let's just get what we need."
Determined to regain my composure, I reached for a can of paint on a high shelf. The metal was cool beneath my fingertips. As I stretched, my tote bag slipped off my shoulder.
Panic flared. I lunged to catch it, bumping the shelf. Paint cans wobbled like dominoes ready to fall.
Time slowed. One can teetered on the edge, then plummeted.
The crash echoed through the aisle. Bright blue paint exploded across the floor. I watched in horror as it splattered onto Marcus's boots.
But worse - so much worse—Mr. Whiskers tumbled from my bag. He landed with a soft plop in the center of the puddle, his floppy ears instantly stained cerulean.
My cheeks blazed. I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. How could this get any more mortifying?
"Oh no!" I gasped, dropping to my knees. Paint seeped into my jeans as I snatched Mr. Whiskers from the puddle. My face burned hotter than a furnace.
I glanced up, dreading Marcus's reaction. His eyes flickered from his ruined boots to me, but instead of anger, I saw only concern etched in his features.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly, kneeling beside me. His calm tone caught me off guard.
"I'm so sorry," I stammered, clutching my paint-drenched stuffie to my chest. "I didn't mean to— your boots—and my . . ." Words failed me. I hugged Mr. Whiskers tighter, not caring that blue stained my shirt.
There was something in the way Marcus looked at me. Something like understanding. Marcus reached for a clean rag on a nearby shelf. "Here," he said, offering a gentle smile that made my heart skip. "Let's see if we can save him."
Our hands brushed as we dabbed at Mr. Whiskers' fur. Electricity zinged through me at each accidental touch. I couldn't help but notice how carefully Marcus handled the stuffed bunny, treating him with unexpected reverence.
"He's been with me since I was little," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. I braced myself for judgment, for that look people got when they realized I still clung to childhood comforts.
But Marcus just met my gaze, his blue eyes warm and understanding. "Some things are worth holding onto."
My breath caught in my throat. Did he really mean that? Or was he just being kind?
I felt a sudden urge to fill the silence. "You're really good at this," I said, gesturing to Mr. Whiskers' slowly improving condition. "Must come in handy, running a hardware store."
Marcus chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. "You'd be surprised how often stuffed animal triage comes up in my line of work."
I laughed, the tension in my shoulders easing. As we continued cleaning, Marcus tilted his head, studying me. "You know, I remember you carrying him around when you were younger. Always tucked under your arm as you explored the town."
My cheeks flushed. "I can't believe you remember that," I said, equal parts mortified and oddly touched.
He shrugged, but his eyes were warm. "Hard to forget."
The air between us felt charged, electric, yet strangely comfortable. I found myself wanting to lean into that warmth, to bask in his kindness. It had been so long since anyone had looked at me like that – like I was worth remembering.
"It’s good to see you. A little bird told me you were back in town."
He was so . . . big.
"Yeah. I’ve got a big renovation project. My dad . . .”
“I was so sorry to hear about him. He was a good man.” He gave me a sincere look.
“Thank you.”
Suddenly, Marie's voice broke through my reverie. "Looks like you two have things under control," she said, a satisfied grin playing on her lips as she sauntered over. Her eyes swept over the blue-spattered floor. "Maybe we should ask for professional help before we cause any more disasters."
Marcus chuckled. "I think that's a good idea."
I shot Marie a warning look, recognizing the mischievous glint in her eye. But she plowed ahead, seizing the moment. "You know, Marcus, Lucy's taking on a huge renovation all by herself. Maybe you could offer some guidance?"
"Marie . . ." I hissed, mortification flooding back. The last thing I needed was to look more incompetent in front of Marcus.
But when I glanced at him, Marcus seemed thoughtful rather than put off. "I'd be happy to help if you need it," he said, his voice soft and sincere.
My heart raced. Part of me longed to accept, to spend more time with this kind, understanding man. But another part of me, the part still clutching a paint-stained stuffed bunny, hesitated. What if he saw too much? What if he realized just how much of a mess I really was?
My cheeks burned as I stammered, "That's really kind of you, but I don't want to impose. I'm sure you're busy with the store." I hugged Mr. Whiskers closer, feeling exposed.
Marcus's blue eyes met mine, a hint of disappointment flickering in their depths. "I understand," he said softly. "But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
I mustered a smile, my stomach doing somersaults. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
We made our way to the checkout, my mind reeling. As Marcus rang up our items, Marie leaned in close.
"He's totally into you," she whispered, her breath tickling my ear.
I shook my head, feeling a mix of hope and panic. "Don't start," I muttered.
Outside, we loaded our arms with supplies. The familiar weight of Mr. Whiskers in my tote was oddly comforting.
Marie wasn't done. "He didn't even blink at Mr. Whiskers. That's a good sign."
I sighed, adjusting my grip on a paint can. "Or he's just really polite."
She nudged me with her elbow, nearly making me drop everything. "Or he sees you for who you are and likes it."
I bit my lip, torn between possibility and fear. Marcus had been so gentle, so understanding. But could anyone really accept all of me? The grown-up renovating a house and the little girl who still needed her stuffed bunny?
***
I sat cross-legged on the worn hardwood floor of Dad's old study, now my makeshift workspace. Mr. Whiskers lay in my lap, his fur damp from my careful cleaning. The scent of paint thinner and lemon soap lingered in the air.
"He was so kind," I murmured, smoothing Mr. Whiskers' floppy ear. "The way he looked at me, like . . . like he really saw me." My fingers trembled slightly. "But what if he thinks I'm childish? What if it's all too weird for him?"
I hugged Mr. Whiskers close, burying my face in his soft fur. The familiar comfort was there, but so was a sharp pang of vulnerability. I'd never let anyone see this side of me before. Only Marie.
"Maybe I should've just left you at home," I whispered.
But even as I said it, I knew I couldn't have. Mr. Whiskers was my anchor, my safety net in a world that often felt too big, too harsh.
I took a deep breath, setting Mr. Whiskers gently on the desk. "Okay, Lucy," I said firmly. "No more moping. We've got work to do."
I surveyed the stack of supplies from Wilkins' Hardware. Paint cans, brushes, sandpaper, and a intimidating array of tools I barely knew how to use. My stomach churned with a mix of excitement and anxiety.
"Right," I muttered, grabbing a notepad. "Let's make a plan."
I scribbled furiously, mapping out rooms and tasks. "Living room first," I decided. "Then kitchen, then . . . oh god, there's so much."
My hand cramped, and I flexed my fingers. A traitorous little voice in my head whispered, 'Maybe you should call Marcus. He offered to help . . .'
"No," I said out loud, startling myself. "No distractions. I need to do this on my own."
But as I stared at my messy list, doubt crept in. Did I really know what I was doing? What if I messed it all up?
I glanced at Mr. Whiskers, his button eyes seeming to hold all the wisdom in the world. "What do you think, buddy? Am I being stubborn? Or just . . . scared?"
***
The porch swing creaked softly as I settled in, cradling a steaming mug of chamomile tea. My big plan of starting the work today had been left by the wayside, replaced by confusion and excitement about Marcus. Mr. Whiskers sat beside me, his floppy ears rustling in the evening breeze. The sky was a masterpiece of pinks and golds, like something out of a fairy tale.
In the house, I could hear the gurgle of dad’s old washing machine. It was nice to discover that it still worked, and the sound was nostalgic. It took me right back.
I took a sip of my tea, letting the warmth seep into my bones. "What a day, huh?" I murmured to Mr. Whiskers.
My mind drifted back to the hardware store, to Marcus's gentle hands as he helped clean paint off my stuffed bunny. The memory made my cheeks flush.
"He didn't laugh," I whispered, almost to myself. "He didn't think it was weird that I still had you."
I ran my fingers over Mr. Whiskers' soft fur, lost in thought. Marie's words echoed in my head: "He sees you for who you are and likes it."
Could that be true? My heart raced at the possibility.
"Maybe . . ." I hesitated, glancing around as if someone might overhear. "Maybe he'd understand. About . . . you know. The Little stuff."
The words felt both terrifying and exhilarating to say out loud. I'd never told anyone about that part of myself, not even Marie.
"What do you think, Mr. Whiskers?" I asked, holding him up. "Am I crazy to even consider it?"
His button eyes stared back, offering silent comfort. I hugged him close, inhaling the familiar scent of home and childhood.
"Maybe Marie's right," I whispered into his fur. "Maybe I shouldn't close myself off so much."
A soft smile spread across my face, hope bubbling up despite the knot of anxiety in my stomach. For the first time in years, I let myself imagine sharing all of me with someone else.
"It's scary," I admitted, my voice barely audible. "But . . . maybe it's worth the risk?"
Just then, to my surprise, the gurgle of the washing machine was replaced by a different sound. A very different sound.