Chapter 9
Cassidy
When I wake up, it takes me a few moments to remember where I am, and another few to process why there’s sun streaming into my face.
I’m in Georgia’s room. And I didn’t bother to shut the curtain, too exhausted from everything else that happened, but I’m regretting it now. Georgia’s room faces east, unlike mine. The sun is brutal.
But, according to my phone, it’s almost eight-thirty. I blink, sure I’m reading it wrong, but no. Eight-thirty. I guess I got to sleep in after all, even if it’s two days later than I wanted.
I stretch, luxuriating in the moment. For the first time in forever, I don’t feel tired. I could get used to this.
And then there’s a crashing sound downstairs.
I’m up and out of bed in a flash, pulling my Pine Bluff U sweatshirt over my pajamas, and heading downstairs. If they broke into my house—
Finn is standing on the landing, looking forlornly at the broken vase. “Fuck this,” I hear him mutter, and then he sees me. His eyes widen. “Shit, Cassidy, I’m so sorry.”
I’m struck completely speechless by the scene in front of me. I don’t know if it’s G’s mom’s broken vase, or the fact that Finn looks like a kicked puppy, or the fact that he’s holding a mop.
“What happened?” I ask weakly, blinking in case this is still some weird dream I’m having.
“I saw your chore chart on the fridge—” The chart I’d designed when I was twenty, with no real idea how to take care of a home but knowing G deserved better than I was giving her, the one that’s still hanging even though I know it cold now— “and today is mopping, right?”
“It is,” I agree slowly. “But you don’t have to—”
“I’m staying here,” he interrupts. “That means I help.”
I huff, taking a step down the stairs. He holds up one of his huge hands to stop me. “You don’t have shoes on.”
Right, broken porcelain everywhere. “Finn, you’re doing me a favor, remember?” I ask, watching him safely from the top of the stairs. “You don’t have to do any chores here.”
He raises an eyebrow. “It’s mopping day. So I’m going to mop this morning—right after I clean this up.” His wings flutter, bumping the wall, which I imagine is what got him into this position in the first place. “Sorry about your vase.”
“It’s fine. It was kind of ugly.” It’d been there since before I moved in, and I hadn’t known what to do with it. “What happened?”
He looks down like he’s embarrassed. “I bumped it with my wing. I’ll get a broom and dustpan—they’re in the bathroom closet, right?”
I nod, still speechless as he carefully steps over the shards of vase, his big strides easily allowing him to avoid the mess.
He then makes his way up the stairs, wings tucked in tight despite there being nothing else to break.
When he gets to me, I scramble back. “I’ll get dressed,” I mutter, realizing belatedly I’m wearing absolutely tiny shorts, and run into my bedroom.
It’s only after I slam the door that I realize my mistake. Finn slept in here last night.
He made the bed already, and all of his belongings are neatly tucked away, but I can smell him on the air, the cold, minty-clean smell I discovered while he was carrying me around yesterday. How does it pervade every inch of my space after only one night?
I can hear him going into the bathroom and opening the closet, and I force myself to take a deep breath. First order of business is clothes. Then, I can figure out what the hell is going on here.
When I emerge from my bedroom fully dressed, Finn has swept up the shards and deposited them somewhere.
I can hear him in the kitchen, so I take a moment to move the little table off the landing, sticking it in the living room.
I should have realized the stairs weren’t ideal for his size.
I wonder what else about this house isn’t set up for him.
When I make it to the kitchen, Finn is scrambling eggs. “I hope after breakfast for dinner, you still want breakfast for breakfast,” he says over his shoulder.
“Finn. You don’t have to cook me breakfast,” I tell him. First he mops, then he cleans up the mess, and now he cooks? This is ridiculous. This is too much.
“I don’t have to do anything. I want to cook for you.”
“Why?” Does he think I can’t do it for myself? Did dinner last night suck so badly he’s taking over? I bristle, because my dinner was fine. I can take care of this house and keep it running on my own, dammit.
He flicks off the heat and turns toward me slowly. It’s then I realize he’s not wearing a shirt. It’s not unusual for him—when I see Finn in his own yard, he’s almost never wearing a shirt—but the sight of him cooking for me shirtless, after marrying me, is doing something to my brain.
It’s fake, I remind myself. The man is clearly more comfortable this way. I shouldn’t read too much into it.
“When was the last time someone took care of you?” Finn asks out of nowhere, and my brain scrambles.
When was the last time someone took care of me? I couldn’t guess. G tries to be helpful. She’s a good kid. She’s also a teenager, and I never wanted to put too much on her. It was my job to take care of the house; it was her job to grow up.
Finn’s mother talked me through taking care of my flowers when I first got here, and she sends me Christmas cookies. Sally, the nineteen-year-old who also works at the market, covered my shift when I got sick a month ago. But other than that, I have no idea.
“It’s not your job to take care of me,” I tell him after a too-long delay, no doubt sounding like an idiot.
He points the spatula at himself. “Husband, remember?”
“Fake,” I remind him.
Something changes in the room when I say that. “Not fake,” he contradicts quietly after a moment. “Temporary, maybe. Not getting married for the reasons people expect, absolutely. But it was a legally binding wedding. Now, sit down. Breakfast is ready.”
I stand there for another second, processing his stubborn insistence that we’re really married now. He’s not wrong—it’s as legal as a wedding can be—but we both know it’s only temporary.
When he gestures to the table again, I say, “I have to work in an hour.”
“Good. Plenty of time to eat, then.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, I sit at the table and let him put scrambled eggs and orange juice in front of me.
I stare at the spread while he puts dishes in the sink. I’m still staring when he sits down across from me. “Cassidy,” he says, voice more gentle than I’d expect coming from that big frame. “It’s fine. Eat your food.”
I huff. I still don’t understand this. “You’re downright solicitous for a grumpy neighbor,” I mutter.
Finn, to my shock, laughs. I stare as his head tips back, long lines of his throat on display. I’ve never heard him laugh before. It’s deep and resonates through the whole room, like it’s warming us both up. “Grumpy, huh?” he asks.
I shrug, forcing myself to look away from him and back at my eggs. “Can you blame me? You’re not exactly chatty, Finn.”
“Fair enough. But I’d like to think I’m not an asshole.”
“I don’t think you’re an asshole,” I say immediately, because I never have.
He’s practically a recluse, and terrible at small talk, but he’s not an asshole.
I remember him helping me get Georgia down from that tree when she was small, or the times in the early years when I was overwhelmed and he’d mow my grass or rake my leaves without saying anything.
He never wanted thanks or anything in return; he’s just there.
“Good. Then I need you to hear this. You do not have to do all this on your own. It’s not all on you anymore, Cassidy.”
I stare at him, brain blanking out as I process that. Not all on me? What does that even look like?
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, watching me. “We’ll figure it out. But in the meantime, know that if I make you breakfast, you’re not obligated to say anything except maybe thank you.”
“Thank you,” I say automatically, feeling like an asshole that I didn’t say it in the first place.
He sighs. “That wasn’t what I meant, but you’re welcome. Now. You said you have to work today?”
“Yeah. I’ll be gone until after dinner.” The Hearthstone Corner Market isn’t my dream job or anything.
In fact, it’s often mind-numbingly boring.
But it pays the bills, and jobs are a little hard to get in this small town, especially for the human who everyone thinks could go work in the human world, never mind the incomplete degree, unverifiable work history, and the child I needed to be scheduled around.
“Alright. What do you like for lunch?” he asks, walking over to the counter.
When I remember to bring one? Usually a peanut butter sandwich. “Finn, you don’t have to—”
“You’re eating, and I’m not. So therefore, I can make your lunch. What would you like?” he repeats, sounding impatient now.
I’m not going to get him to budge on this. “Peanut butter sandwich. Please.”
“No problem.” Then, with the comfort of someone who clearly went through my cabinets already, he unerringly locates everything he needs and sets to making a sandwich.
He even toasts the bread first, and cuts it into little triangles when he’s done. It’s overkill, but I don’t stop him, eating my eggs quietly.
They’re really fucking good.
“Want me to bring you to work?” he asks, putting the sandwich into a Tupperware, and then filling another Tupperware with a sliced apple.
“Like… fly me there?” I ask, hoping that’s what he means. Because, yes, I might quibble that he’s doing too much, but I won’t argue if he wants to fly me anywhere. I want to experience that again.
It was beautiful to see the town like that. Everything was so small, crisp and perfect in a way I can’t quite describe. And if I looked out, I could see for miles in any direction.
I’m sure G would take me flying with her if she was capable of lifting anything heavier than a couple pounds when she’s in her owl form. But Finn gave it to me, and I can’t fully say how grateful I am.
“If that’s what you want.”
“I want,” I say fervently.
“Good.” He plops my lunch down in front of me, giving me another smile as he does. He needs to stop doing that; every single one makes my stomach swoop. “Finish your eggs, then, and we can go.”