Chapter 23
Cassidy
Finn’s little scene this morning does a lot to bolster my mood, although it doesn’t entirely erase the yawning, empty dread in my gut. It might shrink it a bit, though.
At least it’s a busy day at the market, which keeps me distracted, and I don’t have to hear anyone else talking about what a great work opportunity Hugh’s unbuilt hotel is.
And old Mrs. Lasser comes in for her groceries, and she’s always pleasant to be around.
She can’t see well, so I help her make sure she’s getting the right products.
When her cart is full, she smiles at me and pats my cheek.
“That boy is lucky to have you, you know,” she murmurs, and then makes her way over to the register.
I’m so shocked by her words that she beats me there, but I can’t stop smiling afterward.
When my shift is done and Finn picks me up to fly me home, he practically interrogates me about how my shift was. At least I can provide a more pleasant answer than yesterday, and I turn the tables on him, asking about his day.
He hesitates, wanting to ask more about me, but I press, so he says, “The fox is done now.”
“It’s done?” I ask, perking up. I’ve loved watching the little fox come to life more and more each time I see it, and I can’t wait to see what Finn deems as the finished version. “Show me?”
So he leads me across our yard by the hand, taking me into his workshop, walking me past the gravestones and toward the back. I’ve been in here before, obviously, and taken a million pictures. But now I get to see the finished work.
It’s gorgeous. It’s all made out of stone, but I can see the cunning trickiness in its little eyes. I can see each tuft of fur, and some part of my brain really believes they’d move in the wind. “Wow,” I breathe. I meant to take pictures, but I’m too enraptured taking it all in.
“Thanks,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “The face took forever.”
“It’s so life-like,” I murmur, stepping closer. I keep my hands behind my back, mindful not to touch, but I bend down to stare directly into its little eyes.
“Yeah, that was the issue. But I finally got it.”
“When does she get delivered?” I ask, deciding the fox is female. She’s so alive that it feels rude to call her it.
“The twins said they could do it tomorrow, and my buyer is ready to accept delivery. She’s impatient, actually. She’s been waiting a while for this—put herself on my waiting list well over a year ago.”
“Can I go with them?” I’d love to see the fox in its final home. Plus, it’d make for some great pictures.
“If I looked up the directions correctly, it’ll be four hours of driving,” he warns.
“That’s fine. I have tomorrow off.” I turn to look at him, trying to feel out how likely he is to let me go. He looks a little distressed, and I don’t like that at all. “What?”
“I hate you spending your only day off working a second job for me,” he says. “Feels like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“Are you suddenly not planning on paying me?”
“Oh no, I am. Generously, I might add. You should see what this customer is paying for this,” he says, resting one of his hands on the fox’s spine.
I’m sure the number would make me physically ill and proud of him simultaneously.
“Then that’s fine; I’m working.” I hesitate for a second, but decide if this is a real relationship, then I should tell him what I’ve been thinking about.
“I’m thinking that after the town meeting, I’ll quit my current job.
Assuming you still want me to work.” I need to make sure I’m staying in town before I commit to a job that I’d be sad to lose.
What happens if I lose at the town meeting now?
Does my whole relationship end? Or do Finn and I move back into his apartment upstairs?
It’d work fine for the two of us, but still.
It’s not my home. And would the rest of town be mad at me for skirting the rules, or would they be happy I found a way around them?
“I’m thinking your first check will clear on Friday,” he says, unaware of where my thoughts turned. “And if you like this job, then it’s yours forever.”
I can’t suppress my smile. I like that future he’s imagining. “Let me take some pictures before you pack it up,” I say. “Can you turn on your light?”
The intense work lights help me get good shots, and I take dozens.
I’m tempted to take some pictures of him, too—Finn looks edible, shirtless and proud next to his hard work—and it’s a damn shame I can’t show him off on his own social media.
“I’ll sort through these tonight and make some content for you, and I’ll take more tomorrow.
Also, I need to go through your DMs and sort out who’s window-shopping and who’s serious about maybe wanting to get on your list.”
He wraps an arm around my waist. “If they seem at all serious, give me their names. I don’t mind talking to them on the phone or through email, and I can figure out what their goals are and if they’re something I’ll do.”
It feels like we’re a little team, a feeling only solidified when I help him shut all the lights and seal up the workshop for the night.
“So, what’s for dinner?” I ask him teasingly. But also, for all I know, he’s already prepared a three-course meal. He’s like that, determined to take things off my plate.
“Still in the crockpot and needs another hour,” he informs me, confirming my suspicions. “But in the meantime—you once promised I could see your art, and you never took me to your craft room.”
I duck my head. “You didn’t look? You found everything else in the house.”
“Hey. I found the mop and the vacuum and the Tupperware. I didn’t go through your private stuff. I wouldn’t.”
I know that. I knew he wouldn’t go through anything I didn’t want him to, which is why I can trust him in my home. “It’s not that impressive.”
These crafts are hobbies I run through, discard, and pick up again. None of them are masterpieces. I’m no artist, unlike the man next to me who fully admitted he sells his art for obscene amounts of money, and who I’ve got a first-hand look at how in-demand he is.
“Cassidy.”
I’m already getting used to him calling me baby or wife unless he’s serious, so my real name makes me give him my full attention. “Yeah?”
“I want to see things that make you happy.”
“Want to watch 27 Dresses, then?”
“Sure,” he says agreeably. “After you show me your room.”
I bite my lip, and Finn stops walking. “Cassidy,” he says, and there’s my name again. “If that’s your space and you don’t want me in it, then that’s fine. Say that. But if you’re insecure that I’ll judge you—don’t be. At all. I’m curious about you. I want to know everything that makes you happy.”
Damn him. The sweetness, the sincerity, the big eyes boring into mine—I can’t resist it. “Fine,” I say shortly. “Come see the mess of projects.”
He follows me through the house, up the stairs, and to the converted bedroom at the end of the hallway.
There’s no bed in here, just a desk, an easel, and bins upon bins of stuff.
Some of it is house storage, like the Christmas decorations and some of G’s old stuff that I’m too sentimental to get rid of, but most of it is materials and projects.
The bin by the window has all my yarn from several half-assed knitting projects.
There’s a bin that’s entirely paint. One bin holds sketchbooks.
Finn takes it all in with a slow sweep of his eyes, turning from one side of the room to the other.
“So, this is it,” I say. The extra mason jars for canning preserves are in the corner, because I once bought way more than I could ever need.
Our blackberry bushes don’t produce that much.
There are a few finished canvases stacked against the wall, because I don’t have any great place to put them when I’m done.
The half-knitted sweater I’ve been swearing I’ll finish for two years is on the back of the desk chair.
“I love it,” he announces. He studies my half-finished canvas, started in the week before G left for school.
I’m not much of a painter. I never studied anything, and I’m aware I have no technical skills.
But I like to try to make something, and I’d been doing my best to capture the trees outside my window.
“You know,” he says softly, “if you wanted to be accurate, then my workshop goes there.” He points to the side of the canvas.
“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” I mutter. The truth is I’d been debating what to do with it. This was just for me, so it’s not like there’s anyone to impress, but I’d thought his workshop marred the natural beauty of my view.
What a difference such a short period of time makes. I love how close by it is now.
I turn away from the easel. “Cross-stich,” I point to two finished pieces hung on the wall. “Knitting,” I point to the pile of messy supplies on the floor. “Painting,” I point to the big tub of paints. “You know. Whatever keeps me busy.”
I haven’t been excellent at any of these hobbies, but I’d needed something that wasn’t Georgia to pour some time and energy into. Not because I didn’t love her. I do love her, and always will. But I’d needed something for me, even if it wasn’t good.
“I’m glad,” he says, settling over by the desk.
There are some little-kid artworks tacked to the wall, because when I’d started this, G had been an absolute clinger.
I cherished each and every piece of prepubescent art, and each one is up on the wall to this day.
Georgia doesn’t come in here much anymore, but she does a big show of eye-rolling every time she sees it.
I’ve invited her to give me more art to replace it with, but she left the artistic little kid behind.
My supernatural little sister, the only person I know who can do literal magic and yet wants to study chemistry. She and I are definitely not the same.