Page 38 of How To Please A Princely Fae

It’s unusual for us to see snow here before the new year. Not impossible, but improbable.

I sit up, rubbing at my eyes and not quite believing the sight just outside the panes of glass. Grackles flit about over thefrosted outlines of fallen leaves, and cold washes over me as a strong wind buffets the house.

Winter, it seems, has decided to breathe upon Wild Oak Woods early.

My frown deepens as I slide out of my warm bed, my toes chilling the moment they leave the threadbare rug and hit the wood planks.

Where is Kieran?

Washing up is going to be brisk today—the need to make sure my accidental house guest hasn’t gotten into trouble takes precedence over how much I want a nice, long soak in the tub.

Sighing, I disrobe quickly, settling on using the wash basin as fast as possible and then going to hunt for my royal pain of an apprentice.

Water slides from the mouth of the pitcher into the floral ceramic basin, the enchantment on the rim causing the flowers wreathing it to bloom as the bowl fills. The charmed flowers release a lovely, fresh scent as they open, perfuming the water and the air as I wash up.

My red curls stick out at every impossible angle, and I tsk at my reflection in frustration as I run my fingers through it in an attempt to tame my mane into something less wild. I release an annoyed huff of breath and give up, raking it back into an impressively mussed topknot, and splash icy water all over myself before vigorously rubbing down all my important bits.

Teeth are next, and I tell myself that I always spend an inordinate amount of time brushing them, and that my desire for cleanliness has nothing to do with my desire for Kieran.

A soft hoot interrupts my internal lies, and I rush to put on my favorite pair of thick fleece-lined trousers, high wool socks knitted in shades of pink. The softest shirt I own tucks into the tops of the pants, and I fasten my well-worn leather suspendersover my shoulders and throw a bulky knit sweater over the whole ensemble.

There.

Not in the least appealing, I decide upon looking at myself in the mirror again.

The scowl really rounds things out, too.

He’ll remember he’s not attracted to me in no time at this rate.

A kernel of worry roots deep in my heart, because other than Chirp softly clawing at his perch in the hall, there’s no sound from the rest of my house and shop.

“Maybe the wind is masking it,” I tell myself, tugging my warmest boots over the lurid pink socks.

My stomach rumbles, and I realize in my exhaustion last night I didn’t eat, simply collapsing into bed in lieu of anything resembling a nighttime ritual.

I scrub a palm over my freshly washed face and grimace before throwing open the door, half expecting to find Kieran curled up on the floor of the hallway like an unwelcome cat who’s made himself at home.

The hall is empty, save for Chirp, who softly hoots and lands on the thick cream sweater over my shoulder.

A fresh blast of wind rattles the lead-paned windows, and I glance out them with an equally fresh wave of concern.

“What is going on with this weather?” I murmur, tugging at a loose curl before shoving it behind my ear.

I don’t like it.

My plants in the greenhouse should be fine, but half my outdoor garden hasn’t gone fully dormant yet. I make a mental note to cover everything as best I can, and sing some lullabies to soothe the perennials into their winter sleep.

“Where is Kieran?” I ask, fumbling through the door to my laboratory, because there is no way he’s still in here. The soaprecipe should have set up within an hour, even if it took him much longer to make it than me.

The laboratory is empty, but that’s not what brings me up short.

There are nine loaves of soap curing on the table, three different kinds. Stunned, I marvel at them. The tops aren’t as neat as mine would be, but they’re perfectly acceptable. There’s no soap ash either, which means that not only did Kieran execute all three soap recipes correctly, he read my personal notes on ensuring the loaves would be as pretty for display as he could manage.

Tears threaten, stinging my eyes, and all my resolve to be annoyed with him simply vanishes.

This isn’t something I expected him to do; to simply tackle all the soap-making on my extensive to-do list, nor to do it carefully and well. It’s not something anyone who just wanted to have sex with me would do.

It’s thoughtful. It’s caring, and it’s kind.

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