Page 3 of Dear Handy Silver Fox
I can’t hold back the smile creeping up in the corner of my mouth. I wish I could have seen a determined little Cammie at that age.
“I planned to find the fairies living in the woods behind my house and stay with them, but they never showed themselves. Instead, a huge storm hit, and it got dark very quickly.”
It’s suddenly very clear why Cammie is reacting this way to the storm. I want to pull her into my arms and let her know that I wouldn’t let anything happen to her, but she isn’t mine to protect.
“Were you out all night in the storm?” I ask.
She nods. “My father found me early the next morning.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “Those fairies were real assholes.”
The honk of laughter that comes out of her makes us both start laughing until a boom of thunder silences us. Cammie grabs onto my arm, and I feel her shaking again.
“Do you want me to stay?” I ask, helping her to her feet. “I mean, at least until the storm passes.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You aren’t asking. I’m offering.” I smile at her, and I see her shoulders relax a bit. "Do you have any peanut butter?"
3
CAMMIE
I can’t believe I told him about when I ran away from home. Thankfully he seemed to think it was somewhat charming and not weird that I thought that I would run away to live with the fairies with a bag of underwear and some peanut butter.
Sam is good at distracting me from the storm. The kitchen isn't done, so I only have a poorly stocked temporary mini fridge and some bread to make sandwiches.
“So where did you get the idea that fairies lived in the woods in your backyard?” he asks, pulling out some slices of bread.
I smile to myself as I think about my grandmother. “Both of my parents worked full-time jobs, so they were rarely home. My grandmother lived with us, and she practically raised me.” I take the jelly out of the fridge. “She and I used to take hikes through the woods after school, looking for signs of the fairies that lived back there. She would make up stories about all their adventures, and sometimes we'd find evidence of the items they'd take from the house like a thimble or a chipped teacup. We'd find them hidden in a small notch in the tree by the creek. The perfect hiding place. It wasn’t until after she passed when I was eight that I realized that she would plant the items we would find while I was at school.”
“She sounds like she was an amazing woman.”
I nod. “The best.”
We work together quietly, only the sound of the rain on the roof filling the small room. I spread the jelly while Sam spreads the peanut butter. We trade slices, our fingers brushing against one another in the process. The zing of electricity that flows through me is unlike anything I’ve ever felt with someone. Lightning flashes outside the window, and for once, I don't feel afraid.
We eat our sandwiches together while sitting on the new countertops Sam installed a few days ago. We exchange more charmingly embarrassing stories about our childhood, trying to make the other laugh.
He tells me about the time that his older brother tried to convince him that a monster lived in their garage and locked him in to try and scare him. Not to be outdone and wanting to get back at his brother, he spent the afternoon trapped in the garage crafting a Rube Goldberg-like machine that ended with a bucket of dog food getting poured over his brother's head. He said that his dad didn't even get mad about the mess when Sam's brother told on him. Instead, he was impressed with Sam's creativity and innovation, and that was the start of a long career of building things with his bare hands. Hands, I might add that look even sexier up close. My mind wanders a bit, thinking about what else he can do with those hands?
There a soft sound of a ping in his pocket that we both almost miss when thunder shakes the house again. He pulls out his phone out of the front pocket of his flannel, his brow furrowing in confusion as he stares at the screen and then up at me.
SAM
I’ve been expecting an email notification with a link to track a shipment of granite for the bathrooms to be sent today, but when I open the app on my phone, I find that the email notification is for something Cammie sent me. The weather must have caused some kind of delay because she’s sitting in front of me with no device in front of her. I open the email and start reading.
Dear Sam,
When I first thought about writing this letter, it was meant only as writing practice for my next book. I write romance for a living, and my imagination should be enough to draw from, but your face popped into my mind almost instantly. Anyway, I tried to spin it in my mind. It's hard not to draw from real life when you are trying to write a letter meant to lay out one's feelings about someone you are in love with who doesn’t know how you feel. I understand that this is crazy to write this out, but I can already feel the weight of unrequited love lifting off my shoulders. I know that you've probably never looked at me as anything other than the sister-in-law of your friend or as a client, but I need to admit that what I feel for you is so much more. I write about romance heroes leading lives that most women only dream about being with, but they aren’t the ones I dream about when I close my eyes. I dream about the sexy handyman with dimples that make the butterflies in my stomach flutter. The guy that makes me laugh. The guy that listens and makes me feel seen when I'm talking to him. The guy who has seen more of the world than me but doesn't make me feel any less for my inexperience. You are that guy, Sam—the leading man in my story. I just hope that one day when you look at me, you’ll see me as your leading lady.
Sincerely Yours,
Cammie
I stare at my phone, rereading the words, needing to make sure that the fantasies in my head aren’t making me read more into this letter than what Cammie had initially intended.
“Did you just send me an email?” I ask, turning the screen around to show her.
