Page 24 of Never Been Gargoyled
“I doubt that.” She tugged at a particularly stubborn knot. “Everyone has stories.”
Did they? I'd spent so much time alone that I sometimes forgot other beings had full lives. Experiences. Relationships.
Dazy had stories. I wanted to know all of them. What had her childhood been like? What made her laugh and what made her sad? Could she ever see herself loving a gargoyle?
“Got it.” The string came loose, and she sat back on her heels, grinning. “You're free.”
“Thank you.” I flexed my ankle, testing it. “I should have listened harder when you explained how to use it.”
“It's tricky the first time.” She stood and brushed dirt off her knees. “Want me to show you again?”
I wanted her to show me everything. How to use the machine, how to make her smile, how to be the kind of male she could care about.
“Yes,” I said.
She picked up the wacky weeder and demonstratedthe proper stance. As she explained it all again, I watched her hands more than the machine. Watched the way she moved with easy confidence. The way she bit her lower lip when she concentrated.
“Your turn.” She held it out to me.
This time I was more careful. I kept the engine lower, moved the device slower. The string behaved itself and the weeds fell before my determined assault.
“Much better,” Dazy said from close behind me. “You're a quick learner.”
Pride swelled in my chest. My mate approved of my efforts.
She returned to the wheelbarrow, taking it to the shed before she started raking.
We worked together for the next hour. She tackled a flower bed while I wacky-weeded everything she pointed out. Neither of us talked much, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was peaceful.
I found myself stealing glances at her every few minutes. I kept savoring the way she hummed under her breath while she worked. The satisfied little noises she made when she pulled up a particularly stubborn weed. The gentle way she handled the plants she was removing, careful not to damage the ones she wanted to keep.
She was beautiful. Not just her face or her curves, though those made my pulse race. But the way she moved through the world. The way she saw potential where others only saw work.
When she stretched, arching her back and rolling her shoulders, I nearly walked into a tree.
“Getting tired?” she asked, catching me staring.
“No.” I cleared my throat. “Are you?”
“A little.” She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “But this is good work. Satisfying.”
“Yes.” Though I wasn't thinking about the weeding.
She smiled at me, and my chest cracked open. Not the stone shell I'd worn for so long. Something deeper. More fragile.
“Thank you,” she said. “For helping. You didn't have to, but I'm glad you did.”
“I wanted to.” The words came out quiet.
Her cheeks flushed pink, and she looked away. “We should probably head inside soon. Get cleaned up.”
Was she embarrassed? I could’ve said something wrong. I replayed my words but couldn't figure out what might have upset her.
Maybe she was worn out from the work. Or maybe she was thinking about food.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Starving.” She gathered her tools. “Want to help me figure out what to make for lunch?”
