Page 22 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
“Oh,” Fallon near-shouts, pouncing on her little brother with more glee than I’ve ever felt in my entire life, “but nother? Not with the pretty girl you’ve got a crush on?”
“Okay, maybe my estimation of having an older sister was off,” I say to save poor Wyatt, turning toward him—even though, in truth, I’m eating this up with a spoon. It’s sweeter and richer than the ice cream Fallon’s got tucked under her arm, I have no doubt. “Theyarekinda rough.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt says, meeting my gaze, one eyebrow arched, the blush across his cheeks making my own face heat again.“And they apparently can’t make their own damn friends, either.”
“The Hayes are an acquired taste,” Fallon announces, slamming the giant tub of ice cream down onto the table. She’s got a fistful of spoons in her other hand, the metal gleaming in the low light as she pries off the lid. “And also a package deal.”
“Think you’re up for that, Blythe?” Wyatt asks, leaning his hip onto the side of the old farmhouse table. He says my last name like it’s more than that—like it’s a nickname, some sign of intimacy between us. His mouth moves into a smile that makes me want to slam my lips into his. Okay, that’s probably the wine.
At least, I’m definitely going toblameit on the wine.
“I like you guys,” I say with a shrug, reaching for a spoon even though I’m not sure if my stomach can handle chili, four glasses of red, and dairy. “And you don’t think I’m insane.”
“Your standards,” Fallon announces, leveling her spoon at me like it’s an arrow, “are entirely too low.”
“I mean, clearly,” I reply, gesturing at the two of them. The Hayes siblings break into laughter, exchanging glances. The glance isn’t meant for me, but I still catch it, and for a moment, I think I see something there that makes my entire body feel like the first warm day after a long winter.
Acceptance.
“What flavor is this?” I ask instead of saying something stupid, leaning over the table.
“Pumpkin,” Wyatt says, opening the hutch and retrieving adorable sherbert glasses that make me think of an idyllic childhood I never had, all frosted glass and old-fashioned scalloped edges. “Sally only makes one batch every year. I’m not one for the pumpkin everything, ’least not the way some of the tourists are, but this shit isunbelievable.” He pauses, looking at his sister. “Why don’t you have an ice cream scoop?”
Fallon scoffs. “Do I look like Martha fuckin’ Stewart to you?”
Wyatt, clearly used to his sister’s antics, just shrugs and digs into the ice cream, nearly bending the spoon as he doles out the frozen treat into one of the sherbert glasses. I try to stop myself from watching his hands as he does it, the way his fingers curl around the spoon, the flex of his tendons.
You’d think I’ve never seen a fucking man before today.
“For you,” Wyatt says, startling me. I manage to tear my brain away from his hands to notice that he’s offering me a sherbert glass filled with ice cream—before he even scooped some for himself.
“Oh, ar—are you sure?” I ask, stumbling over my words like I’m in the sixth grade with my first crush. I reach for the glass, and our fingers brush. My entire body goes tingly, my heart lighter than it’s felt in years.
Wyatt doffs an imaginary hat. “Quite sure, Blythe.”
Across the kitchen, Fallon pulls a giant quilt from an ancient-looking trunk and settles back into her chair at the head of the table, wrapping herself up in the patterned cloth. “Wyatt,” she says, more serious now, her gaze sharpening. “Grab Alice’s stuff from the Stardust. I want her with us if the Hunt’s coming through.”
Out of nowhere, tears prick at the backs of my eyes. It’s the wine, it’s the wine,it’s the wine. It’s certainly not the way that these people I just blundered into—following a six-month-old lead that should’ve been long stale—are taking better care of me than the people I’ve known all my life ever have. More than the university administration that called me “brilliant” when it suited them and “disruptive” when it didn’t.
I stare down into the sherbert glass, toying with my spoon. Have I everletpeople care for me? Have I always been too afraid? Because, god forbid, what happens if I let someone care for me, and then Ineedthem?
What if I let Wyatt Hayes get my things from the Stardust and tuck me into his old bed and keep me safe from the Wild Hunt, and then I can’t imagine living without his care? What then?
I let out a long breath. “Will Marion be alright with that?” I ask. “I can come with you if it’s easier.”
“Marion would probably let Wyatt burglarize half the rooms if the people renting them annoyed her enough,” Fallon says with a fond laugh. Her gaze slides to Wyatt, who’s still standing, not doling out any pumpkin ice cream for himself.
“Well,” he begins, his eyebrows lifted, “I’d be much more likely to nick a thing or two from the folks staying at the Archer Inn, truth be told. But nah. As long as everything’s still more or less packed up, I’ll just go. It’s better that way—just in case I run into trouble.”
“Okay,” I say, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my hands. It’s too cold for ice cream, but, like Fallon, I’m willing to bundle up for the sake of a delicious treat. “I pretty much threw everything down and left.”
“You mean, ‘came barreling out into the parking lot to accost a local with ten thousand rapid-fire questions,’” he corrects in such a playful tone that I turn bright red again.
“Something like that,” I agree. “I got lucky that the local wasn’t Sector. Or one of Them. And that he makes a damn good BLT.”
“Stop flirting,” Fallon says, digging in for another big spoonful of ice cream. “Hellhounds, kiddos. The Wild Hunt’s on the prowl. Shit’s gonna get real and it’s gonna happen fast.” She pauses, checking under the table, where Fern is sprawled out on the old, faded rug, half asleep. “Fern can stay here while you run to the Stardust.”
Wyatt acquiesces almost immediately, and it makes me remember he said hedgerider tradition is matrilineal. With his mom gone, does that make Fallon his sisterandhis boss, sort of?
