“Oh, God, now you’ve done it,” Fern moaned. She stepped between Teagan and Hawk. “There was a fortune-teller booth at the Averill Union end-of-school carnival a few weeks ago, Hawk. And of course, our Teagan here had to aska billion questions about the lotions and potions and crystals the lady was selling?—”
Teagan squawked. “Because I’m a friendly person who seeksknowledge, Fern!”
“And thenbuya billion lotions and potions?—”
“Because the scent of palo santo is relaxing!”
“And the woman told Teagan he was an empath who needed to work on ‘unlocking his skills,’” Fern concluded with an eye roll. “If he’d bought a couple more crystals, she might have convinced him he was the reincarnation of George Washington.”
“Excuse you.” Teagan folded his arms over his chest and stepped around her. “Master Iris said I’m at least a Class Four empath and that I’mparticularlyattuned to feelings and vibrations many humans cannot sense.” He gave an injured sniff. “My husband agreed. I bethe’dbelieve me if I told him I could sense this rooster’s feelings.”
“Let’s be honest, babe,” Fern said mildly. “John would have agreed about the George Washington thing, too, if you gave him your big heart eyes when you told him.”
This was absolutely true, as anyone who’d been around the pair would know. Teagan’s burst of startled laughter said he knew it, too.
I pressed my lips together to hide my smile.
“The man looks forward to your road trip karaoke,” Fern said, holding up a finger as if counting off evidence, “though we both know your rendition of ‘All Too Well’ is a musical crime. He also once told me with absolute sincerity that you were sexier than Timothée Chalamet.” She held up a second finger. “And he’s taking you on a three-week Sourdough Experience in Northern Europe next month as a belated honeymoon.” A third finger. “I adore John, and I’d trust him with just about anything, but he’s not exactly a reliable reporter when it comes to your, ah… talents, boo.”
Teagan laughed again. As if called by the sound, hishusband, John, glanced over from where he’d been chatting with Webb Sunday by the Sunday Orchard table, just out of earshot. His questioning eyes met Teagan’s, and Teagan blew him a kiss. The burly man blushed beet red beneath his beard but returned Teagan’s adoring look and stood just a little taller as he turned back to his conversation with Webb.
I chuckled to myself. Yeah, I could definitely see John agreeing that Teagan was an empath. And much like the stupid ceramic rooster itself, this sort of blind loyalty was kinda cute… but also not really my thing.
Don’t get me wrong, I adored Hawk. Utterly, completely adored him. His happiness was my happiness, as evidenced by the five (yes,five) cats I was now co-parenting, the enormous library (complete with lube cubbies) I’d built for my novel-loving fiancé, and the fact that more and more of Hawk’s clothes ended up in my closet since his own had become a yarn cache, and I never dreamed of complaining.
Still, there were limits. Believing that one’s beloved could sense the thoughts and feelings of a ceramic rooster was a bridge too far. A line between a partnership founded on true love and… well, unrestrained, over-the-top devotion.
“Wait, back up, Teagan,” Hawk said eagerly. “Tell me more about what the rooster’s thinking!”
I snorted.
“Well.” Teagan set the bird in the center of the table. “I can’t really read its thoughts. I can only sense its energy. And it wants something. Misses something. Needs… something.”
“Huhhhhh.” Hawk tilted his head and stared at the rooster, transfixed.
Meanwhile, Fern gave Teagan’s arm a gentle pat. “You have many actual gifts, babydoll. You’re an amazing friend. A bread-making champion. An encyclopedia of random television shows. A damn good teacher. Pretty much the only thing Idon’tthink you can do is read the psychic vibrations of kitchen crockery.” She flipped her hand casually in the directionof the rooster, then stopped and gave the rooster a suspicious glare. “Although I have to admit, if there were ever an inanimate object thatdidhave a presence, it might be this one.”
“You know, my uncle Drew had an antique chicken just like this one when I was a kid. He once told me ceramic poultry decorations were the Live-Laugh-Love sign of the ’80s and ’90s. He’s like a little piece of history,” Hawk said with perfect sincerity. “I bet this little guy’s been sitting in someone else’s kitchen for decades.”
I snorted. I found it highly amusing when Hawk referred to the 1990s—a decade I remembered quite well—as “antique” and “history.” His older brothers weren’t quite as amused.
“He probably has,” Teagan agreed. “And when you think about it, doesn’t it make sense that an object would soak up the energy of the place where it’s been staying? And be sort ofyearningto find that same energy?” He gave Fern a challenging look. “I seem to recall you having a pair of stinky softball socks back in college that you wouldn’t put in the laundry so that the ‘luck wouldn’t wash off.’”
“That’s different.” Fern hesitated. Frowned. “Though I’m not quite sure how.”
“Uh-huh,” Teagan said smugly. “It’s okay. I accept your apology for questioning my abilities.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Right. So,Master Teagan, you’re saying that this… cockadoodle cookie jar has soaked up ’90s kitchen energy, and now it’s hungry?”
Teagan stared at the rooster for a minute in concentration. “Not hungry for food,” he murmured. “More like…” Teagan’s eyes widened, and he cleared his throat. He shot a glance at his handsome husband, bit his lip, and full-on blushed. “Er. You know. On second thought, maybe I’m projecting. He’s probably just hungry for cookies. Like you said.”
Fern laughed, and so did I. But Hawk was giving the bird a sweet, thoughtful, sympathetic look again. “The poor thing really needs a good home, doesn’t he?”
I smiled softly. The man had the biggest heart in New England and endless love to give. I was so fucking lucky he was mine to love and care for in return.
Because he was, I ducked under the table and grabbed an insulated water bottle. Then I pressed the bottle into Hawk’s hands, wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, and pulled him against me. “Drink, baby,” I instructed softly. “It’s fucking hot out here.”
Hawk smiled a little as he obeyed, and despite the July heat and humidity making both of us sticky, he leaned into my chest like he relished the closeness as much as I did.
