“No.” I prop a hip against the booth, knowing it exposes one of my legs completely, the slit in the dress revealing my skin from ankle to hip. Cairn’s gaze flashes down, and he swallows hard again, then turns away, looking at anything but me. “I’m here to helpyou,” I clarify.
His nostrils flutter when he snorts. “I don’t need any help. You should go enjoy the festival.”
Tipping my head, I regard him—his wide shoulders, broad chest, strong frame. I definitely don’t wantto be anywhere else right now. Except maybe somewhere alone... with him.
“I already am.” I stare at him until his dark eyes slide toward mine. “So, how can I help?”
He looks like he’s about to send me on my way, to tell me to get off his booth and go irritate someone else. But then he sighs and gives a subtle shake of his head, and I know I’ve won—at least atthisgame. But I’m still many levels from where I’m hoping to get with him tonight.
Sniffing the air, he says, “There’s a storm coming in. If you really want to make yourself useful, you can help me start packing up.”
“Okay!” I push off the booth and prop my hands on my hips, tossing him a grin. “Where do I start?”
With another sigh—he seems to do that a lot around me, though I’m starting to find it endearing—he points to a few big bins full of dirty empty mugs. “Get those loaded up in the cart; I’ll need to take them to the castle kitchen tomorrow for cleaning. And I’ll start putting the kegs away.”
“Will do.”
We work together, not speaking, just moving around each other, like we do when we’re working on the grounds, whether raking or weeding or preparing the gardens for the cold to come. And we have impeccable timing.
Cairn is just putting the last of the kegs onto the cart when the first few raindrops start to fall. They’re fat and they’re cold, and I gasp when one hits my forehead before trickling down my nose.
As the sky opens up and a deluge of frigid autumn rain starts to fall, Cairn grabs the cart handles and says, “Run!”
A squeal of delight bursts out of me as Cairn takes off at a jog, me and the cart trundling along behind him. While many of the festivalgoers run for cover, some remain dancing around the fire, like the rain only heightens their experience.
The festival is held in the castle courtyard, so Cairn and I have to run all the way under the barbican and down the path to his hut at the edge of the woods. I’m glad I wore boots tonight—something appropriate for running through misty fields and over slick cobblestones while rain falls.
I keep laughing as I run, invigorated, and soon, Cairn is laughing too. He has such a wonderful laugh, deep and rumbly. I wish he’d laugh like this more often. Maybe I can help him with that. The idea of it warms my chest.
By the time we finally get to his hut, I’m soaked through, my dress clinging to me like a second skin, wet curls hanging limp and sticking to my face, neck, and shoulders. I shiver a little bit, but not from the cold. If I weren’t a fire witch, I’d probably be freezing right about now.
“Get inside!” Cairn calls to me over a roll of thunder.
I only hesitate for a moment, wondering if he knows what he just did, what he justinvitedme to do. We’re in an autumn rainstorm at night, and he just invited me into his home.
Not that I’m complaining. I’m very muchnotcomplaining.
I yank the wooden door open while Cairn grabs a big canvas tarp to toss over the cart. The last thing I see before stepping inside is him unfurling it, his arms flexing beneaththe long sleeves of his forest-green tunic, dark eyes narrowed against the frigid raindrops.
Inside his hut, the sound of the rain is dampened by the thatched roof. It’s dark, and the air is cold. I peel off my soggy wet boots and leave them on a mat beside the door. Now in bare feet, I cast my gaze around the darkened space. The furniture appears like hulking shadows lit only by the scant bit of moonlight that manages to sneak through the thick rain clouds hovering outside.
Having been here once before, I know my way around—kind of—and am able to find my way into the sitting room and to the hearth.
I discover that Cairn has already stacked logs in the fire, so all I have to do is call a little flame into my palm (carefully, of course) and blow it into the kindling tucked into the logs. Thankfully, the fire responds to my coaxing—without trying to burn anything down. Immediately, the sparks catch, and the fire soon bathes my face in light and warmth. I sit back on my heels, smiling to myself, even laughing a little at the memory of running through the rain, chasing after Cairn as he left hoofprints in the soft earth.
I think I’ll remember that for many years to come.
A moment later, the door opens and closes, and then Cairn appears in the wide doorway to the sitting room. I stand and meet his eyes.
His long hair has come loose from the knot it’s usually tied up in, and damp curls fall around his cheeks and chin. The tunic he’s wearing is sopping wet, the lovely forest-green color turned almost black with rainwater.
Plop. Plop.
Water drips off of him, landing in a puddle near his hooves. He seems to notice it at the same moment I do and quickly says, “I’ll grab towels.”
I nod once, and when he’s gone, I take a deep breath. My heart thumps rapidly, a mixture of nerves and excitement curling through me.
Cairn returns a few moments later, now dressed in a dry long-sleeved tunic and trousers, and he reaches out to hand me the towel, keeping his body far from mine, like perhaps he’s nervous to come too close.
