Page 11 of Never Been Gargoyled (Harmony Glen #4)

Dazy

I t was cool inside the house, and it felt amazing. Nothing beat a big old stone building for keeping out the heat.

I was so sweaty, I must reek. Not that Feydin would mention it.

From what I’d seen so far, he was a gentle-gargoyle.

I could be wearing a dirt suit, and he’d tell me I was beautiful.

After setting my gardening gloves on the kitchen counter, I turned to find Feydin watching me with that intense stare of his.

The one that made my stomach do little flips.

“We should probably get cleaned up,” I said, brushing dirt off my jeans. “I'm a mess.”

He didn't move. Just kept looking at me in that way that made me feel like I was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Which was ridiculous. I was saturated in sweat. I had dirt under my fingernails and grass stains on my knees.

“So.” I cleared my throat. “Where do you sleep? Where do you bathe?”

The questions hung in the air. His wings tucked tight against his back and his expression went carefully blank.

Oh no. My heart sank. He didn't have anywhere to go, did he? Great Aunt Helga may not have thought about where her house gargoyle lived. What kind of person was I, not thinking to ask about his living situation before now?

“I mean, you're welcome to use the guest bathroom upstairs if you need to,” I added quickly. “Or really, any of the bathrooms. There are like five of them in this place. Maybe six. I need to do a bathroom inventory. And bedrooms too. You could pick whichever one you want and?—”

“Helga gave me the gatekeeper's cottage.” His voice came out quiet. “I sleep and bathe there.”

Relief loosened my spine. “Oh. Good. That's good.” I probably sounded silly, but I was grateful he wasn't homeless. “Is the cottage nice?”

“It's adequate.”

Adequate. That could mean anything from barely livable to gorgeous, but he was too polite to gush about it. With Feydin, I was learning that reading between the lines required a decoder ring I didn't have.

“Well, I'll wash up in my bathroom while you…” I waved my hand his way. “Take your time.”

He headed for the door, but paused and looked back at me. “Ten minutes? ”

“Sounds good.”

After he left, I hurried upstairs to the master bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. My reflection in the mirror was exactly as messy as I'd expected. Hair escaping everywhere, dirt smudging my cheeks, clothes rumpled from crawling around in flower beds.

But my eyes were bright. Happy. When had I ever looked this content?

I showered fast, braided my hair back, dressed in clean clothing, and was heading downstairs when my phone rang.

Dad.

I stared at the screen for a moment, then sighed and answered. “Hi, Dad.”

“Dazy. How's the house?”

“It's wonderful. Lots of work, but I love it here already.”

“Mmm.” He didn't sound convinced. “Listen, I've been thinking about what Helga left you. That property's got to be worth decent money. You could sell it, use the cash to get yourself set up somewhere more reasonable.”

My good mood deflated. “I don't want to sell it.”

“Be realistic, honey. You can't seriously want to live in that old place all by yourself. It's probably falling apart.”

“It's not.” I walked into the kitchen, gripping the phone tighter. “And I'm not all by myself.”

“What do you mean? You said you didn't know anyone there. ”

“I’ve met all sorts of people.” Did the orc baker count? “I’ve got a really friendly neighbor.” That was Feydin, right?

“Well, that's something, I guess. But still, Dazy, you have to think practically. You're not cut out for managing a big estate. You barely kept those plants you had in your room alive.”

Heat flashed through me. “That was years ago, Dad. I was a kid then. I’ve worked at a greenhouse for years. I know plants. They no longer die under my care.”

“Working for someone else is different from being responsible for everything yourself. And what about during the winter? Do you have any idea what it costs to heat a place that size?”

“Dad—”

“I just want you to consider your options before you get in too deep. There's no shame in admitting you bit off more than you can chew.”

The front door opened and closed. Feydin was back.

“I have to go,” I said. “I'm making lunch.”

“Think about what I said, okay? I worry about you.”

“I will.”

“Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you too, Dad.” My lips twisting, I hung up and dropped the phone on the counter with a clatter. Why did talking to Dad always make me feel like a failure?

“Everything alright?” Feydin stood in the doorway, his damp hair suggesting he'd showered as well. He looked clean and fresh. Yummy in snug jeans and a dark t-shirt outlining his muscles .

And concerned.

“It’s okay.” I forced a smile. “It was my dad. He’s…dad-like.”

Feydin's eyes narrowed. “What did he say?”

“He thinks I should sell the estate.”

The temperature in the room dropped at least ten degrees. Feydin's wings flared out before returning to his spine. “He what?”

“It's okay. He's worried about me managing such a big place on my own.”

“You're not on your own,” Feydin said softly. “I’m here with you. But even if I wasn’t, you're perfectly capable of managing anything.”

The fierce protectiveness in his tone made my heart skip.

“Thank you,” I said. “That's sweet of you to say.”

“It's true.” He crossed to where I stood, stopping close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. “You've been here one day and already made this place feel alive again.”

My throat went tight. “What if he's right, though, and I’ve taken on more than I should?”

“Then you'll figure it out. That's what strong people do.”

He thought I was strong. I needed to remind myself that I thought I was strong too. The dismay in my chest loosened.

The way he was looking at me made my pulse race. Like I was something precious he wanted to protect. As if I wasn't some random woman who'd inherited a house, but a person who mattered to him.

Which was a wild idea. We'd just met. People didn't form attachments that quickly. Did they?

My phone buzzed again on the counter, and I picked it up, frowning at the notification of a text from a number I didn't recognize. Bracing myself, I swiped into it.

This is Rebecca Hartwell. I believe we need to talk about my mother's estate. When would be convenient?

The air rushed out of my lungs.

“What’s wrong?” When I tilted my phone in his direction, Feydin read over my shoulder.

Warmth radiated from his body, and he smelled like whatever soap he'd used. Under other circumstances, having him this close would have been distracting in the best possible way.

Right now, all I could think about was the text.

“What if Helga was her mother?” I whispered.

Feydin stilled. “Don't respond yet.” He slipped into lawyer mode, his voice crisp and professional. He held my hand, tilting the phone to reread the message. “We need to think about this carefully.”

“We?”

“I’m representing you, aren’t I?”

“I’m grateful you are. I don't know anything about legal stuff.”

He nodded once. “We’ll research Rebecca Hartwell. Find out everything we can about her. Then we decide how to respond. ”

“And if she’s Helga's daughter?”

“Then we'll deal with that when we know for sure, Until then, we don't assume anything.”

The brief contact with his hand sent sparks up my arm. Feydin's hands were warm and rough and much larger than mine. I wondered what it would feel like to have them cup my face, thread through my hair…

Focus, Dazy. Legal crisis first, gargoyle fantasies later.

“Okay,” I said. “Research. I can do that.”

“Good.”

We got to work, making a quick lunch of sandwiches—two for him, one for me, plus I laid a bag of chips between us. We sat at the tiny table, him stretching out his wings to encircle the chair, and ate. While we consumed our lunch, he took notes of what we needed to do on a pad of paper.

After, he took the dishes to the sink, rinsed them, and put them in the dishwasher. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a guy do something like that without prompting.

Sitting again, he made a few more notations on the list and pulled out his phone. “I'll start with public records. Can you check social media, news articles, anything that might tell us who Rebecca is?”

“Sure.” I fetched my laptop and rejoined him again at the table. For the next hour, we worked in silence, occasionally sharing what we'd found.

Rebecca Hartwell was forty-eight years old.

She lived in a city about an hour’s drive from here, and she worked as a marketing consultant for several high-end firms. Her LinkedIn profile looked polished and professional.

Her Instagram showed a carefully curated life of expensive restaurants, designer clothes, and exotic vacations.

“She has money,” I said, studying a photo of Rebecca on what looked like a yacht. “Why would she want Helga's estate?”

“Maybe she doesn't have as much as she wants people to think.” Feydin didn’t look up from his phone. “Or maybe it's not about money. Maybe it's about family.”

I scrolled through more photos. Rebecca at charity galas. Rebecca at wine tastings. Rebecca in what looked like a penthouse apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows.

She was beautiful in a sharp, polished way. Blonde hair always perfectly styled, makeup flawless, clothing that probably cost more than I made in a month at the greenhouse.

Looking at her made me acutely aware of my own appearance. My bargain-store clothes, my wild hair that refused to behave, my complete lack of sophistication.

If this woman really was Helga's daughter, what judge would choose me over her?

“Found something,” Feydin said, breaking into my spiral of self-doubt.

I leaned over to see his screen. He'd pulled up what looked like a genealogy website.

“Birth certificate,” he said, pointing to a scanned document. “Rebecca Marie Hartwell, born forty-eight years ago. Mother listed as Helga Margaret Morrison. ”

My stomach dropped. “So she really could be Helga's daughter.”

“It's possible.” His jaw was tight. “But birth certificates can be falsified. And even if it's real, it doesn't automatically invalidate Helga's will.”

“What do we do now?”

Feydin set down his phone and looked at me. “Now we respond to her text. Carefully. We agree to meet, but in a public place where we can control the situation.”

“Any idea where?”

“The tea shop. Tomorrow afternoon. Neutral ground, and Dorvak won't stand for any nonsense in his establishment.”

I nodded, grateful for Feydin’s steady presence. “What do I say to her?”

“Keep it simple. Professional.” He paused. “And Dazy? Don't let her intimidate you. You belong here. Whatever her claim might be, you have just as much right to this estate as she does.”

Maybe Dad was wrong. I wasn't in over my head.

With Feydin's help, I could fight for what was mine.

I typed out a response to Rebecca, my fingers steadier than they'd been since the text arrived.

Ms. Hartwell, I'd be happy to meet with you. How about tomorrow at 2 PM at Harmony Tea Shop here in Harmony Glen?

After I hit send, Feydin reached out and covered my hand with his.

“Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “you're not alone in this. ”

My heart did that flipping thing again. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. Wait until we win.”

For the first time since the text arrived, the confidence in his voice made me believe that we actually could.