Page 41 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

Where Indy Hears a Sad Story

A stranger knew me better than I knew myself.

Aunt Agnes did everything she could for all of us.

She cared for me like a daughter, but I missed my mom.

I missed her every day. Uncle Fern tucked me in and told me stories, but my dad abandoned me.

I remembered my father walking out the door, suitcase in hand, never bothering to look back, even as I begged.

That artificer stood outside, her hair like spun gold and dress too vibrant to gaze upon.

She used her scepter as a hair piece so no one could miss it, so we knew exactly who he left us for.

Mom held me close, promising things would be alright, but they never were.

While my aunt and uncle did what they could to make us a home, I always felt guilty that they had to take me in, so I’d done what I could to make up for it.

I hadn’t caused trouble. I worked at the farm and a second job to earn my keep.

I didn’t ask for anything because I would get it myself, and I did my best to ensure they never had to ask for anything.

If I would be their burden, then I would relieve as many burdens as I could.

Just then, a Mr.-Hawthorne-shaped creature emerged from the kitchen in a pair of fuzzy slippers and a worn blanket.

In his hand, he held that large jug of coffee that he slurped down with a satisfied smack of his lips.

Those lips—his entire face, in fact—were surrounded by a pale green foam, and a handful of curlers were in his hair.

When he caught sight of me, his eyes widened, and he threw the blanket over his head.

“Do not perceive me before my morning coffee!” the creature bellowed and took into a run, or tried to.

His slippers were not meant for chase, and they caught on the end of the carpet runner, sending him and the coffee flying.

The jug shattered, and coffee soaked into the runner.

He grunted when he hit the ground, not bothering to catch himself or move, choosing rather to lay there and groan.

“I’m ruined,” he cried against the carpet.

“If it makes you feel any better, I never expected anything less from you,” I said through my snickering. His appearance dulled the turbulent emotions the professor had wrought. For that moment, all I saw was him and all I felt was joy.

“It does not, in fact.”

“Your dramatics truly know no bounds.” I knelt at his side, where the foam-like substance seeped into the runner.

“Please, leave me here to die,” he grumbled.

“Are you sure? That would ruin your rug.”

“It is ruined already, forever stained by my humiliation.”

“And whatever gunk you have on your face.” I poked his cheek, jumping when he actually raised his head to reveal a catastrophe. He left a rather perfect indentation of his face in the foam, and what remained on his cheeks was smudged and caught in his loose hair.

“Gunk?” he repeated, aghast. “This is a highly effective foam face mask that helps maintain my gloriously smooth and shiny skin.”

“Another of your designs? ”

“Unfortunately, no.” He sat on his knees, where he proceeded to dejectedly tug the curlers from his hair.

“I must buy it from a botanist friend of Otis’s, who will not share their recipe.

I have been struggling for years, but nothing has surmounted her divine genius.

” His hair fell in loose curls around his slumped shoulders.

Standing with as much dignity as he could muster, which was hardly any, he stuck up his nose and declared, “If you will excuse me, I must wash up.”

“Yes, you should before you give anyone a fright with all that gunk on your face.” I smiled at his pointed glare. He did not like the word gunk.

“Wait in the kitchen,” he said. “I will be making breakfast momentarily.”

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I’ve said before that I am a man of excessive skills, haven’t I?”

“I haven’t witnessed those skills you speak of, so I’ve questioned your earlier statement.”

Mr. Hawthorne had the audacity to turn and kick his slipper at me. I narrowly dodged, only for the second slipper to hit me in the chest. Apparently, one of his skills was distracting with one slipper to land a blow with the other. By the time I looked up, he and his worn blanket were gone.

I wandered into the kitchen to start breakfast in his stead.

It was the least I could do, and the silence would eat away at me.

Without a distraction, I thought of the monster I may become on the full moon.

But when I reached for a skillet, the thing flew off.

I jumped for the skillet, and it flew even higher. This house got weirder everyday.

Seeing as I was banned from cooking, I poured a glass of coffee for Mr. Hawthorne and a glass of juice for myself.

Ivy deemed that appropriate, and I sat at the island to wait for Mr. Hawthorne.

My fingers tapped and tapped against the glass, reminding me of claws.

I thought I saw them sprouting out of my nailbeds, so I shut my eyes, and when next they opened, the nails were gone.

Mr. Hawthorne entered, his worn blanket replaced by a canary yellow blouse and white trousers.

He was brave to wear that while cooking.

The gems in his ears matched, catching the sun and giving him an aura of summer.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing his toned arms. Two buttons were undone on his shirt to give a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. My eyes lingered longer than they should have.

He thanked me for the coffee and went to the stove to get to work. My feet crossed at the ankles, and I swung my legs. I usually wasn’t the one waiting, always cooking breakfast for the girls, hard at work at the farm or the tavern, and coming home too exhausted to do much more than sleep.

Since being at Ivory House, I’d learned what it was like to have leisurely days.

I’d gone into town more than I ever had in my life.

I’d bought jewelry and worn beautiful dresses, and now I sat at the table watching a man cook breakfast for me.

While I may have imagined a life like that, I never thought it would come true.

I knew this wasn’t the future waiting for me, but in that moment, I dared to want it. Dared to want this exactly…

My feet hit the island, knocking a handful of cooking utensils onto the floor. Mr. Hawthorne turned at the sound of the clatter. Apologizing, I got to cleaning them, relieved to hide my warm face behind the island.

“Um, you said earlier you can cook…” I shoved the last of the utensils in place and stood, putting on a teasing smile. “But are you a good cook?”

He dropped bacon into a second skillet while sprinkling sage across the eggs. “Careful how you speak to the chef, Miss Moore. I may give you a poor meal out of spite.”

“I’ll choose to believe it was your lack of skills.”

He sent me a playful look that warmed my chest. He dropped our toast onto a plate, and I hurried over. We stood shoulder to shoulder while I buttered the toast. I could move but found myself wanting to linger there until my work was done.

Slate dove in through the open window to land on the counter.

He stared at us, and I couldn’t help but sense his judgment.

Mr. Hawthorne made no mention of him while I ripped a piece of bread to present as an offering.

Slate accepted and took to perching on the windowsill, remaining our vigilant protector. Of what, I wasn’t sure .

Finishing the toast, I took it to the island and sat back down. “You should have let me handle breakfast. The three of you have been hard at work.”

“And you have been stressed. You can afford a few days of leisure.” He flipped the bacon and poured the eggs onto our awaiting plates.

“While I appreciate it, I don’t need to be taken care of. You have done, and are doing, more than enough. I can cook for myself,” I countered because, frankly, leisure felt like the last activity I should be partaking in.

“You are a troublesome thing.” He shook the skillets one last time before plating our bacon.

After sitting the plates down, he took his seat and a bite of toast, waving it about as he proclaimed, “Cooking for you doesn’t mean you can’t cook.

Otis cooks for me all the time, which is mostly because he wakes at an outrageous hour and I have a careful routine to follow. ”

“Your gunk routine?” I smiled at the way his lips immediately fell.

“My face care routine,” he corrected. “And you wouldn’t speak so lowly of it if you gave it a try.

It is about more than beauty. It is about comfort.

Your days will be ten times brighter, as will all of ours as we wouldn’t have to tolerate your foul mood.

But, as I was saying, you should let people do things for you every now and again. ”

Mr. Hawthorne shoved the rest of the toast into his mouth.

“I don’t like it,” I muttered.

“You must have been the life of the party in your village.” A silence enveloped us, interrupted by him clearing his throat. “I meant no offense.”

“No, you’re right. Professor Kumir said Carline went after me because I’m isolated. I didn’t want to believe her, but she’s right,” I whispered while pushing my food around the plate.

He didn’t appear surprised to hear that.

“Did she discuss it with you?” I asked.

“She shared theories and said she would speak further with you on the matter,” he admitted over the rim of his cup.

I took a bite that I didn’t have the motivation to chew. “You must agree with her, then. Only a fool wouldn’t. ”

His silence spoke volumes.

“You know, for a few years now, I dubbed myself the less-than-a-year girlfriend. No one has tolerated me for more than a year. I’m boring, frugal, no fun.”

“Dating isn’t for the lighthearted,” he said, with his arms raised. “As you can see, no one is knocking down my doors.”

“Your doors are thousands of feet in the air.”