Page 76 of Twisting Twilight (Homesteader Hearth Witch #9)

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The breathy exhale of heat when Arthur opened the front door sent a ripple of goose bumps down my skin.

I darted inside. The coarse weave of the rug immediately past the threshold reminded me I was barefoot and very filthy.

Remembering my manners, I shifted to the side of the entryway and waited for Arthur to welcome me into his home.

Sawyer and Thistle, feline and faelene, heeded no such manners and raced each other for the prime spot on the hearth.

There was the clunk of a bolt sliding into place as Arthur locked the door behind us, then his hand was on the small of my back.

“Welcome to Redbud Cottage,” he rumbled.

“Cody calls it that because there’s a big redbud that shades the back of the house, by the creek.

I’m not sure if you noticed it when you were here last.”

Last time I’d been smothered by infected bees and trying not to freak out.

He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not much, just a living room here and a small kitchen in the back…”

My eyes trailed down the corded muscle of his arm and past his finger as he pointed out the quaint cottage’s main features.

The open floor plan was interrupted only by the walls that sequestered the single bedroom in the back left corner and the full bath/laundry room that found space between the bedroom and kitchen.

A four-seater wooden table, with one chair far more worn than the rest, divided the kitchen from the living room where a very inviting fireplace took up most of the wall.

Just like my farmhouse.

There were more windows than pictures (none, actually), but I liked the sense of airiness they provided. And one hardly needed pictures when you could look out any window into the dazzling nature beyond.

Left of the door was an unclaimed space that he seemed to be using for his work gear and overflow food storage, judging by the shelves of honey and tallow and the extra-large chest freezer.

There were pegs in the wall there for coats and such; Arthur hung Faebane on a peg and set my pack on an unoccupied square of shoe rack just below.

Even after weeks of absence, it still smelled clean and faintly of forest. Of him.

And like him, it was unostentatiously authentic.

The cottage was simply and mishmashedly furnished—a true bachelor pad—but it was clean and tidy.

Inviting. It was a true, lived-in home with memories responsible for keeping the walls standing as much as the nails did.

The kind of place you could instantly relax in without worry of using the wrong hand towels in the bathroom or snuggling down with a throw blanket that was only for show. I could breathe here. Belong here.

My face half-turned to catch his eye. “It’s very cozy. Snug.”

He smiled, pleased. Gentle pressure from the hand on my back. “Won’t you come in?”

“Oh! I, uh, I’m filthy,” I protested, suddenly flustered. Suddenly—ridiculously—shy. “I didn’t want to track anything in.”

Thistle thorns. Where was the bold witch from the forest who’d declared she’d be staying with him tonight? Run off into the land of second-guesses, the coward.

“I have a broom.” The hand slid from my back, over my hip, and vanished. Arthur stepped off the rug and into his home. The space he provided alleviated my nerves, allowed me to settle in at my own pace. “It’s usually warmer by the fire instead of the front door too.”

I rolled my eyes at his teasing nudge, my shyness diffusing some and allowing a little confidence to return. This was the man I loved, so why the timidity? Because you’re finally making real what you’ve dreamed about and don’t want to mess it up.

Ugh, I needed to get out of my own head. After another shuffle of my feet to rid them of any remaining grime, just in case, I stepped off the entryway rug.

“Why don’t you rescue those steaks and I’ll grab some plates?” It was a simple ask, a baby step to making myself comfortable here.

He padded into the kitchen, leaving me to divert to the fireplace.

“Cold paws?” Sawyer smirked.

The tip of his tail flicked as I stepped between the cats that had lengthened themselves upon the floorboards before the hearth.

This one was different than mine, raised off the floor by brickwork high enough to serve as a sittable ledge.

A heated seat. I liked that idea very much.

Especially if it involved blankets and books and hot cocoa.

“No,” I lied, lifting the cast iron pan from the coals. The steaks were sizzling away in tallow and salt. Glorious.

“You fight mallaithe and defy demons and overthrow Stag Men yet shrivel up in the face of vulnerability?”

“Like you’re one to talk. You still haven’t told me the whole story about you and Thistle.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the two cats were together, however they defined that, and he was right. I was deflecting.

“Meadow.” Arthur’s voice was soft, the gentle touch of someone waking another from the deepest sleep.

I didn’t yelp this time, thank the Green Mother, but the pan still lurched in my hand. With a nervous chuckle, I rose from my crouch and noticed the mantle for the first time. It was polished walnut built into the bricks, wholly unremarkable by itself. But the carvings…

Arthur Greenwood was a whittler in his spare time, and a fine one at that.

I stared at my likeness as miniature Meadow Hawthornes smiled at a bee perched on her finger, lifted a loaf of bread to her face to inhale its aroma, looked over her shoulder with the breeze playing in her hair as she held a bundle of rosemary.

A little cherrywood chest separated these detailed figurines from the abstract ones.

More a study of form through movement than anything else, but still undeniably me.

“What is this?” I breathed.

“Y-you were, uh, on my mind. From time to time.”

“Or eight,” Sawyer said.

I’d never seen Arthur nervous before, but clearly there was a first time for everything. Worry that he’d overstepped, that his hobby seemed like maniacal obsession, flickered over his face.

“They’re beautiful,” I said.

The tension melted from his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the plates fading away. “They had a fantastic muse.”

I blushed and concentrated more than was necessary to slide the ribeyes out one at a time onto earthenware plates. Of course they would be rustic and beautiful, just like Arthur.

With a cock of his head, he gestured to the nearby table and the awaiting cutlery bedded on cloth napkins. Twin glasses of water. He’d had enough time to set the table while I’d only had the simple task of retrieving the skillet.

The man settled the plates and held my chair out for me.

Forcing a smile, I hurried forward and quickly took my seat.

With his hands still on the chair’s backrest, Arthur leaned down and placed a soft kiss on top of my head.

Reassuring. Steady. Yet all I could think about was how I hadn’t washed my hair in over a week. I probably still smelled of marsh.

He didn’t wait for me to take the first bite, as normal manners dictated. He quietly took the lead and kept his attention on his food and allowed me to do that same.

The pragmatic act of eating after a turbulent day was a balm to my nerves. The steaks were red in the middle and juicy and so nourishing it was hard not to moan with pleasure. After each bite, I shaved off thin pieces of meat and fat for the cats. Arthur noticed and portioned off from his own meal.

“You don’t have—” I began.

“They are my responsibility now too,” he interrupted. “One I’m glad to have.”

Because I am his and they are mine. The thought warmed me down to my bare toes and set a flock of butterflies free in my stomach.

Maybe it was discovering all these new things about Arthur—his home, his style (no-frills hunting lodge), the way he moved in his personal space—that had me so on edge.

These were the kinds of things you learned about a person on a first date, and we had definitely skipped that step.

He whistled to summon the cats as he rose to retrieve another plate from the kitchen.

In classic feline fashion, Sawyer and Thistle mewed and rubbed up against his legs as they waited impatiently for him to transfer both pyramids of meat onto opposite sides of the plate and set it on the floor already .

“Healthy appetites.”

“They are fully capable of catching their own food,” I said pointedly, but the cats ignored me. Why brave the cold outside for moles and mice when there was heat and juicy ribeye inside? “Y’all gonna get fat and lazy,” I muttered.

The tension eased some more as we finished dinner. When I offered to clean the plates—delaying, again—Arthur directed me to the bathroom. “Go get cleaned up and put yourself to bed, sweetheart. You’re hungry and tired and we already took care of the first one. I’ll do this.”

He’d been on the brink of death less than an hour ago and was going to do the dishes so I could get cleaned up first? And go straight to bed without any expectations? By the Green Mother, I didn’t deserve him.

“But—”

My bare feet slid across the tiled floor of the bathroom as he pushed me inside and shut the door after me. “I’d better hear the water running in five seconds,” he warned.

Bossy , I thought, though I smiled immediately afterward.

After I turned on the faucet, I got to snooping as the water heated.

Because that’s just what you did in an unfamiliar bathroom.

It was sparse; just the essentials. Four types of beard-care products, laundry soap, a cupboard of neatly stacked spare linens, basic toiletries, and oversized, luxuriously plush towels.

A pair of jeans hung on the peg slung over the door, threaded belt dangling.