Page 108 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

“He wants a home, yes. But don’t we all?” She leaned forward, placing her cool dry hand over mine, giving it a pat. “But more than anything, I think he wants to have fun, and to have someone to love.”

CHAPTER39

~ James ~

Ireally needed to make sure Char didn’t offer Mrs. Laven any more respite care. I’d been suffering through pirate jokes for two days. We were currently curled up on my parents’ couch after a long, busy Sunday morning, both of us spent. Or maybe Char was just pretending, and was actually scheming more ways to tease me about the story Mrs. Laven had shared about me running around in my undies and an eye patch.

Yesterday, the scrap workers had come back to finish the warehouse siding, wedging the job between two others. Then, by some small miracle, Char had then gotten the frame levelled this morning. She had a lot of contacts for someone who’d only been in the city a few years, and I supposed working somewhere new every few weeks or months widened one’s circle.

Maybe this park could truly be created in the short timespan Char had allowed herself. Although, in order to do that, the next month and a half would be packed, meaning we’d be unlikely to rummage up enough time to do things like take in the Stampede together. I’d been hoping to check out some of the concerts, the rodeo, free shows, or to simply wander the midway and feed each other cotton candy. On the flipside, I never wanted to hold her back from living her own life or following her dreams.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t jealous of the time she spent on the park, though.

“Okay, I have to mow the lawn.” She stood, leaving the room.

“But…” The spot where she’d been leaning against me felt cold.

“Next week’s a busy one,” she called from the kitchen. “Joan’s put me back at my old level, which means more challenging work and longer hours.”

I already missed spending time with Char.

“And higher pay,” I called back.

Char dipped her head around the doorjamb, smiling. “And higher pay.”

There was my Char.

Before she could pull the mower from the garage, I grabbed it and started on the front, determined to help in hopes of gaining a bit more time with her today.

“I’ll do the gardens,” she shouted over the sound of the motor.

I kept missing strips of the lawn, my mower heading off crooked as I watched Char bend and crouch over the flower beds. It was a nice view no matter which direction she faced, and I was lucky I hadn’t mowed my own feet in my distraction.

I moved to the backyard, then put the mower away. I came around to the front where Char was watering the flowers. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, bottom lip between her teeth—a sure sign she was thinking about her park. She’d shed her gardening gloves, but at some point had touched her cheek, leaving a streak of dirt.

I stepped to her side, reaching for her face. She startled, the nozzle of the sprayer turning my way along with her body. Cold water drenched my face and trickled down my chest.

I sputtered, the freezing water a shock.

“Sorry! You scared me.”

She was half-laughing, and I grabbed the sprayer, wrestling it from her grip and getting drenched in the process. I turned it on her and she shrieked, pivoting a shoulder between the jet of cold water and herself.

Soaked, her shirt clinging to her curves, she lunged at me. I laughed, releasing the hose to her, then spun and ran, the jet blasting me. Grabbing the hose at my feet, I kinked it, stopping the stream. Then I stole the sprayer back and turned it on her again, chasing her into the house where I abandoned it, catching her breathlessly in my arms and kissing her in the entry.

She kicked the front door closed.

* * *

It was getting harderand harder not to confess to Char that I loved her. I wanted to hold her every moment of the day, and I dreaded going home each night. But I could tell she wasn’t ready yet. Not for the full power of my feelings for her.

I wished she’d hurry up.

At the same time, I was loving every second we spent together, and especially the soft quiet ones that would never make it into a memoir. Moments like this one, where we were in the kitchen, our hair still damp from our water fight.

Char was in dry shorts that hug her hips, and I was in a pair of my dad’s old sweats and a tee. Bodies humming, we were making a stir fry in the kitchen, chopping veggies. I paused to offer Char a sliver of carrot, a snap pea, a sprout.

It sounded weird, but I liked feeding her. And as lame and corny as it all was, she seemed to love it, her eyes glittering with happiness. Contentment.

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