Page 33 of Must Love Libraries and Libations
The gate creaked softly open, as if the cottage was inviting me in.
I had to make the party work. The payment for planning the event would put me this close to having enough coin to at least try to negotiate for the cottage. I was ready for a place of my own. I really needed to get out of my parents’ house. But more, I just wanted to be somewhere…soft. I wanted to come home to a place that brought me peace.
I closed my eyes and let myself dream.
I saw neat rows of herbs blooming in the raised beds, the scents of basil, mint, and lavender lingering on the breeze. I envisioned a steaming teacup sitting on a long garden table alongside a basket of scones from The Sconery. And then I saw myself, apron-clad, laughing as I conjured bubbles for my children, who ran in circles around me.
And sitting on the porch in a sun-dappled chair, sleeves rolled up, a small child nestled in his arms, was…Erasmus. The baby had a tuft of curly black hair, stone-colored skin, pointed elven ears, and little wings folded tightly against its back. The child reached for a passing bubble, laughing as the bubble bobbed past. Erasmus smiled and kissed the baby on the head, then looked up at me, his eyes full of pure love.
I blinked, startled.
What?
I shook my head, but my cheeks reddened.
No. No way was that ever going to happen.
Annoyed by the gargoyle’s intrusion into my fantasy, I turned and made my way away from the cottage and the vision.
Nope. Not possible. Not remotely possible, and very dangerous for me to be imagining. The last thing I need is to fall for an infuriating man who kissed me then dissed me. Nope. Not happening.
But as much as I mentally protested, the vision clung to me, soft and warm as a late-summer breeze.
I slipped through the front door of the house just in time to hear my mother’s voice drifting from the parlor.
“And the trim! Like a tutu on a drapery rod. I couldn’t let her go on like that. The whole village can see those curtains. I told her. I said, ‘Sylvia, your windows look ready for ballet.’”
Peering around the corner, I saw poor Bilbi was fast asleep—or at least pretending to be—as my mother regaled the dog with all the latest town gossip. For once, I was glad she was so loud. I was able to slip past her more easily.
“And the color!” she began once more. “Pale blue. I mean, really. Pale blue…” and on and on she went.
I slipped up the stairs to my bedroom, but I was surprised when I opened the door and found my father sprawled across my bed reading a gardening almanac.
“Hi, Pumpkin,” he said casually, not looking up.
“What are you doing?” I asked, confused.
“Reading about enchanted compost,” he said, then lowered the book, looking at me over his round spectacles. “She never looks for me in your room.”
I chuckled.
My father swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, tucking the book under his arm. “I’ll head out that way,” he said, pointing to the window. “Less chance of being recruited to rearrange the spice cabinet.”
My father opened my bedroom window, then whispered to the tree in Elvish. A branch lowered to meet him.
Moving spryly, he stepped out the window toward it.
“Careful, Dad.”
He grinned at me, then paused, tilting his head as he studied me. “You’ve got a sparkle about you. Something going on?”
“Nothing! I’m fine,” I said too quickly and too loudly.
My father grinned knowingly. “You want me to meet your beau?”
“My what? No. No, no. There’s no beau.”
“If you say so,” he said with a grin, then slipped off the ledge and into the tree like it was the most natural thing in the world.
