Page 35 of Hand Picked
“Well, actually—”
“Don’t you dare answer,” I told him quickly. “Gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you again soon.”
She sighed. “Send me pictures of the sheep, or I’m gonna come up there and see them for myself. Love you, Lukey.”
I assured her that I loved her, too, before we hung up… though I couldn’t rememberwhyat that moment.
“Wow.” I cleared my throat and set the phone on the counter. “That was intensely mortifying.”
“It’s sweet,” Webb corrected. “My mom died when I was seven, but I like to think she’d’ve been like yours. You love her a lot.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Yeah.” My throat went tight. “I do.”
“And she’s… sick?”
“Her lungs, yeah. It was touch and go there for a minute. She’s doing better now, but I still worry.” I shrugged.
Webb nodded. He didn’t ask me why I’d lied about my situation up here. He didn’t assure me that she’d be fine or remind me to think positively. He just watched me silently. Patiently.
It was shockingly intimate, having someone study me that closely. And even though he wasn’t saying a word and hadn’t moved his behind from the bench seat the whole time he’d been in here, I couldn’t help but feel… surrounded by him.
It was wonderful. Terrifyingly wonderful.
“So, the fairy tale?”
“Right.” I dusted my hands on my sweatpants casually, trying to hide the way my heart was pounding. I sat on the bed while Webb leaned over to grab another spoon out of the dish strainer. He handed it to me along with the remainder of the ice cream.
“You want the long version of the fairy tale or the short?” I asked.
“Thewholeversion.” He twisted in his seat to face me. “The real version.”
“Okay, then.” I cleared my throat and stabbed at the ice cream. “Once upon a time, an overworked, underpaid elementary school teacher’s mother encouraged him to enter an essay contest she’d found in the back of her fiber arts magazine—”
“Fiber arts magazine?”
“Yup.” I licked my spoon. “TheWool Gatherer Quarterly. I only ever read it for the articles, but my mom reads it cover to cover—”
His lips twitched. “You? Read theWool Gatherer Quarterly?”
“Not only read, I sometimes create patterns for them,” I said, lifting my chin proudly. “Crochet, usually. I also knit, and spin, and weave… when I have a loom.”
“Ah. That’s cool.” He fingered the blanket again.
“I think so. It’s a creative outlet, and I get to enjoy the finished product. Teaching is awesome, but when you’re dealing with kids, there’s no immediate gratification—”
Webb nodded. “Like parenting.”
He ran his big hand over the soft blanket once more. It did funny things to my stomach, and I filled my mouth with a huge spoonful of ice cream so I wouldn’t be tempted to do something stupid, like beg him to touch me that way.
He is straight, Luke.And he’s not meant for you.
“Anyway, as I was saying. The ad said something like, ‘Craft a better life! What would you do with forty idyllic acres of rural, partially forested land, complete with enclosed pastures and an elegant farmhouse, nestled in the heart of New England? Tell us your fairy tale, and this castle could beyours in perpetuity!’”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
I laughed. “So many people told me that. But, I dunno. My mom was so excited, and I wanted to believe it could be real, so… I did it. I poured out the dream of my heart.”
“Which was…?” Webb prompted when I paused.
