Page 44 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
“It’s done?” I ask, perking up. I’ve loved watching the little fox come to life more and more each time I see it, and I can’t wait to see what Finn deems as the finished version. “Show me?”
So he leads me across our yard by the hand, taking me into his workshop, walking me past the gravestones and toward the back. I’ve been in here before, obviously, and taken a million pictures. But now I get to see the finished work.
It’s gorgeous. It’s all made out of stone, but I can see the cunning trickiness in its little eyes. I can see each tuft of fur, and some part of my brain really believes they’d move in the wind. “Wow,” I breathe. I meant to take pictures, but I’m too enraptured taking it all in.
“Thanks,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “The face took forever.”
“It’s so life-like,” I murmur, stepping closer. I keep my hands behind my back, mindful not to touch, but I bend down to stare directly into its little eyes.
“Yeah, that was the issue. But I finally got it.”
“When does she get delivered?” I ask, deciding the fox is female. She’s so alive that it feels rude to call herit.
“The twins said they could do it tomorrow, and my buyer is ready to accept delivery. She’s impatient, actually. She’s been waiting a while for this—put herself on my waiting list well over a year ago.”
“Can I go with them?” I’d love to see the fox in its final home. Plus, it’d make for some great pictures.
“If I looked up the directions correctly, it’ll be four hours of driving,” he warns.
“That’s fine. I have tomorrow off.” I turn to look at him, trying to feel out how likely he is to let me go. He looks a little distressed, and I don’t like that at all. “What?”
“I hate you spending your only day off working a second job for me,” he says. “Feels like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“Are you suddenly not planning on paying me?”
“Oh no, I am. Generously, I might add. You should see what this customer is paying for this,” he says, resting one of his hands on the fox’s spine.
I’m sure the number would make me physically ill and proud of him simultaneously. “Then that’s fine; I’m working.” I hesitate for a second, but decide if this is a real relationship, then I should tell him what I’ve been thinking about. “I’m thinking that after the town meeting, I’ll quit my current job. Assuming you still want me to work.” I need to make sure I’m staying in town before I commit to a job that I’d be sad to lose.
What happens if I lose at the town meeting now? Does my whole relationship end? Or do Finn and I move back into his apartment upstairs? It’d work fine for the two of us, but still. It’s not my home. And would the rest of town be mad at me for skirting the rules, or would they be happy I found a way around them?
“I’m thinking your first check will clear on Friday,” he says, unaware of where my thoughts turned. “And if you like this job, then it’s yours forever.”
I can’t suppress my smile. I like that future he’s imagining. “Let me take some pictures before you pack it up,” I say. “Can you turn on your light?”
The intense work lights help me get good shots, and I take dozens. I’m tempted to take some pictures of him, too—Finn looks edible, shirtless and proud next to his hard work—and it’s a damn shame I can’t show him off on his own social media. “I’ll sort through these tonight and make some content for you, and I’ll take more tomorrow. Also, I need to go through your DMs and sort out who’s window-shopping and who’s serious about maybe wanting to get on your list.”
He wraps an arm around my waist. “If they seem at all serious, give me their names. I don’t mind talking to them on the phone or through email, and I can figure out what their goals are and if they’re something I’ll do.”
It feels like we’re a little team, a feeling only solidified when I help him shut all the lights and seal up the workshop for the night.
“So, what’s for dinner?” I ask him teasingly. But also, for all I know, he’s already prepared a three-course meal. He’s like that, determined to take things off my plate.
“Still in the crockpot and needs another hour,” he informs me, confirming my suspicions. “But in the meantime—you once promised I could see your art, and you never took me to your craft room.”
I duck my head. “You didn’t look? You found everything else in the house.”
“Hey. I found the mop and the vacuum and the Tupperware. I didn’t go through your private stuff. I wouldn’t.”
I know that. I knew he wouldn’t go through anything I didn’t want him to, which is why I can trust him in my home. “It’s not that impressive.”
These crafts are hobbies I run through, discard, and pick up again. None of them are masterpieces. I’m no artist, unlike the man next to me who fully admitted he sells his art for obscene amounts of money, and who I’ve got a first-hand look at how in-demand he is.
“Cassidy.”
I’m already getting used to him calling mebabyorwifeunless he’s serious, so my real name makes me give him my full attention. “Yeah?”
“I want to see things that make you happy.”
