Page 26 of The Mechanics of Broomstick Racing

“Close your eyes!” she ordered, pushing him out of the shed. She left her boots in the car and regretted that choice as soon as her feet touched the frigid ground. Thank the gods for socks. “Whatever you do, don’t look at the lawn.”

“Seems like that would make walking difficult.”

“Figure it out, Finnegan,” she said. “It’s for your own—oh, shit.”

“What? Is everything okay?”

“Yes and no,” she blabbered. “I forgot to run this by Dale.”

He glanced at the cabin warily. “Dale? Your familiar? What, do I have to ask his permission to date you?”

“That might help, actually.”

“I find the tradition of asking a man’s permission to date a woman weird, and I’m not going against that for a bird.”

“Ugh, I hate that I love that you have rigid principles.” She let him go, slipped off his jacket, and tossed it at him. “Give me a minute. Meet me on the porch.”

It was freezing outside, but he did really love her porch. He’d be fine. She just needed to handle Dale.

Zephyr slipped inside, padding through the cozy living room and bounding up the narrow stairway that led to the master bedroom upstairs. The upstairs used to be two bedrooms, sharing a bathroom between them, but in the years she was gone, her parents had removed a few walls and her childhood bedroom had disappeared forever.

At least her parents had sort of made up for it by leaving her the cabin once they had purchased their RV and taken off into the wild.

She had expected to find Dale sleeping in the middle of her pillow. When he wasn’t there, she ran through the house until she found him nestled in a hand towel on the kitchen counter, surrounded by birdseed. She had left the paper bag out, and he’d torn a huge gash in it, gorged himself, and fallen asleep. Zephyr patted his head and cleaned the mess, dumping the birdseed into a plastic container and snapping on the lid. There. Dale-proof. Probably.

With her familiar taken care of, safe and warm and oblivious to the man under his roof, Zephyr bounced to the side door that connected her tiny living room to the porch. She reminded herself with each step to slow down, but couldn’t convince her feet or her racing heart to comply.

At first glance, she thought Neil had left. The porch was empty, and it took her several panicky minutes to locate his form emerging from the shadows.

“What are you carrying?” she asked, watching him climb back onto the porch, brush past her, and leave the porch for her living room. She followed, hot on his heels. “Is that wood? Where did you find—”

“You have a woodpile.”

“I have a woodpile?” She blinked.

Neil cocked a brow. “Did you think I was chopping wood in the dark?”

“I’d like to imagine so.”

“Of course you do.” He shook his head, scanning her living room until he settled on something. “This is for the wood-stove.”

“Cozy.” Zephyr watched him inspect the black iron stove, clean out old ash and grime, and fill it with the logs he’d carried inside. It was fascinating to watch him—he moved as if he had lived there for years. But once the stove was lit, the fire gently crackling, he looked lost again.

It lasted only for a second. He grabbed the quilt hanging off her couch, flicked it out a few times, and laid it carefully on the carpet. Her obscene number of throw pillows were thrown down as well, forming a cozy nest in front of the fire. Was he treating her as if she were a bird? She wasn’t sure if she should be offended or just amused.

Zephyr grabbed a pillow, hugging it to her chest as she sat on the floor with her back resting against the couch. She pulled off her soggy socks, tossing them toward the front door. Neil sat next to her, and his fidgeting began.

“You’re happier with something to do,” she observed. She had thought them so different from each other. But it appeared Neil hated sitting still, too. It sparked a hope she was afraid to voice or even think about.

“I like solving problems. Not the emotional kind.” He looked through the front picture window, frowning. “I saw the lawn. It’s a problem.”

“Neil, you’re not mowing my lawn in the dark. People are going to think you’re crazy.”

“Not crazy. I’m bewitched.”

“Oh, that was so lame.” Zephyr stood, pulling him up with her. “Come upstairs. Do not test the railing.”

The upstairs was all her design. Her parents had sold their furniture to help pay for their camper, so Zephyr had spent her first week in town at the thrift store to gather mismatched, heavy wooden dressers and a bedframe. The wall facing the front of her house only had a small, circular window. But the wall facing the east? Zephyr had replaced it with glass. At this hour, only the stars and the shadows of trees could be seen. But in the morning, it was a beautiful streak of pastels—orange, yellow, and the soft blues of dawn.