It would mean people.
I’d have to deal with a lot of them.
And I just didn’t want to.
So I stuck with my pottery that, while it wasn’t ever going to make me rich, at least helped keep me comfortable.
Even that I could scale up if I genuinely wanted to. As it stood, I was on backorder. And I only did batches once per season. If I produced and shipped more frequently, I could make more money.
But more money for what?
I was happy with my little life.
Or, if not happy, then content.
Content was nothing to sneeze at.
Happiness was fleeting.
It slipped through your hands like sand, leaving you sad and empty afterward.
Content was better.
More sustainable.
“I have one big jar. You’re going to have to come back after the summer yield is in, so I have more supplies for it.”
“I can make that work,” she agreed, looking eager as I went into the storage drawers built into the steps to my bedroom loft and pulled out the mason jar full of her beloved youth cream.
“Try to make it last,” I added as she pulled the lid off immediately and spread it on her hands. “There is at least six weeks before I can harvest, then there is drying time, and time to make it.”
“So, what I am hearing is, that I can come back in about seven and a half weeks.”
“That should be fine,” I agreed, following her as she made her way to the door.
“Be careful, okay?” Nyx asked.
“I will. I promise. And thanks again,” I said, giving her a smile that felt foreign on my face.
“Smart move with the wig, though, Red,” she said, giving me a wink before moving down the path toward her car.
Alone, I turned my head to glance at the mirror beside the door—an antique round one framed in time-worn copper—really looking at myself for the first time in a long time.
I looked a little thinner than I remembered, my cheekbones going a bit hollow beneath. But there was still that milky-white skin that got me teased endlessly in school, that made me need to wear a hat and long sleeves if I was going to be in the sun for too long. The freckles over my nose and dusting the upper part of my cheekbones let me know that I’d been a little too lax about the hat, seeing as the clusters were denser than before.
There was the same straight nose, the same somewhat downturned lips that made nearly every man I passed most of my life demand that I “smile” for them.
There were the same light blue eyes under the brows that matched my hair.
The hair that made it necessary to wear a wig when I did a job. Sometimes, I even wore a wig when I went into town. Just to avoid the conversations.
Because when you had a mass of curly, natural red hair, people invariably said something.
Women, typically, complimented. Innocently.
Men, though, seemed to fetishize redheads.
You could say that my tolerance for that was on the floor.
So wearing one of my wigs was just easier.
Shaking my head, I turned away from myself and got back to my work.
All was calm and normal in my perfect little hermit’s homestead for the next few days as I waited for a chance to get close to Kyle once again and finish the job.
And then… there was a knock at my door.
I’d already spoken to Everleigh about the job, reassuring her that I was going to finish it.
So it wasn’t her.
It must have been Nyx.
Coming back to say something else or ask for a different cream or salve. Which I’d happily give her. I didn’t have much to give in the way of friendship, but I did have my little homemade products to keep Nyx coming back for more.
“Did you want some of that hair mask to—“ I started as I pulled open the door.
But not to Nyx.
Oh, no.
To someone I never anticipated seeing again.
Let alone finding him darkening my door.
But there he was with his arm rested above the doorjamb, his body leaning forward, the sun behind his back, setting him a bit in shadow.
Crow.
CHAPTER FIVE
Crow
Kyle had been, as I suspected and as Jack had confirmed, a complete and utter shithead.
After getting him to let me in and convincing him to talk, making up some story about how we must have dated the same chick or something because she’d poisoned us both, he’d invited me into the room—decked out in nineteen-seventies decor, all olive tones and yellow carpets with a floating headboard and a flatscreen encased in a locked plastic box to prevent it from getting jacked—dropped down on the bed, and cracked open a warm beer.
Catching me looking at the TV, he’d scoffed, waving his beer at it, sloshing the liquid all over his hand, the comforter, and the carpet in the process.