This is the first time I’ve attempted to create and fulfill orders on the road, and so far, it’s been manageable. It’s a good thing I’m not much of a fashionista. I only need half a suitcase for my belongings, and that leaves the other half, plus another bag for hauling my business stuff around the world. Two 3D printers and all the molds, beads, and polymers for picky pads are surprisingly easy to carry.
I’m proud of myself for having the forethought to ask for the time off to set up.
By the time I’ve finished with my skincare, I’m much more at ease.
My headache has dulled to a barely there ache behind my temples, so with any luck, a good night’s sleep will banish it completely.
The urge to thank Alaric for what he did for me tonight is strong, but I resist sending him a text. It’s better if I wait and track him down around the paddock in the next few days.
Remembering his original request, I pick up my phone and cue up a duplicate of the fidget I gave him on one of my printers.
Once I’ve selected the right template, I change the quantity to three. I’ll give him two, that way he can keep one in his office. Then I’ll keep the other as a backup.
As I lower my phone to the counter, three sharp knocks sound from the other side of the door.
Startling, I drop the device into the empty sink.
“Evangeline?” Alaric calls.
My heart rate spikes, hammering double time in my chest.
What in the world is he still doing here?
“I’m about to head out. I just?—”
Mind whirling, I grip the bathroom door handle and yank, then charge through the bedroom and swing that door open as well.
His eyes widen, his jaw unhinging as he drags his attention down my body. When he gets to my bare legs, he quickly forces himself to focus on my face.
“I…” He falters.
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to take that long,” I explain.
Why is he still here?
And why did I rush over and open the door while I’m wearing nothing but a robe?
His brow softens, concern and compassion clear in his eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he tells me. “I wanted to say goodbye. The dishes are done and the leftovers are in the fridge.”
Leftovers? Like he made more than that one serving for me? My heart skips a beat at that.
“I tidied up the beads. Hopefully I sorted them the way you like. If there’s something else I can do…” He trails off, searching my face.
Popping up on my tiptoes, I peek over his shoulder.
Sure enough, the kitchen is spotless. The stray piles of beads are neatly sorted and organized. My supplies are all in order, in stark opposition to the way they were when he walked in.
A mix of gratitude and shame slams into me. My emotions overwhelm me, my chest constricting and threatening to cave in on itself.
I sniffle away the itchy sensation in my nose. I’m only slightly successful. But I power on, opening my mouth to thank him. To apologize for being such a mess. To express what it means that he cooked for me. To tell him how grateful I am that he stepped in and took care of things the way he did.
But despite all the things I want to say, no words come out.
His deep brown eyes home in on my face, the compassion there morphing into concern, then alarm.
“Evangeline,” he says softly, his tone sincere but not at all contrite or aggravated like it should be.
And that’s what fucking does it.
