Page 18

The irritation drains out of me, and I stare at Randy. Really assess him. From his neatly combed red hair to his beautiful green eyes.

He's been trying. I know he has. And realizing he packed all of this because he wanted to avoid inconveniencing me makes me feel like an ass for griping at him.

"Randy, I—"

When he meets my eyes, his eyes are sadder than I can stand.

"That's a good idea. Thank you, Randy."

He chuckles. "I have them occasionally."

I take one of his larger bags, and together we haul everything across the yard, around the wall, and through my front door.

I pull out some blankets and a pillow, and within moments, the fluffy couch is transformed into a makeshift bed. "You should be okay down here. It's pretty comfortable."

Randy sits and runs a hand through his hair. Suddenly, he looks more exhausted than I've ever seen him. His eyes find mine in the dark. "Thank you, Will."

Words catch in my throat, and I don't trust myself to do anything but nod.

As I head up to my room, part of me is relieved this day is over. But my mind is also dwelling on a leprechaun with sage-green eyes and wondering if I haven't been a little bit stubborn and closed-minded too.

Randy

"God dammit!"

The yell jolts me out of sleep so fast I topple off the couch. For a moment, I'm disoriented by the warm, colorful living room, plush furniture, and sweet scent of baking bread and cinnamon that I can't remember where I am.

Then yesterday's events come rushing back to me. The debris, the pumpkin, the mating bond, the spell gone wrong. It's hard to believe it all happened in a single day.

My mind returns to what woke me in the first place. The shout.

"Willoughby?" I call in a sleep-thick voice, but there's no answer.

I dust myself off, and leave the mess of blankets where they fell. I couldn't tell by the sound, but what if he's hurt himself? What if he's fallen somewhere? We aren't at the "fallen and can't get up" stage of life, thankfully. Leprechauns and gnomes can live well into their one-twenties. But we aren't spring pixies either.

As I peer into the kitchen and around the pantry, my anxiety creeps higher. I hear no footsteps from the bedroom upstairs. Because of the magic, I’m certain he’s close, so where is he?

My breathing quickens, and my palms begin to sweat. I swear I can feel my heartbeat in the tips of my fingers.

"Willoughby!" I call out more urgently.

A huffing noise draws my attention to an open window. Concerned, I head straight for the front door and push my way outside. I stumble and nearly miss the second step on Willoughby's stoop as the bright morning light temporarily blinds me.

"Will!" I call again, shielding my eyes with my hand. Everything is too bright. I don't like early mornings, but I especially don't like not being able to find my mate.

"Randy."

I look to the left and find Willoughby standing in the middle of his garden in a green and brown cable-knit sweater vest, multicolored scarf, and a floppy hat with patches. The sleeves of his V-neck shirt are rolled up, revealing thick forearms.

Despite the cool air, he has a sheen of sweat on his brow. Around him, much of the garden debris has already been carted away. The entire space is looking less like a rubble heap and more like a healthy garden.

I scan him from the top of his droopy hat to his boots and find no obvious injuries. My whole body slumps in relief.

"Randy, what's wrong?" he asks.

I walk toward him in the garden, trying to keep my pace even and not launch at him in a panic. Judging by the wariness in Willoughby's eyes, I'm not entirely successful.

I stop just in front of him. Close enough to truly verify that he's all right.