Bookishly Ever After (Ever After #1)(86)
Aedan bounded the rocks like they were nothing and pulled her close. “You’re never going to be alone.” Instead of struggling, she leaned against him and let herself soak in his strength and warmth. His chest rumbled when he spoke, his words vibrating through to her core. “We’ll stand together. Legend be damned.”
She laughed, but it was a hopeless laugh. That wrecking ball had turned into a bulldozer. Soon. “You and me, it’s all like a bad fairytale, isn’t it?” Aedan made it sound so possible, like this fantasy could be real, like they could stand against a century of prophecies and rules. She breathed in his scent of sea and clover one last time. “It was always meant to be this way. The Harper is supposed to fight without support from anyone. Not even you.” She had to say goodbye, break away, and take her stand. Touching his cheek lightly, she whispered, “We weren’t supposed to be together, anyway.”
Maeve slipped out of his arms, but his hand wrapped tightly around her harp-hand. His eyes met hers and she couldn’t look away.
“Enough of letting stories dictate what I can and cannot do or how either of us can feel.” He said. “I want to stay with you. I will support you while you fight to save both our worlds. We will win this fight.” He bent forward until his lips brushed hers, so light it could have been a breath except for the fire that rose up in her at his touch. “Please.”
What she heard in that “please” undid her. “If the gates fall, save yourself. Go somewhere safe.” She turned instinctively towards where the gates should open.
His hand gave hers a squeeze before letting go. “Safety is nothing without you.” He moved behind her, a warm shadow.
“Stubborn.”
“Says the redhead.”
She laughed and took her position between the worlds, fingers poised over the harp strings while Aedan’s arms anchored her firmly in their world. Anticipation and fear coiled up in her, like a harp string tuned too tight. “Let it come.”
50
The clearing in front of the mess hall was filled with hay wagons packed with campers, their voices filling the quickly darkening sky. Even though it wasn’t fall, the night was that perfectly crisp kind that was just right for a hayride. Willing myself not to shake, I tugged the sleeves of my merino sweater over my hands and slipped my fingers into the thumbholes before reaching up to grab Dev’s hand. Even the few seconds of contact though the wool as he helped me up into the wagon were enough to send tingles up my arm and straight down my spine.
“You look…abnormally nice for the woods,” he said before quickly letting go of my hand and turning his attention to locking up the back of the wagon.
I let a tiny smile break through my nerves. I had trolled this Juliet pattern on Ravelry for ages before finally giving in, and knitting it in the Woolbearers rosewood colorway that almost made my hair and eyes look pretty. It was totally a Grace-approved sweater.
“I figured it would be cold out. This is local wool.” An evil little Marissa-like part of me was tempted to stick my arm out and ask him if he wanted to pet the sweater, but I held back and dropped onto a mound of hay at the back of the wagon across from him. My secret project, slipped up my sleeve, dug into my arm and my stomach started churning again.
One positive: if I threw up, at least I could blame it on the hayride.
The campers were wound up and, just as the wagon started moving, hay began flying.
“Whoa. Hay stays in the wagon!” Dev called out, ducking in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid a bundle of hay thrown his way. At the front of the wagon, Cassie and Mike were also trying to keep their campers—and the hay—from flying out into the dark woods around us.
A few more minutes of chaos and then Dev’s voice carried over the dark night in an old, ridiculous camp-y song. Silly as it was, his singing reached straight to my bones and settled there, my body humming in time with his words. Dev wasn’t one of our musical theatre stars for nothing. As he kept going, the kids started chiming in and the song carried over to the other wagons until the mostly off-key singing took over the quiet of the night. Between verses, Dev looked over at me and gave me a Why aren’t you singing along? gesture, but I pressed my lips together tightly and shook my head. Em was the singer. I’d just sound like someone was skinning a cat in the middle of the woods.
By the tenth verse of “Henry the Eighth,” half of the girls from my cabin had dissolved into giggles and the rest were starting to sound hoarse from trying to yell louder and sound “worse.” The wagons pulled up alongside of the firepit and Dev popped open the wagon door, starting the campers on another song as we helped them down. I noticed how almost all of the girls went over to Dev’s side. He was grabbing them by the waists and lowering them down to the ground, even though most of them didn’t need the help.
Cassie bumped me in the side as she passed me, her free hand glued to Mike’s. “Can you and Dev handle straightening out all the mess in here? Mike and I want to squeeze in some quality time,” she wiggled her eyebrows at me, “before we have to make nice and sing kumbaya around the campfire.”
I glanced over at Dev, who was still busy playing human elevator to all the female campers, and my insides twisted again. No use delaying my deep confession. “Sure.”
“Grace was right, you are the best.” Cassie winked at me before jumping into Mike’s arms in a totally graceful cheerleader move.