Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 42882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
I flapped my hand at him. “Hush. Nothing anyone else wouldn’t have done.”
“Not true at all,” Lane argued. “Plenty of people wouldn’t’ve taken the time to do it.” He shoveled the last bite of pasta in his mouth and tilted his head to watch me thoughtfully as he chewed. “But you did. And I appreciate it.”
The weight of his gaze made me squirm in good ways and bad. “It feels nice to help when you can, that’s all. Anyway… back to the peacocks.” I took a breath to continue my story.
“Actually…” Lane took his empty bowl to the sink and tidied the leftovers into the fridge. “Let’s go check on this peacock of yours while you tell me how you came to be in possession of it. Them.”
I waited while he grabbed a hoodie. To be fair, I tried not watching his chest and abs while he pulled it on, but once again, it would’ve been wrong not to appreciate the glory of it up close and personal, in a way I rarely got to. I was only human, after all.
As he slid his feet into his shoes, I cleared my throat. “So, a couple years back, my friend John over in Nuthatch accidentally got peacock eggs from the farm supply instead of turkey eggs—don’t ask, John’s got a lot of things going on—and when the damned things hatched, they were definitely not turkeys. Since all the chicks were male, he decided to keep ’em and make the best of it. He was gonna start that rental company I mentioned once the birds were old enough to grow tail feathers.” I winced. “But it seems like Dave’s lungs grew along with his train. He’s gotten loud, and he kept squawking at John’s dog—”
“That’s odd. Peafowl aren’t usually noisy outside of mating season,” Lane said, holding the door open for me. “I wonder if the dog was scaring him.”
“Maybe.” I jogged down the steps and over to the side door of the garage. “But Dave’s not supposed to be doing his tail feather thing outside of mating season either, and here we are. Maybe Dave’s mating senses are going haywire, and he forgets what he’s supposed to be looking for in a mate.”
As soon as I opened the door, the bird in question began squawking at us. Within moments of catching sight of the gorgeous man behind me, Dave’s tail feathers came whipping up too, spreading majestically like a magician waving a deck of fancy cards.
“Same, Dave,” I muttered to the bird under my breath. “Same.”
Lane took in the sight of the makeshift bird enclosure I’d created in the space. “You must have bought up all the baby gates in town.”
I shook my head. “Nah. John picked ’em up at the Walmart over in Lafayette. It’s the only way to keep them from messing with my tools.”
I’d shoved all of my woodworking tools, machinery, and half-crafted Entwinin’ wreaths to one side of the garage while the other half was now a peacock habitat.
“Wow.” Lane ignored the birds, his gaze drawn to the Entwinin’ wreath that lay on my workbench. It was nothing special yet—a simple twelve-inch wreath in the shape of a Celtic knot, just waiting for someone to take it and add their own special stamp with flowers or charms of some kind—but he seemed stunned. “You made this? For your festival? Is it… is it for someone special?”
“Well, yes… and no.” I grinned. “The Entwinin’ is a chance to show the most important person or people in your life that you love ’em. So I guess you might say that every person who receives a wreath is special to someone, but if you mean special to me, in a romantic kind of way? Nah. Never twined a vine for my own sweetheart before.”
I’d actually never had a sweetheart to twine one for, if I were being totally honest, but I worried that saying so might sound pathetic, so I hurried on.
“Giving a wreath’s not always romantic—some folks give wreaths to their closest friends ’cause that kind of love’s no less important—but it’s always about creating something that symbolizes how much the relationship means to you. It’s a real individual thing. The shape you choose matters, the type of wisteria branches you use matters—you gotta get the whippy ones for best results, and you can’t get those late in the season—and the things you decorate it with matter too. It’s supposed to be a labor of love. But…”
My grin turned wry. “The truth is, Lane, that there are lots more folks in the Thicket with love in their hearts than there are folks who can twine a vine. Not that anyone expects perfection, of course—the real perfection is the love that the maker has for their Entwined.” I shrugged. “But nobody should have to lose a finger to a penknife just to show their love, so I always make up a bunch of extra wreaths for folks to decorate.”