Well, there are a few things … but I digress.

“You young people and all your laws! Everything gets a man in trouble nowadays. Do you know how many ducks I’ve killed by baiting ponds? Best hunting trips I’ve ever had. You can’t do anything fun anymore. This country’s going to hell in a handbasket, I tell you!”

I roll my eyes and hold my tongue. His daughter raised me better than that. I’ll respect my elders—even if they are batshit crazy.

“I’m driving up now. Let me take care of this, and I’ll stop by to see you this afternoon. Granny told me she’s cooking an etouffee.”

My grandmother can cook like no other, and I don’t miss a good meal. Hell, I’ve never been known to miss any meal. Once I deal with this asshat of a tenant, I’ll crash for a few hours, and then it’ll be dinnertime. I can almost taste the crawfish and butter.

“You do that,” he says indignantly. He lives his life always looking for an argument, even when there’s none to be had. “You’d do well to keep that mother of yours at home, though, ya hear me?”

And now my tongue is officially bleeding. I’m not going there with him today. Not. Fucking. Doing. It. Instead of telling him to kiss my ass, I try to remember the man before the anger, frustration, and rigidity defined him. I focus on the man who helped raise me, not the tyrant he’s become.

I step out of my truck and flip through the bulky key ring until I find the right one. 222 Ash Street.

“I gotta go, Sarge. I’ll see you tonight,” I say with what little restraint I have left. God, that man can push my buttons. I’d swear he isn’t happy until I’m seething. Sometimes I think my easygoing nature is a personal affront to him. He thinks everyone should be wound as tightly as him.

Not gonna happen. Lazy fishing trips and Monday Night Football are my religion.

I push the END button on my phone just as my feet hit the first step of the porch. I shuffle my exhausted legs to the front door and slide the key in the lock. I hear footsteps approaching me from the side of the porch, but I don’t look up.

“I’m pretty sure I mailed your key to you with the copy of your lease,” I say in a less-than-friendly voice.

It may make me an asshole, but I set the mood with my tenants from the start. I’m a cool guy, but I don’t put up with drama. I don’t want to know about crazy girlfriends who throw your shit out on the lawn or bullshit bosses who fire employees for selling weed out of the break room—both true stories. I provide suitable accommodations, and the tenants provide me with a monthly check. There’s no reason to have my number on speed dial.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bennett. I have the key; I know I do. I packed it away for safekeeping. It just happens to be in one of the many boxes crammed into that moving van,” she explains as she points at the van that escaped my attention when I drove up. She shrugs her shoulders in apology and winces. “I’m just not sure which one.”

I tilt my head down to meet her eyes and get the first look at my new tenant. She’s barely five feet tall, fun-sized compared to my six-foot four-inch frame. I reach out and grab the daisy she has perched behind her ear and try to decipher why the sound of her singsong voice goes straight to my dick.

“Where’s your wand?” I ask.

She gives me a confused look, cocks her head to the side, and squints her eyes.

“My … what?”

“You’re two-foot-nothing tall, and you’ve got flowers in your hair and around your neck,” I explain, pointing to the string of clover flowers she’s tied together as a necklace. I guess she kept busy while waiting for me to show up. “You’ve got to be a fucking fairy, pixie, sprite, or something. So where’s the wand?”

She keeps right on staring, so I take my time studying every part of her.

“Hold on. Is your face … sparkling?”

That seems to break the trance, and a giggle escapes her pretty, pink-painted lips. “That’s my new dusting powder. It’s cool, right?”

My mind has been wiped clean of all rational thought, but one tiny idea keeps nagging in my head, and I can’t seem to find the mute button. It keeps saying the same words over and over. Don’t even think about it.

When I don’t jump in right away to sing the praises of dusting powder, whatever the hell that is, she shrugs her shoulders and bites her bottom lip.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Bennett, but I’m not hiding any wand. It’s just little, old, boring me,” she says as she raises her hands in presentation. Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing boring about this girl; I don’t give a shit what she claims. “Anyway, I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

I push open the door, and wave my hand in a gesture to invite her into her new home.

“Cain.”

“What?” she asks.

“My name is Cain. There’s no need to call me Mr. Bennett. I’m just Cain.”

She turns to face me and raises her hand in invitation, smiling in a way only a fairy can. “In that case, my name is Celia. Wait, I’m sure you already know that since you’re renting me this place. So stupid. Anyway, pleased to meet you, Cain.”

I clasp her hand and resist the overwhelming urge to jerk her body flush with mine. As soon as her delicate fingers slide along the underside of my palm, I know I don’t want to let her go. Maybe she should call me Mr. Bennett after all. One look at her, and I know she feels it, too. The realization doesn’t seem to impress her, though, as her lips turn down into a slight frown. I’m not sure what that’s about, but maybe something in her head is chatty, too.

Hey man, no skin off my nose. We don’t have to get naked. I’ve got more than my fair share of those willing. No need to start something up with a tenant, anyway. That’s just asking for trouble I don’t need. My traitorous body may have other ideas, but I have no desire or need to beg for anyone.

“Happy to meet you,” I say as I reluctantly release my grasp on her hand. As soon as I let her go, she claps her hands together.

“Well, I should get started,” she says, chin up and shoulders pushed back. “Those boxes won’t move themselves.”

She skips out onto the porch and bounds down the steps, her clover flower necklace dancing about her shoulders. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed anyone that enthusiastic about such a menial and exhausting task.

Fucking fairy.

When she reaches the back of the van, she clicks open the door and slides it up. I walk to the back of the truck and take a peek inside. It’s filled to the brim, boxes and furniture as far as the eye can see. She picks up the first box and carries it toward the house, way too cheerful and determined to realize she’s picked up one piece of hay from a huge fucking bale. At this rate, she’ll be moved in by the time her lease is up for renewal.

I need to leave. I should get my stupid ass back in my truck, head home, and crash until the afternoon, just as I planned. That’s what I should do.

Yeah, that’s not what I’m gonna do.

I balance four boxes in my hands and take off in the direction of the house. I’m just a few steps away from the porch steps when a pair of sandaled feet enters my field of vision and block my way. Pink glitter toenail polish shimmers back at me.

Jesus, even her toes sparkle?

“What are you doing, Cain? I can take care of this by myself,” she says.

Do I sense a hint of irritation in her voice?

“Oh, I know you can do it on your own, Tink. There’s not a doubt in my mind. I’m just figuring the rental company needs their moving van back within the year.”

I try to move around her, but she blocks me again. I hear her huff, and the only thing I’m sorry about is that I can’t see all of her.

“I can do just fine on my own, thank you very much. And why are you calling me Tink?”

Seeing now that I’m gonna have to face her head-on, I place the boxes on the ground beside me. She’s going for the pissed off vibe, but her jutted-out chin, crossed arms, and cocked hip are too adorable to command me. I reach out and tip her chin. As soon as my fingers hit skin, her arms unlock, falling to her side and her mouth opens slightly in what I hope is awe.