Because of Baby. Donna Clayton

face her. “You can take the room next door. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Go and freshen up. I’ll get my bag out of the car and then rustle us up something to eat.”

      He was gone, and she was left with a distinctive resonance…an almost haunting ache that, although it was fading with each second that ticked by, she feared would never completely vanish.

      Then panic set in as she worried she might never experience it again.

      The following morning Fern awoke in the guest room curled up in the center of her luxurious down pillow. She stretched her arms and unfurled her wings. The first flight of the day was always the best, in her opinion, for it was then that she was reminded how wonderful and carefree life was. That was what a proper pixie lived for—happy-go-lucky days.

      After several joyous and perfectly executed spins, she landed on the windowsill and looked out at the day. The sun shone bright, and the crystalline sky was clear but for a few fluffy clouds. Adventure was in the air. She could feel it.

      The time she’d spent with Paul last night had been both exhilarating and difficult. He’d fixed them cheese omelettes and buttered toast, and Fern had loved the sharp taste of the gooey cheddar. However, there had been a tenseness between them. Had it been a lute string, she could have plucked it and made it twang.

      Fern had realized that the awkwardness had had something to do with the potent energy that had hummed around them in Katy’s room just before he’d apologized and fled. The remorse that had clouded his gaze just before he left her had been involved, too. But Fern hadn’t been able to sort it out completely.

      They had talked about what would be expected of her during her stay. Paul told her his only expectation was that she mind his daughter. She needn’t cook or worry about household chores. Fern had been relieved because she’d never used a stove before. Pixies survived on berries and nuts and flower nectar, just like all the other wild woodland creatures.

      Fern flitted from the windowsill now, landing on the center of the mattress, her thoughts still trapped in her memories of last night.

      The topic of the evening’s conversation had turned to her when he’d asked her more about her life in Ireland. Mainly it was her career he’d been curious about.

      “You said you’ve worked with children.” Although he hadn’t posed his words as a question, he wanted answers, that much had been obvious to her.

      Her smile had belied the mild fretful feeling inside her. She hadn’t worked for wages a single day of her life. “There is nothing quite like the happy face of a child, and I always do all I can to make ’em laugh.”

      Paul hadn’t seemed quite satisfied with that answer.

      “Well, did you work in private homes, as a sitter? A nanny? Or did you work at a child-care facility?”

      “I’ve always gone wherever the children are.”

      She hadn’t been lying, really. She’d simply been evading the truth by avoiding the details.

      She’d cocked her head a fraction. “It’s funny,” she told him, “I’ve always had this sense with little ones. I always know when I’m needed. Like on that airplane with Katy. I just knew you needed my help.” She had chuckled and honestly admitted, “Of course, I never imagined my offer would lead me to this point, but—”

      He had reached for her then, his warm fingers sliding over her hand, and he’d given it a gentle squeeze. “I am glad you’re here, Fern.”

      The sense that he was trying to convey some unspoken message had been strong. Yet there had also been a cautious hesitancy in his touch. Again she simply hadn’t been able to put all the pieces together to form a complete picture.

      After their late meal Paul had claimed fatigue, and they’d both headed off to their prospective rooms to sleep.

      The morning sun streaming through the window warmed her. Fern smoothed her hands over her knees and saw that she’d become human. The realization startled her a bit because—just like her initial transformation on the plane—she hadn’t been cognizant of the actual change.

      She stood and glanced at her reflection in the mirror that hung above the bureau. Her blue dress was terribly rumpled. Absently she looked down at her bare feet.

      The sandals she’d been wearing last night still sat just inside the bedroom door where she’d left them. Her mind began to churn. If she could magically conjure shoes for her feet, why not clothes for her body?

      A magazine sat on the table next to the bed. She flipped through the pages looking for an appropriate outfit. She wanted something comfortable, that was for sure. But she wanted something that looked good, too. She might be a fairy, but she was still female, and every female wanted to be pleasing to the eye.

      Fern flipped another glossy page, refusing to ponder too long on why looking attractive seemed so important all of a sudden. Instead she studied the images of the women in the magazine.

      She ran her finger down the length of a beautiful black dress, and before she had time to fully inhale, she saw that her blue shift had been replaced by the image she’d been studying. Fern smiled, turning her body this way and that to make the hem flip and dance.

      The black high-heeled shoes made her legs look even longer, and she decided she liked this outfit quite a lot.

      However, when she looked back at the picture, she noticed the wording described “elegant evening attire.” Common sense told her a woman would only wear evening clothes in the evening.

      Thoughts churned in her head. Those sandals still sat by the door, yet her rumpled blue dress was gone. She took a quick peek down the neck of the fancy black dress just to be sure. Yep, her shift had disappeared, too.

      Fern decided a test of her powers was in order. She tugged the black dress off her body, and after a little fumbling, unlatched the strange stretchy, constricting garment that bound her breasts and finally peeled off the satiny slip of fabric covering her private bits. She wondered if she could conjure up a new outfit and keep the fancy black evening dress.

      A woman in the magazine wearing a simple skirt and top and some plain, rubber-soled shoes caught her gaze. Perfect!

      In the blink of an eye, she was wearing the skirt, top and white shoes. And, lo and behold, the black dress and underthings were still on the bed where she’d tossed them.

      How fun was this?

      “Fern, me girl,” she murmured to her grinning reflection, “at this rate you could open a boutique. You could be rich.”

      She would do no such thing, of course. Conjuring clothing magically and then selling them for profit would be wrong. Some whispery echo coming from her heart told her so.

      Besides, she didn’t know how long the magic would last. The fabric of the skirt and top was real enough, all right, but she had no idea if or when the charm might end and the clothes might disappear—

      The thought made her blanch. What if her ability to become human just disappeared suddenly? How would she help Paul if she wasn’t in this form?

      The notion so troubled her that she shoved it right out of her brain.

      After a quick stop at the bathroom to take care of her ablutions, she peeked into Katy’s room and saw that the toddler’s crib was empty. Paul’s bedroom door was open, and his bed, too, was empty. So she went down the stairs to look for them.

      The house was still, so Fern found her way to the kitchen. She sniffed the pot of brown liquid, the acrid scent making her nose wrinkle with distaste. Then she opened the refrigerator and pulled out some fruit juice. She was sipping the luscious liquid when Paul entered the house through the kitchen door.

      “Hi,” he said. Katy was hoisted in one arm, and he carried a plastic cage-like contraption by a handle in his other hand.

      “Good morning.” Just seeing his handsome face made her heart ka-chunk behind her ribs.