“Are you this nervous with everyone, or just extremely handsome fae like me?” Yarrow gives a calculated wink. “Don’t worry, I may be a wild fae, but I only bite on invitation.” Folly drops a fishbone on his knee. “Um,” he says, brushing his trousers with the clean side of his hand. His hair falls into his eyes. “Yes. I’m always nervous. Um. Please don’t bite me.” Pity. He looks delicious, for a human— Fuck. Yarrow stares out at the bright river. No more flirting until he confirms whether Folly is twelve or ninety-three. Somewhere in between would be nice.
