He was halfway up the grand staircase when a blur of motion collided with his shoulder.
“Oof—!”
“I’m so sorry—!”
He blinked.
No. It couldn’t be.
It was her. The woman he’d sneezed on—repeatedly, and to his eternal shame.
She gasped. “You!”
“Yes, me.”
“You sneezed on me.”
“And you fled like I’d grown pustules before I could apologize.”
“I had just been sneezed on. Several times.Your blasts nearly unpinned my hair!”
He tried not to laugh. “Exaggeration.”But very nice hair indeed.
“You were a menace.”
He bowed slightly. “A recovering menace. The pleasure is all mine.”
She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, cheeks flushed from exertion or mortification—or both. “I didn’t see you there.”
“You didn’t see a man halfway up a staircase?”
“I was in a hurry.”
“To trample someone?”
“I didn’t trample you.” She lifted her chin, and all he could see was her perfect neckline.
Someone as sweet as you has permission to trample me,he thought, but pinched his lips flat so he wouldn’t accidentally say it. New man, new expectations, less calloused behavior perhaps.
“My shoulder says otherwise.”
She huffed, then narrowed her gaze. “You look dreadful.”
“Charming,” he muttered. “Do you insult all strangers, or only the ones you collide with?”
A twitch tugged at her lips. “Only the ones with handkerchiefs permanently affixed to their noses.”
He lowered the linen in his hand. “As you might have noticed, I’m recovering from a cold.”
“You should try to recover harder.”
Her gaze swept over him again, slower this time. “You do look marginally more human.”
“Why, thank you,” he said dryly. “A compliment. I shall treasure it.”
“I wouldn’t,” she replied, eyes dancing. “You’re still clutching that wretched handkerchief like a weapon.”
He stuffed it into his pocket. “I promise not to sneeze on you again. Unless provoked.”
