Me: No comment.
Picturing Wren’s laughing face, I shove my notebook back in my bag. My plan was to hit the cemetery next and get B-roll of the Widow, but all I can think about is the shop door I justwalked out of. The gravel in his voice. His big hands. The way he called melittle bird.
The click of a lock turning makes me glance over my shoulder.
“Not again,” I groan. Apparently, my epic storm-off didn’t take me far enough.
There he is. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Rude himself, pulling the iron-banded door shut and fitting a key into the lock. He’s even bigger outside the shop, shoulders broad enough to block the window, hair a mess of dark curls catching fog, creating a halo he doesn’t deserve.
If I were smarter, I’d run in the opposite direction.
Instead, apparently being a glutton for punishment, I shout, “Hey!”
My voice carries, harsher than I intended.
He turns, eyes narrowing. “What?”
“You never answered my question,” I call back.
His frown deepens, but he takes a few steps closer. “Which one?”
“All of them.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, I’m positive he’s about to walk away without another word. Instead, he keeps coming, boots heavy on the pavement, handsome face screwed into a scowl.
Close up, he’s intimidating as hell. Taller than I thought. We’re so close, the heat radiating from his body sears my skin. The air between us tightens. Above, a crow caws, loud and insistent. Its wings ruffle the garland hanging from the nearest lamppost, scattering fake snow like ash.
“You don’t give up, do you?” he says.
“Not my style.” I lift my chin. “Journalist, remember? I take my job seriously.”
His gaze flicks to the brooch again, then back to my eyes. His expression seems to shift between irritation and curiosity. At his side, his hand twitches like he’s fighting the urge to shove me away.
“What’s your name?” I blurt. “We never properly introduced ourselves.”
He hesitates. Too long for normal interaction. “Declan.”
What a perfect name for this towering, tattooed grump.
I press my lips together, waiting for him to ask for my name. He doesn’t.
Forcing the sting out of my expression, I work a professional smile onto my face. “Emery.”
He nods once, curt, as if he couldn’t care less. “So you said before.”
“Riiight,” I say, drawing out the word to match his irritated energy. “Unlike you, I have manners. Was that so hard?”
His mouth curves, almost imperceptibly. “Hard things usually aren’t a problem for me.”
My breath hitches.Oh.Was that a line?
I slowly run my gaze over his arms and chest. “I can see that.”
His eyes widen, then he turns back toward his shop. But not fast enough for me to miss the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Piece by piece I’m chiseling away at his grouchy armor.
He mutters a low warning. “Stay out of the cemetery and away from the Widow’s hill after midnight.”
I freeze.How did he know?
