Heart-shaped face. Clear, expectant eyes that give away too much. Faint calluses along the fingertips of her left hand and the pointer finger of her right, where she grips a bow.
She shifts the violin case on her shoulder with the unconscious care of someone who’s carried one for years.
Bright without being loud. Warmth that unsettles the cold.
I clear my throat, trying not to stare. But she passes through me like something I’ve missed. Maybe something I’ve never even had.
“I’m here about the listing,” she says. Her voice carries warmth despite the cold.
The listing?I hesitate, trying to make sense of her words.
After an awkward moment, I frown. “Thatlisting… expired.”
Her forehead knits. “It’s still pinned in town.”
Of course, it is.
My eyes narrow. “And you thought driving up a mountain in February, mid-blizzard, was appropriate?”
“Yes.”
No apology. Oddly refreshing.
“What’s your name?”
“Ivy Callahan.”
The name strikes a different kind of chord.
“Still pinned? I see.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You understand this isn’t a seasonal job,” I say. “This is isolation.”
“So, not expired then?”
“Perhaps not,” I grumble. “Now do you understand?”
“I understand.”
I clear my throat, heat rising along my neck. “And you’d be living here.”
“Yes.”
“With me.”
“Yes.” The certainty doesn’t waver.
“What do you think the position entails?” I ask.
“Property management. Correspondence. Supply runs when weather permits. Administrative filtering.”
“Filtering what?”
“Festival invitations. Interviews. Requests for appearances.”
My jaw tightens slightly. There it is. “You’re assuming I receive those.”
“You do.”
I stare at her longer than I intend.
