Wait, and let Leo work.
And when he finds her, when, not if, I'll show Seraphina exactly what it means to catch my attention.
She wanted to disappear.
Too bad I love a good hunt.
She thinks last night is over.
She's wrong.
I collect rare things. Beautiful things. Things other people overlook because they don't understand their value.
And Seraphina, sweet little Seraphina who works with books and wears borrowed dresses and runs away in the morning light, is the rarest thing I've found in a very long time.
CHAPTER 5
Sera
Six weeks.
Six weeks since Gabe disappeared, and I'm starting to think that's a good thing.
More importantly, six weeks have passed, and nothing has happened. At first, I'd held my breath, waiting for the men Gabe owed money to come and find me. I was so paranoid that I added a secondary set of locks to my apartment and started changing my schedule. I made it so I didn't need to go out as often, and I could hide.
Then, after two weeks, I started going back to my favorite coffee shop. By week four, I started to assume Gabe set me up and was full of shit, and now, after six weeks, I am sure of it, and I'm back to my normal schedule.
Today, I'm completely engrossed in a new manuscript.
A first edition Hemingway, water stained, the binding barely holding. It's the type of project I love to sink my teeth into, especially because I know if I can restore it, we can sell it for thousands, and a bonus with my name on it.
Ifbeing the operative word. This manuscript is one of the worst I've seen in a long time, which is why I've been so focused on it that I barely hear the bell above the door chime.
I don't look up immediately. Tuesday mornings are slow, and most customers browse for a while before asking for help. I'm at a delicate point in the restoration—one wrong move and I'll make the damage worse.
"Excuse me."
I cringe but look up.
A man stands at my worktable. Tall, expensive suit, blonde hair, and dark blue eyes that seem to see right through me. He's handsome, but in a way that sets me on edge.
"Can I help you?" I set down my tools carefully. My fingers itch to press the security button, which is silly considering this man has done absolutely nothing to me.
"I'm looking for something specific." His voice is smooth, controlled. The kind of voice that's used to getting what it wants. I see men like this often—collectors who don't appreciate literature but want acquisition.
"Oh?" I say, trying to put on a friendly smile as I put my tools down. "Anything specific?"
"A first edition. Early twentieth century. Pristine condition."
A collector. They're always the same—more interested in possession than appreciation. But collectors keep Mr. Chen in business, so I keep smiling.
"Any specific author?"
"Fitzgerald.The Great Gatsby, if you have it."
Of course. Every new money collector wants one.
But I maintain my professional smile. "We have a few." I stand, wiping my hands on my apron. "Can I get your name?"
