“You’re certain you don’t need any help?” Violet asked. “Anything at all?”
She shook her head. Nothing they could provide. In fact, she’d rather not take the chance of placing them in any danger.
Their attention flicked past her shoulder again.
Calliope turned, and locked eyes with a hot stare. Maxen uncrossed his arms and pushed off the shelf, moving toward her like something carved from shadow. The workers all straightened the moment he did, and the hammering paused mid-stroke.
She wondered if she could ever command such attention one day. That would be quite marvelous.
A man stepped up to Maxen, jolting her back to the present. “I have the additional lock you ordered, sir.”
Calliope glanced at Maxen, who offered, “You can never be too careful.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
His gaze held hers for a moment even more breathtaking than any other before. “No one’s getting in again,” he said gruffly.
Lord, my heart.
He turned to leave without another word, striding through the mess and out the door.
What on earth . . .? Where was he going?
Violet let out a sigh. “Well, that was something.”
“What was?” Calliope asked, trying to ignore how her pulse quickened.
“That,” Violet said, eyes still fixed on the door. “The way he looked at you. Like you are a treasure of unfathomable value.”
“Nonsense.” Had he?
“Your landlord is quite protective,” Holly pointed out, still fanning her face.
Calliope didn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps. Perhaps not. If they knew the full truth, they might see matters in another light. The wordspyhad been circled, for Saints’ sake! She turned back to the chaos of her shop, suddenly very aware of how much had changed in the span of a single night.
“Come,” Violet said gently. “Let’s help you sweep up a bit. Wehave a bit of time on our hands.”
Holly grinned. “I love a good sweeping.”
Was this woman really a marchioness?
Calliope let out a soft laugh despite herself. Nothing about this was right. But perhaps with a mop, some friends, and a terrifyingly attentive landlord—she just might be.
*
Maxen needed air.
Lots of air.
He pressed his spine to the brick wall opposite the shop, the cool stone biting through his coat—useless against the heat simmering beneath his skin. He hadn’t meant to listen to the women. But damned if their teasing hadn’t hit a nerve. Two nerves. Perhaps three. The moment one had called him a gothic novel hero, he’d felt like a deuced villain. Lurking in corners, watching a woman he had no business watching.
But this wasn’t justwatching, was it?
It was wanting.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, ignoring the bite of stubble.
She twisted something inside him already knotted. She had merely looked at the mess in pain and he wanted nothing more than to rip the blackguard responsible apart and teach him the true cost of fear. The kind that persisted long after the blood was cleaned away.
