“Could she be upstairs, Pru?” Ceridwen’s words were gentle, and the hands tenderly patting her back were managing the near impossible—keeping Pru from flying into a full-blown panic attack.
“No, no, I brought her in the basket—” Pru turned sharply to the woven basket, one of the signature crafts of the island, only to find it empty by the counter.
“Darn it! Patches!” Tears threatened. The possum had never run away before.
“Maybe when the door flew open?” Ceridwen pointed toward the now closed main entrance, and they both reached it together in an instant only to have it thrown open in their faces once again by the one person Pru thought would never walk into her store.
Rhiannon Crowhart stood on the landing holding an entire handful of what seemed like… trash? Candy wrappers, an old garment, and what looked distinctly like a semi-burned-down candle. The candle that was one of the better selling items in Pru’s store. Book Nest was proudly emblazoned on the side of it. And was that the shirt she had thrown away last night while cleaning her closet?
Pru gulped and opened her mouth. To say what? She did not know, but something surely, because Rhiannon’s face was the picture of profound displeasure, veering toward anger, and while Pru found herself fascinated by how the angular features were somehow more attractive when displaying such strong emotion, she’d rather not have it directed at her.
She was saved by Ceridwen, whose voice Pru barely recognized. The note of ice in it was foreign and out of place.
“The trash is a little too on the nose even for you, Rhiannon. Why are you carrying around Pru’s garbage?”
The smile that suddenly appeared on the face Pru had just been admiring was perhaps scarier than the touches of earlier anger. It was the smile of a tigress before she went for the kill.
“Why Ceridwen, how wonderful of you to confirm that the trash strewn all over my property, including in my own bedroom, belongs to… Who are you again?”
“I’m Prudence, owner of Book Nest, um…”
Pru could only muster a few words, but she was ignored entirely, Rhiannon taking a step closer, now standing face-to-face with Ceridwen, Pru slightly to their side, almost completely inconsequential. Despite discussing her trash, the sisters had clearly forgotten all about her. Their eyes met and held, and for a split second Pru was certain she’d hear the thunder from yesterday. Or the wind. Something that would come crashing down all of them any moment.
For the life of her she couldn’t say why she suddenly imagined storms everywhere. What was it about this woman? Even in her dreams, Rhiannon was always accompanied by storms, wild and violent, leaving Pru often battered and bruised by their intensity.
Except after a heartbeat, two, the air around Pru chilled and Ceridwen stepped back. A tiny step, yet the smile on Rhiannon’s face widened. If Pru expected grace in victory, she was mistaken. And when did mean-spirited delight become hot?
Pru shivered, and the small movement alerted the predator in the room to her existence once again. The gaze should not be this attractive either. It really shouldn’t. And yet here they were.
“And Ceridwen, would you care to explain how it is that you know to whom said trash belongs?”
Ceridwen’s own smirk was entirely too self-satisfied.
“Oh, you live, you learn. You live on the island long enough and you most certainly get to do all that learning. Actually, no, you wouldn’t know.”
It was like watching a tennis match. One played between two evenly matched pros. A serve, a backhand, a forehand. The ball was in Rhiannon’s court. And she would have probably volleyed back with a zinger, except a chubby gray ball of fur fell off Rhiannon’s porch with a squeal before struggling mightily to get on its four short feet, made a fierce face toward the step it had fallen off, and hurried in the direction of Pru’s door, all the while holding on to a small piece of candy wrapper. One matching perfectly others in the pile in Rhiannon’s hands.
“Patches!” Pru felt a wave of relief mixed with dizziness at seeing the possum.
“Excuse me?” Rhiannon’s features were all confusion and disgust.
“Oh my gosh, that’s my possum!”
In the cacophony of exclamations, Patches’s little legs worked double time to escape the scene of the crime. Once she reached the relative safety of the bookstore entrance, the possum threw a longing look toward the Atelier’s second-story window where a black cat was lounging, ignoring the world.
With another squeal, Patches was suddenly airborne, Rhiannon’s elegant hands holding her up till they were almost nose to nose.
Pru held her breath. Patches stilled. Ceridwen stepped closer. Silence reigned. Rhiannon and the possum glared at each other.
“I think Patches is courting your cat.”
Pru was aware of how she sounded. She was also aware of how the entire situation looked. And of course, she was very much aware of the stares she was getting from both sisters. The moment felt awkward. She felt awkward. In her years-old slacks and a sweater carrying the store’s logo, her hair its usual mess on top of her head, she looked precisely the country bumpkin that she was. This was definitely not the way she wanted to meet Rhiannon Crowhart. Not that she wanted to meet her at all. Absolutely not. Not after the visions that came to her at night.
Rhiannon just kept staring at her, still holding the possum at eye level. Pru barreled on.
“I owe you an apology. I’ve never seen Patches do this before.”
Rhiannon lifted an eyebrow. When Victoria did it, it was impressive. This? Like the voice, this should be illegal. Pru bit her lip. Any second now she’d whimper. The eyebrow lifted higher.
