As she juggled Patches and the book, the doorbell signaled a customer. Pru shook her head, desperate to return to herself, and shoved the book hastily back on the shelf, making her way to the front of the store, Patches snuffling curiously in her arms.
“Is that a trash panda?”
The man in front of her had to be some kind of Viking deity. An Odin or a Thor, surely. Pru blinked and the tall, blond, broad-shouldered stranger burst out in laughter. Instead of embarrassing her, it had that wonderful quality of being engaging and kind, and soon she was laughing along with him, Patches joining in with her chortles.
“I think those are raccoons?” Pru answered and looked down at the possum in her arms before setting her down on the windowsill. Patches stretched and turned her back on the visiting Viking.
“I see. And I take it this isn’t a raccoon?” He reached out a hand toward Patches, a hand that was immediately snubbed in visible insult by the now-curled-into-a-ball possum. “Is it playing dead?”
His voice had a lovely quality to it. He could really ask her anything and she’d not be offended, it came out so very earnest and sincere. Gentle even, despite his size and the fact that he could probably break her in half without even a drop of sweat.
“No, that’s not playing dead. That’s ‘you’ve hurt my feelings.’”
The Viking actually gasped, his immense hands lifting to his chest.
“What does it like? What does it eat? I shall do anything to smooth this over with…the trash creature?”
Pru tried very hard not to laugh at him.
“She is a possum.”
“Not an opossum?” His eyes narrowed in what looked like an earnest attempt to understand.
“You may be correct; I just prefer possum. Mostly because every time I say opossum, I half expect her to request a pint of Guinness and to quote Yeats. Or Joyce? Both of them wrote equally gorgeous poetry, which would sound equally awkward in her interpretation.”
His laughter boomed.
“Way to incorporate Irish stereotypes in there and make them funny. Seeing as she is a romantic soul, she’d probably go with Yeats. Tell me more about this fascinating queen.”
“Well, Patience Petunia being her government name. And the name she hears when she messes up. Like just before you entered the store.”
He looked back to the entrance and then smiled.
“Ah, Patience Petunia lass, I do beg your pardon, however, I was not entirely wrong when I dared to imply that she is somewhat of a trash panda, even if those are indeed raccoons. She has been sneaking garbage into the Atelier next door and for some reason piling it on and around the places where the lady of the house is present most frequently.”
Pru lifted her eyebrows. Seeing her reaction, the gentle giant immediately amended his previous statement.
“Oh, you misunderstood. Boleyn the cat is the royalty of that house. Rhiannon and I are mere mortals at her service. And now I am at yours. Lachlan Vesely, of the Vesely clan hailing from Odessa, Ukraine by way of Galway, Ireland.”
Pru could not hold back the grin anymore.
“Hence the Lachlan, I assume. And the deep knowledge of Irish poetry and stereotypes?”
He extended his hand and bowed low. They were finally of the same height, and it made Pru giggle.
“Prudence Fowler. Human of Patches, owner of Book Nest, and apparently your next-door neighbor. You and Rhiannon…” Pru faltered, unsure of what she was about to ask. Except that was a lie. She knew exactly what she wanted to ask. How to ask it was an entirely different matter.
Because suddenly a distinct probability that had never occurred to her became a glaring possibility. Was this man Rhiannon’s partner? He was much taller than her and Pru suspected a bit younger, but then Rhiannon was a stunningly beautiful woman and could really have her pick of pretty much any gender.
She tasted bile. Why had it never occurred to her? She’d been watching this woman for weeks and only now did her being straight, or at least bisexual, cross her mind?
Lachlan watched her entire thought process with a curious expression she couldn’t decipher.
“I think I can spare you some of the agony written all over your face by disclosing that while me and my fiancé recently parted ways, my darling was very much a man. And that I am—despite your flattery, as I choose to take your assumption that I could ever be with Rhiannon Crowhart as pure unadulterated compliment—a very, very gay man.”
Pru let out a breath. She had been aware she was holding it throughout his speech and was very glad she could exhale. He watched her expectantly. Pru looked up, all the way up to where his sparkling-with-mischief eyes were, and bit her lip.
“I plead the fifth?”
