Fernsby did his look-down-the-nose thing again. “Sir, she is a world-renowned mystery author. I—” He put a hand to his chest. “—am merely a butler.”
Fernsby had never called himself merely anything. And it wasn’t an answer.
Troy was suddenly waylaid by a vision of Michaela Killian walking down the sidewalk toward them. A mirage, a phantom, a fantasy. She couldn’t be real. He’d conjured her with all his wishful thinking.
Then he forgot his question, forgot the writer, even forgot his own name.
Because the impossible was sometimes possible. And this was no vision. It was Michaela in the flesh.
She looked to Fernsby first. “Fernsby. What are you doing here?” She didn’t even give the man a chance to answer. “I’m one of Mathilda Sullivan’s biggest fans. I have every one of her books, and I’ve read them all more than once. When I got her newsletter, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to get a signed copy.”
Miracle of miracles, Fernsby smiled. Granted, it wasn’t much more than a slight stretch of his lips, but Troy knew him well enough to recognize that as a Fernsby smile. “My dear Miss Killian, it’s delightful to see you here. And to know that you, too, appreciate a great author of our time.”
Michaela laughed. If Troy thought Alice Fletcher’s laugh was sweet, holy hell, Michaela’s laugh just about knocked him flat. So sweet. So musical. So entrancing.
“Please, Fernsby, call me Michaela.”
Fernsby continued the flattery. “I knew you were a woman of great discernment when I first met you.”
She put her hand on Fernsby’s arm, and Troy had the outrageous urge to hold out his own so she could touch him too. He had it bad. When was the last time a woman had affected him like this? Had he ever been affected like this?
“Tell me,” Michaela said, “did you start reading the Camilla Fernsby mysteries because the detective has your name?”
Yeah, Fernsby. Why is the detective’s name the same as yours? Troy didn’t say that, but he did wait with bated breath to hear the answer. Or maybe he just liked looking at Michaela.
Fernsby didn’t even smile. “With that name, I knew the mysteries must be superb.”
Damn, it was the same kind of non-answer he’d already given Troy.
Then they discussed every book Mathilda Sullivan had ever written, their favorite scenes, and the fact that neither could pick a favorite book because they both loved them all.
And not once did Michaela look at Troy.
He was obviously chopped liver in her book.
Serendipity? Michaela could only think so. She hadn’t called Troy to find out how his date had gone, sitting on her hands almost all day to stop herself from picking up the phone and consequently not getting much done. She hadn’t called Alice either. Michaela had a rule to wait two days before tackling a client, if they hadn’t already called her. Sometimes people needed time to digest the event.
But Troy was here. And so damned delicious in black jeans and a leather jacket clinging tightly to his incredible form that it was all she could do not to let her mouth water. Thank God Fernsby was here and she could talk books and Mathilda Sullivan.
The flushed guy behind them opened his mouth to mutter, “I suppose she’s not buying a book either.”
Fernsby flashed him a look, and the man clamped his lips shut.
It was rude to take cuts, though. “I’ll stay here until the door opens,” she said, “then go to the back of the line.”
But Fernsby practically snarled, “I’ve been saving this spot. I stood here all afternoon so that you and I could be first in line. So, my dear Michaela, you are not taking cuts.”
The man behind them kept his mouth shut, but his eyes were still shooting daggers. After Fernsby’s proclamation, she didn’t have a choice. Two women exited the store, each carrying a box of books. Michaela had preordered her copy—in fact, it was a requirement to get in. It would have been a total mob scene if people not only had to wait in line to get a signed copy, but also to pay for it. Pre-ordering was genius. One woman ticked names off the list while the other handed out books.
The woman with the clipboard stared aghast at Troy when he said he hadn’t bought a book. She stuttered, “Bu-but, sir, we can’t accommodate purchases at this time.”
She seemed to melt beneath the power of Troy’s smile. “I understand completely. I won’t try to buy a book or have one signed, I promise.”
The store clerk sighed as if he’d whispered a sweet nothing, then both moved on.
The man certainly had an effect on the female population. Michaela wanted to slap herself, because he had an effect on her too.
She noticed then that Fernsby was staring at the photo of Mathilda Sullivan on the dust jacket. While he was preoccupied, Michaela could no longer resist asking Troy, “How was your date last night?”
