“It’s an apt description of him. Most of the time.” Aaron gave the cat a glare, which made her giggle.
“And you feed him?” she asked, sweeping toward the creature, smoothing her skirts. “Why?”
Aaron joined her stroll, his hands clasped behind his back once more. “Among other things, it helps keep him away from Lady Dashby and her family.”
“Who?” She wrinkled her nose, but he took her by the arm, helping her kneel behind a trough. He indicated a small chamber off to the side. She peeked inside and—
“They’re mice,” she said as she stared at the squirming creatures on their bed of straw, insulated with bits of fabric and outfitted with thimbles filled with water next to a series of buttons. Aaron gently reached in and put a few crumbs on each as if they were plates.
“That they are. We’re neighbors. And neighbors take care of each other, even when we lack the same status.” He helped her to her feet and squinted. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She shook her head, only able to stare at his beautiful, kind, achingly sincere face. “You’re . . . I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you. Certainly not in real life.”
Aaron cocked his head. “Is that a good thing?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Most definitely.”
And before he could say another word, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. In an instant his hands were at her waist. Bending, he took her mouth, and it was as if the world once again made sense. It was more than tingles. More than want. More than need. It was everything. It was just him and her, a universe of two. If only she could stay there, with him, forever.
But he stopped. And pulled back, squinting down at her, even as he stroked her cheek. “Is Weiss different?” he asked, an odd strain in his voice.
What did he mean by that? She frowned, probably sprouting those wrinkles her grandmother was always warning her about. “From the Berabs and the men on the matchmaker’s list, yes,” she said, her heart pounding hard beneath her ribs.
“From everyone else you’ve ever met?” He narrowed his eyes.
“Very much no.” She pressed her lips together. Weiss was just a very motivated version of a specific type.
Which he knew. Weiss was not him. Nor could he ever possibly be. Which he had to know as well. She opened her mouth but paused as he inhaled, his chest rising.
“Isabelle—” he started.
But the door swung open, and a man stepped into the alley, startling them apart. “Aaron, there you are, my—oh, hello,” he said, giving her a small bow. “Miss Lira, how lovely to see you.”
“And you as well, Rabbi Marcus,” she returned, forcing her face into her most congenial, respectful smile, hiding any hint of frustration or disappointment as best she could.
“Tell your grandmother that the festivals were lovely and I’m looking forward to the last one.” He put an almost protective arm around Aaron’s shoulder.
“We’ll be so pleased to see you.” She twisted the buttons along her glove.
“As will we. We’ll be looking forward to your announcement.” The rabbi gave her a rather odd look as he opened the door, motioning to Aaron. “Come along, Mr. Ellenberg,” he called, snapping his fingers. And before she could say anything more, the two had disappeared into the synagogue, leaving her alone, a lump in the back of her throat.
Peculiar. Though she had no time to ponder it, or the tightness in her chest or the sting behind her nose. She had too much to do. She was going to be a bride. To the right groom. That was her prize, and her eyes needed to be on only it.
Lifting her chin, she marched back toward Rebecca’s house so she could secure transportation home, like any good general, ready to plan the next battle in her war. Which she would win. No matter what. She glanced behind as Sir Sleeps-a-Lot gave her a yawn.
Distractions be damned.
Aaron kicked a loose stone against the gaudy fountain in the Liras’ garden. He shouldn’t be there, especially following the afternoon in the alley that made him, once again, yearn for things he couldn’t even dream of having. Yet somehow, despite all the danger to his heart, there he was. He ran a hand through his newly trimmed coarse hair. A bit uneven, but why should he care? He was still just a custodian, a man whom most people forgot about unless they tripped over his bucket.
He stared at the house. Oy, he was a schlemiel. Bending down, he palmed a pebble, running the smoothness over his rough and scarred palm. Probably a far cry from Weiss, whose touch Isabelle would learn to like better.
Blast. He squeezed the stone harder. He needed to forget about that: stop the dreaming, the wishing, the new scenarios his mind would not stop inventing. Her coming to him, climbing on his lap, grasping his hands in hers, and showing that she wanted him, the same way he wanted her.
Heaving a sigh, he skipped the rock across the fountain with a satisfying splash. Because she didn’t actually want him. How could she, a woman who could be matched with the best the community had to offer, even entertain wanting him? No, he was some sort of desperate relief for her nerves before she forced herself into a loveless marriage, not someone worthy of actually being part of her world.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he spun around and choked as the point of a wide blade thrust out right against his neck. Blinking, he gaped at Isabelle, her hair loose and flowing down her back, standing in the moonlight, this time wearing only a thin night rail, her arms bare, her expression inscrutable except for a small glint of triumph in her dark eyes.
“You shouldn’t be in my garden,” she said, not lowering her blade—or more sword. In fact, she squeezed the hilt tighter in her hands.
