Page 56 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

Harrison stares at the piece of paper and then lifts his gaze to me, his expression dry. “You couldn’t have just emailed it to me?”

I fully grin this time. “That would involve you giving me your email address.”

“You mean you don’t already have it? What sort of private investigator are you?”

“I do have it actually, along with your phone number, but it seemed rude to use it as you hadn’t exactly given it to me,” I point out.

He rolls his eyes again and lets out an exasperated and protracted sigh. “Fine, you may use my email address, and I don’t think I want to know how you got hold of it.”

“Chan,” I reply easily. “You emailed him the flat listings and your phone number was on it.”

I tuck the mangled paper back into my pocket and don’t miss the way his eyes linger on my shirt, which is still extremely transparent.

“Can I use your phone number too?”

“Whatever for?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I thought maybe we could try dinner again, maybe this time without Tristan and Danny, and hopefully without a blackout and you almost getting run over by a car.”

“No,” he says flatly. “I’m going to be far too busy doing your job for you.”

God, he’s so fucking tempting. All uptight and flushed. I just want to slip my arms around him and pull him against me so I can taste that stroppy pout of his.

“As you like.” I throw him a lazy grin, my gaze trailing over his body. “Prickles,” I say by way of farewell, “always a pleasure.”

He watches me with those vivid blue eyes, his mouth tight and his shoulders stiff. But I don’t miss the way his gaze runs over me one last time or how it fills with heat.

Oh yeah, he’s definitely interested. He just doesn’t want to be.

Giving him one last cheeky wink, I open the door and head out of the shop, back into the pouring rain, which hasn’t let up at all. I don’t bother running for the car since I’m already wet. Instead, I pause and glance up at the sky as the rain slaps against my face. The clouds swirl and pulse with light. This really is like no storm I’ve ever heard of.

Something’s coming, I can feel it deep down in my gut. I don’t know if it’s intuition or my newfound ability of just knowing things with a bone-deep certainty, but one thing I’m absolutely sure of is that my life is about to change, and something tells me that a gorgeous, grumpy man who dresses like he’s eighty has something to do with it.

I laugh in delight when I think of the object of my fascination, and with a little skip in my step, I stroll over to my car like I’m Gene Kelly, although I resist the urge to do a little tap dance along the way.

When I finally slide into the driver’s seat and close the door, I pull out my phone while I’m waiting for the fog on the inside of the windows to clear. Pulling up Harrison’s number, which I’ve already saved in my contacts under Prickles, I shoot him a message.

If not dinner, how about a drink?

Not two seconds later, my phone pings with a response.

I’m blocking your number.

I laugh again as I flip the wipers on.

What a beautiful day.

13

Well, I’ll be damned.

Sam was right. There is a connection between the ghost Tristan is trying to help and the bookshop. He’s not just randomly haunting it.

I trace my fingers down the family tree I’ve been compiling and there it is. Bruce Hernando Reyes, son of Hazel Parker, who is a direct descendant of Cordelia Crawshanks through an illegitimate son. Which would technically make this Bruce person a distant cousin of mine. Fifth cousin once removed to be exact.

I’d started trying to figure out my family tree way before I got to London. I know that through my mother I’m descended from the Crawshanks family. If I go back far enough, there were three siblings, two sisters and a brother, and I’m descended from the middle sister, Constance.

Why do those names sound so familiar?