Page 4 of His Lucky Charm

Before I could ask what he meant, he was striding toward the exit, calling over his shoulder, “Ten o’clock, sharp. Use the back door by the alley.”

The door swung shut behind him, leaving me staring after him with my heart pounding in my ears.

“Well,” said Mrs. Hathaway, materializing beside my table with a knowing smile, “that should prove illuminating.”

Indeed.

Chapter 4

At precisely 9:58 PM, I found myself standing in the alley behind The Lucky Hound, questioning my life choices. The heavy bass of music thumped through the walls, suggesting the pub was still busy despite the approaching closing time. I straightened my shirt collar beneath my jacket and checked my watch again.

10:00 PM. I raised my hand to knock on the weathered door marked “PRIVATE.”

It swung open before my knuckles made contact.

“Right on time,” Rafferty said, filling the doorway with his massive frame. He’d changed since the archives, now wearing a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his chest and shoulders like a second skin. “I like punctuality.”

He stepped back, gesturing for me to enter. I slipped past him into a narrow hallway, acutely aware of how close our bodies came to touching. The corridor led past storerooms to a small office at the back of the building.

“Welcome to my humble domain,” Rafferty announced, following me inside and closing the door with a soft click that somehow seemed very final.

The office was surprisingly cozy—a large oak desk dominated one wall, covered in papers and a laptop. Bookshelves lined another wall, filled with leather-bound volumes and ledgers. A comfortable-looking leather couch sat beneath a window overlooking the alley.

“Drink?” He was already pouring amber liquid into two glasses from a crystal decanter.

“Thank you.” I accepted the glass, using the moment to collect myself. “About those records—”

“All in good time, Professor.” He settled into the leather chair behind his desk, motioning for me to take the seat opposite. “First, I’m curious. What exactly are you hoping to find?”

I sipped the whiskey—the same honey variety from yesterday—and gathered my thoughts. “Historical context. Evidence of how the Guardian myth evolved. Its roots in Celtic folklore brought over by Irish immigrants, perhaps.”

Rafferty watched me over his glass, those green eyes unnervingly intense. “And if you found evidence suggesting the Guardians were real?”

“There’s no such thing as werewolves, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

“Rafferty,” he corrected automatically. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

I set down my glass. “If—hypothetically—I found compelling evidence of something unexplainable, I would examine it using scientific methodology until I identified the rational explanation.”

He leaned forward, his massive forearms resting on the desk. “You’re a man who needs to touch things to believe in them, aren’t you, Eliot?”

The way he said my name sent an inappropriate shiver down my spine. “I believe in evidence, yes.”

“Admirable.” He stood suddenly, circling the desk to lean against it directly in front of me, his thighs at my eye level. “And frustrating as hell.”

I looked up at him, trying to ignore how the position put me eye-level with the impressive bulge in his jeans. “I don’t understand.”

“Three days I’ve been trying to get your attention.” He crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging. “Dropping things, spilling drinks, brushing against you at the bar. I even wore my tightest shirts.”

My mouth went dry. “I… noticed the shirts.”

His grin was triumphant. “Did you now?”

“It would be difficult not to,” I admitted. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Subtlety is overrated.” He uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on the desk edge, leaning down until his face was level with mine. “Let me be clear, then. I want you, Professor. Have since you walked into my pub with your fancy jacket and those glasses that make you look like sin in tweed.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “This is highly unprofessional. I’m here for research purposes.”