Page 7 of His Lucky Charm

“That.” I gestured to his hand, which had been working the same spot for nearly five minutes, the muscles in his forearm flexing rhythmically. “And you’ve been pacing all night. You’ve checked the window sixteen times in the last hour.”

He set down the cloth, rolling his shoulders as if trying to release tension. “Just restless. Big festival coming up.”

The festival in question was Cloverton’s annual “Guardian Moon Celebration,” conveniently scheduled to coincide with the full moon this weekend. According to local legend, this was when the Guardians were most active, blessing the town for another year of protection.

According to science, it was when tourist spending reached its peak.

“The festival isn’t for three more days,” I pointed out, closing my laptop. “This is something else. You’ve been getting increasingly… agitated all week.”

Rafferty’s eyes flicked to the window again—seventeen—before he sighed and came around the bar. He dropped into the chair opposite me, his large frame making it look like doll furniture.

“You’re too observant for your own good,” he muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.

“Historian,” I reminded him. “Observation is my job.”

For the past week, our arrangement had been simple and satisfying: I spent my days conducting halfhearted research, and my nights exploring the magnificent terrain of Rafferty’s body. We hadn’t defined whatever was happening between us, and I’d convinced myself I was fine with that.

But something was off tonight. Rafferty was fidgety, distracted. The easy charm that usually radiated from him was muted, replaced by a coiled energy that made the hair on my arms stand up.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, reaching across the table to touch his hand.

He jerked back as if burned, then immediately looked contrite. “Sorry. I’m just… it’s complicated.”

“I have a PhD in complicated.” I tried for levity, but his expression remained troubled. “Talk to me, Rafferty.”

He glanced around the nearly empty pub, then leaned forward, voice dropping. “Not here. Come upstairs after closing?”

I nodded, trying to ignore the twist of anxiety in my gut. Was this the ‘it’s been fun but it’s over’ conversation? Had I misread everything?

“Of course.”

His smile was tight, nothing like his usual carefree grin. “Good. Give me thirty minutes to close up.”

Those thirty minutes felt like thirty years. I nursed my final drink, watching as Rafferty moved through his closing routine with unusual efficiency. No lingering conversations with regulars. No jokes with the staff. Just quick, almost mechanical movements as he cleaned and locked up.

Finally, the last customer left, and Mal flipped the sign to CLOSED.

“All done, boss,” she called, hanging up her apron. “Want me to cash out?”

“I’ve got it,” Rafferty replied, not looking up from the glasses he was arranging. “Have a good night, Mal.”

She glanced between us, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “You too. Both of you.”

As the door closed behind her, silence fell over the pub. Rafferty finished with the glasses, then turned to me, his expression unreadable.

“Ready?” he asked.

I nodded, gathering my laptop and jacket. Rafferty locked the front door, then led me through the back hallway to the stairs leading to his apartment above the pub. I’d become intimately familiar with these stairs and the apartment they led to over the past week.

His place was unexpectedly stylish—open plan, with exposed brick walls and large windows. Masculine but comfortable, with a massive leather couch that had proven surprisingly versatile for activities beyond sitting.

Tonight, however, Rafferty seemed in no mood for our usual activities. He paced the living room like a caged animal while I settled on the couch, watching him with growing concern.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I finally asked.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face me. “I need to go away for a few days.”

Not what I’d expected. “Oh. Is everything alright? Family emergency?”