Chapter 22
Despite Ward’s assurances, Luna couldn’t help feeling that she was a bit of a dumpy mess, even for the Rowdy House.
Sure, it wasn’t the classiest assortment of Ballycastle denizens she’d ever rubbed elbows with, but .
. . well, most of them didn’t look like they’d just crawled out of a back-garden pool and then survived a surprise blizzard. Because they hadn’t.
She sighed, trying not to make eye-contact with anyone while she waited for Ward to come back to their table with drinks.
He’d assured her the food was unexpectedly good here.
Besides, she told herself for the umpteenth time, at least you know this is the last place you’ll bump into Bryony on her night off. Right?
The atmosphere was so dark and shady, particularly back here in this booth Ward had tucked them into.
She supposed that was just as well; she needn’t be overly concerned with her bedraggled state.
She swiped a lock of hair back from her face.
It smelled of sandalwood. And cinnamon. Because she’d borrowed some of Mr. Grimm’s hair tonic to try to smooth out the worst of the frizz.
Apparently that’s where the sandalwood-and-cinnamon-ness of him came from.
“Dratted hecks,” she whispered softly, her voice lost under the noise of jazz. The last thing she needed was to be reminded of Mr. Grimm every few seconds. But now she couldn’t help it. Every time she turned her head, she positively inhaled him.
Closing her eyes, Luna squeezed her fingers into tight knots.
She would be present. With Ward. She would concentrate on him and his beautiful dimples, and she would be happy.
Super happy! Because he’d not gone on assignment yet.
He was here. With her. And he’d sought her out and made an effort, and what girl wouldn’t be thrilled with that?
As though summoned by her thoughts, Ward reappeared through the throng, drinks in hand. “Hey, what’s with the long face on the pretty girl?” he asked, his deep voice carrying over the swoony sigh of a lovelorn saxophone.
Luna forced her lips to form a smile. He slid into the booth beside her and pushed one of the glass mugs her way. “Try that,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked a bit uncertainly.
“Cider.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“Not hard cider.” Ward laughed and gave the glass an extra nudge. “The tame stuff, like my old mam used to make. Perfectly safe for a Crimble girl.”
Luna flushed but sampled her drink, pleased to discover its apply-spicy-sweetness.
No burn of alcohol on the back of her palate.
Ward might laugh all he liked, but she couldn’t help her squeamishness.
If he wanted a cool date, he could have picked a different girl to shower with his attentions.
Any other girl. Why, from where she was sitting, Luna could spot at least a dozen lovely, sultry options, all giving Ward the look from behind dark-stained lashes.
But Ward’s attention remained fixed on Luna.
He performed a very smooth, very practiced, very neat stretch and draped his arm along the back of the booth, his fingers just lightly tapping her shoulder.
Well played, Luna thought with a lifted brow.
But she didn’t push him away. Not yet anyway.
I mean, if the man hasn’t earned an arm around the shoulder by now, at the very least . . .
She took another sip of cider to calm her nerves.
“Hey,” Ward said suddenly, setting down his own mug of hard cider. “Isn’t that your roommate over there? With your boss?”
A number of things happened all at once in the course of about five seconds.
First, the strains of that horrible song which still haunted her nightmares nearly a week later—the song which had burst her eardrums at Bruxley Hall and heralded an embarrassment the likes of which she would not survive a second time—began to play suddenly, manically, an eruption in Luna’s head.
Second, she saw Bryony. Glorious Bryony, goddess-like Bryony, fulfilling the wildest fantasies of every man in that room, climbing up onto the bar.
She wore gold. But that didn’t matter. Because it was Bryony herself who positively shone, eliciting a cheer from everyone, male and female alike, as she launched into a solo variation of the Bruxley Hall dance routine, deftly moving her feet in and out among glasses and tumblers on the bar top.
And sitting on the barstool just below her—from which location he must have quite the spectacular view—a stupid marigold wilting in his lapel, right where Luna had placed it . . .
Luna’s lips parted in a breathed out: “Damn.”
Why had she left the shop? Why had she left the Crimble Mountains?
Gods, why had she ever even bothered to crawl out of that bolt-hole under her parents’ living room floor all those years ago?
Because that dark, cramped, terrifying space suddenly seemed perfectly delightful in retrospect.
Anything was better, less stifling, less utterly and unbearably horrifying than being trapped here in this booth, staring at this unfolding scene.
“He’s the song, my heart’s gotta play!” Bryony wailed, in keeping with the jazzy strains, her body doing what it was made for as she moved. “Every night and every day-yay-yay-yay-yay!”
“You know, I thought they had a little something going on between them.” Ward’s voice spoke very close to Luna’s ear, loud enough to be heard over the band.
She winced away from him but couldn’t go far with his arm around her shoulder.
“At the fair, remember? Wouldn’t have placed a girl like that with a stuffed-shirt like him, though.
” He chuckled, teeth flashing in the low light of the little candle burning in the middle of the booth table.
“Maybe old Grimm’s a bit of a lad after all! ”
“Have you finished your drink, Ward?” Luna asked abruptly. “Only, it’s getting late, you know.”
Ward looked down at her, brow crinkling.
“Now don’t be like that, Luna. I won’t let your boss spoil your fun, I promise!
He’s quite busy anyway from the looks of things.
Hasn’t even noticed we’re here.” His hand squeezed her shoulder slightly.
Luna resisted the urge to shrug it off. “Our food’ll be up soon.
You’ll feel better once you’ve got a bite in you. ”
Yeah, except there was no way she could stomach a bite of anything.
Bryony finished her song, and two stout-looking fellows lifted her down from the bar, all to much tremendous applause.
Her roommate was certainly in the right vocation, Luna had to give her that.
She knew just how to put on a show. Her voice was fair, her dancing good, but it was really the Byrony-ness of it all that carried the performance.
Luna took another gulp of cider. She suddenly found herself wishing she’d ordered the hard stuff.
“Let me try that,” she said and snatched Ward’s glass, taking a long pull.
Ugh! It burned down her throat. What was even the point of cider if you couldn’t taste apple through the alcohol?
She never would understand the appeal, but .
. . she took a second gulp, then a third, choking them down.
“Steady on,” Ward said, his voice concerned. “Let’s maybe get a little food in you first, all right?”
It was just then that Bryony’s voice carried across the jazzy din: “Lunaloo!”
Luna flicked a brief glance and caught sight of her roommate waving. She stared down at her own hands, folded in front of her on the table.
“We’ve been spotted.” Ward’s fingers tightened around her shoulder, but he raised his other arm and beckoned. “I suppose we might as well have a drink with them, right?”
“Oh, no, do we have to? I’d—” Luna swallowed her words.
They wouldn’t have done any good in any case, because the band started up again just then with a roll of drums and a blast of horns.
Luna grimaced. The yawning maw of fate opened wide, ready to receive her. She had no choice but to succumb to it.
Gritting her teeth, Luna drew her lips back in her best facsimile of a smile and lifted her gaze just as Bryony and her date drew up to the table.
Bryony carried two pints in each hand with practiced expertise.
“Hey ho, daddio, how’s tricks?” she cooed through red lips.
“I’ve got me earnings for tonight’s little song, and more to come after this. Thought I’d treat me roomie.”
Luna beamed back for all she was worth and absolutely refused to look at anything or anyone else in the vicinity. “I so enjoyed your performance, Bryony!” she declared.
“Yes, we all did,” Ward added with a low chuckle.
Bryony tossed her curls and plunked the glasses down on the table. “You know that number, don’t you, Lunaloo?” she said with a saucy wink. “It’s your old standard.”
“What’s this?” Ward turned a look of too-keen interest from Bryony to Luna and back again. “What am I missing?”
Luna could feel her cheeks blushing twelve shades of crimson. “Oh, it’s nothing, um . . . just a little joke . . .”
“You should’ve seen her!” Bryony pinched her date’s elbow. “Go on, Grimmsy, slide in there.”
She turned then to regale Ward with the story of Luna’s ill-fated turn as a showgirl, eliciting much guffawing and knee-slapping and general joviality, only Luna didn’t hear a single word of it.
Because suddenly Mr. Grimm was there. Right there, beside her.
With his stupid marigold and his stupid floppy hair, and such an influx of sandalwood and cinnamon, and the sleeve of his black suit just barely grazing her arm.