Mr. Grimm! #2
“Oh, great gods!” Nigel muttered and smacked a hand to his forehead.
Because he already had a dinner date. With Bryony.
At The King’s Crown. His gaze flashed to the kitchen clock.
It was already past six. Surely it was too late now, wasn’t it?
He couldn’t possibly make a date by seven.
He’d just have to call up Mrs. Boggs’s, leave an apologetic message for Miss Braithwait.
He’d say something unavoidable had come up, and maybe next week, and . . . and . . .
And then he could convince Luna to stay for dinner instead.
His stomach in knots, Nigel exited the kitchen and ventured back down the passage to the shop. He could already hear noises of minor mayhem and suspected the flowers had not behaved as demurely as one might wish while their master was away.
Peering out into the main shop floor, Nigel grimaced.
It was all pretty much as expected. The dahlias had gathered in a single, enormous bouquet at one end of the shop and seemed to have enthralled the lowly petunias to do their bidding.
Those poor blossoms were stealing soil from the tulip pots to offer up to the dahlias in dark mounds, leaving the tulips quite bereft.
The double-delight rose had climbed up into the ceiling pipes on an exploratory mission, and the baby’s breath were all howling miserably in their water buckets like abandoned babes in the wood.
Worst of all were the tiger lilies. They had escaped their pots and seemed to be scattered every which way. There was an inexplicable amount of shattered glass everywhere.
“Get back here, you little devil!” Luna exclaimed with some viciousness just as Nigel emerged. She was halfway underneath one of the display tables, dragging tiger lilies out by the bulbs.
“What is going on in here?” Nigel demanded sternly, looking around the shop.
The flowers froze. The double-delight surreptitiously began to climb down from the pipes, and the dahlias whispered to the petunias, who hastily began hauling potting soil back to the indignant tulips.
Luna popped up, a struggling tiger lily in each hand, and tossed frizzy hair out of her face. “It’s the dratted lilies!” she declared. “They seem to have fetched vases from under the shop counter and set them up at the end of the aisle. They’ve been bowling ninepins, using the amaryllis bulbs!”
Well, that would explain all the shattered glass. Nigel ran a hand down his face. “Don’t worry, Miss Talbot,” he said. “You get those lilies. I’ll fetch the broom.”
So saying, he took a step toward the counter, but Luna sprang to her feet. “Oh no, Mr. Grimm!” she protested. “You’ve got to hurry upstairs now.”
He stopped. Looked at her. She was distinctly not looking at him, however, but concentrated on wrestling a lily into its pot.
This accomplished, she cast him no more than the briefest of glances.
“You wouldn’t want to be late to pick up Bryony,” she said.
“She’ll keep you waiting a good three-quarters of an hour at least, but she expects her gents to be there promptly, regardless.
You’d best get a boogie on if you want to make yourself presentable. ”
“But . . .” Nigel paused, licked his lips. “But the shop . . .”
“Don’t you worry about the shop, Mr. Grimm.” Luna concentrated on tamping down the potting soil around the lily’s bulb. “I’ll get everything tidied up and locked down properly before I clock out. You go on! Wouldn’t want you to miss your date.”
And yet, Nigel hesitated. He couldn’t help feeling that . . . surely he must be misunderstanding something here. That if he asked the right question in the right tone, perhaps the tangles in his heart might come all undone and could then be woven into something fresh.
But Luna made a little shooing motion with her hand. “Go on!” she said.
He couldn’t protest. Not without making the situation more awkward than it already was. “Very well, Miss Talbot,” Nigel said quietly. “Thank you.”
With that, he hastened upstairs, fleeing both her presence and the too-watchful gazes of the flowers. Upon gaining the sanctuary of his apartment, he shut the door behind him and stood a moment with his back leaning against it, simply breathing.
“Damn,” he whispered.
Moving like an automaton, he made his way to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stripped out of his ragged jacket and hopelessly wrinkled trousers.
He stood a moment staring at his own face in the square mirror above the sink.
His eyes looked hollow, and his hair stood all on end.
It was the reflection of a madman. The kind of man who threw caution to the wind, who dove off waterfall’s edges, and who didn’t concern himself overmuch with either safety or propriety. The kind of man who took risks.
The kind of man who should have kissed Luna Talbot when he had the chance.
Grimacing, Nigel lifted his chin, taking in the sight of the ugly heptagram tattoo emblazoned above his heart. How vividly he remembered the sensation of her palm pressed against his bare flesh, right where his heart beat wildly in response to her touch.
“Damn,” he whispered again.
Then he clambered into the shower and pulled the rubber curtain shut around him.
Luna was still sweeping up debris when Nigel descended from his apartment a short while later, struggling with his tie. She looked up, dustpan and broom in hand, and gave him a once-over. “Well, Mr. Grimm! What a transformation.”
“Will I do, do you think?” he asked rather nervously. For some reason, he seemed to be all thumbs and couldn’t quite get the tie to settle right. He’d donned his best black suit and white shirt, paired with a silver waistcoat.
“Yes, I think you will,” Luna said, then frowned and shook her head.
“Your collar . . . it’s folded funny. Just there.
” Nigel tried to straighten it, but couldn’t seem to find what she meant.
“Oh, let me handle it,” she said and, leaning her broom against the counter, stepped forward a quick pace to fix the offending article.
Nigel froze. She was suddenly so very near, and he simply wasn’t prepared for it. He looked down his nose at the stern set of her brow, half-shielded by a tumble of frizzy curls.
“You’re going to The King’s Crown, right?” she asked.
“Yes.” His voice emerged a little thick, and he cleared his throat.
“It’s very nice there,” Luna said, deftly arranging the knot of his tie. “But don’t order the lobster. It just gazes at you so accusingly, it quite turns the stomach! Why do they insist on serving things with the eyeballs still in? I don’t want to be looked at by my dinner, do you?”
Nigel couldn’t begin to come up with an answer to this. Not with her scent so powerfully in his nose. She still smelled faintly of the pool, but the perfume of vanilla and honeysuckle lingered. It was enough to turn all his limbs to water.
Realizing he needed to say something, he cleared his throat again. “I . . . I hope Miss Braithwait will have a good time.”
“I have no doubt she will. You are excellent company, after all.”
“Am I?”
“There.” Luna turned the angle of his tie pin slightly and patted his chest. “You look . . . no, wait!” Whirling on heel, she plucked a marigold from its foam platter display.
It was the same variety as the nosegay Nigel had brought for Bryony the night before.
A nice touch. Luna tucked it into his buttonhole, then stepped back, admiring her handiwork.
“That’s just the thing. You’re beautiful, Mr. Grimm. ”
“I am?”
She turned away swiftly, catching up her broom with both hands. “Now, you’d best hurry along,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. She wafted a hand in the direction of the door. “Go on! Shoo.”
Nigel’s brow crinkled. “Are you quite sure about this, Miss Talbot?”
“Quite. I’ll see everything snug here and be well on my way long before . . . well, before . . .”
She didn’t finish. But her silence was speaking.
It occurred to Nigel suddenly that she might assume he intended to bring Bryony back to his place after dinner.
His eyes widened. Was Bryony expecting that as well?
Was he expecting that? He couldn’t say that he was.
But he also couldn’t say that he wasn’t.
None of this was particularly well thought out.
He looked down at his tie pin, turning it slightly so that it was no longer quite straight. “And,” he said, “do you have plans tonight yourself? With Ward the Wardsman, perhaps?”
Luna began sweeping aggressively at shards of glass, which tinkled under the broom bristles. “It’s not like I see Ward every night.”
“No, of course not.” Nigel frowned and shook his head. “None of my business, anyway.”
She looked up at him again from under her lashes, a coil of hair hanging between her eyebrows. “Have a good time, Mr. Grimm,” she said.
There was something in the way she spoke.
Something in her tone that made him think she wasn’t saying what she meant.
That she wanted him to respond in a way that would make a difference somehow, that would change this strange strain between them.
Only he didn’t know what. Because he couldn’t read the mask of her sweet, emotionless smile.
“Thank you, Miss Talbot,” he said instead.
Then, as there didn’t seem to be anything else he could do, he left.