Chapter 11
With a clatter of footsteps on stairs, Mr. Grimm burst from the stairwell a short while later, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his hair un-pomaded, still looking rather wild, truth be told.
But a lot fresher and sweeter-smelling. He gripped the doorway of the stairwell with a white-knuckled hand, staring around the shop until his gaze landed on Luna.
She stood behind the counter, going through order slips for the Governor’s Ball.
“You’re still here!” he gasped and sagged against the doorway.
Luna looked up at him blandly. “I am, Mr. Grimm,” she acknowledged. Then: “Where’s your tie?”
He looked down at his shirt, which wasn’t quite buttoned right. “Erm.”
Lifting the hinged portion of the counter, Luna stepped out and approached him, even as he sought to redo his buttons.
His fingers were shaking, and while he could manage to get the buttons undone, doing them up again seemed to be quite beyond his powers.
“Here, Mr. Grimm,” she said, reaching out. “Allow me.”
He froze as her hands took hold of his nice white shirt.
She did not feel so much as a breath on her forehead, though the intensity of his stare was enough to leave scorch marks.
His lovely sandalwood-and-cinnamon scent was back in full force, and she inhaled it deeply, hoping to commit it to memory.
She found herself very aware of her proximity to his freshly-shaven jaw, aware of the way the muscles in his throat constricted.
A strange urge came over her not to button his shirt, but rather to tear it away, exposing more of his torso in his tight-fitting undershirt.
Then she might press her mouth against the lovely line of his sternum, currently presented to her view, and . . .
Luna blinked and shook her head. Where had such a scandalous notion come from? She hardly recognized herself! And what was this strange, new heat trickling from her stomach into lower regions of her body?
Drawing a sharp little breath, she hastily did up the last few buttons, then pulled his waistcoat together and did those as well.
“There,” she said and took a step back, hoping he could not see how warm her cheeks had become.
“You’re a bit more presentable now.” Her gaze fastened on his collar, unable or unwilling to rise any higher. “Did you bring a tie down with you?”
Mr. Grimm shook his head.
“Well, that’s all right.” Luna forced a little smile and a short glance up to his eyes. “Put on your apron, and I’m sure no one will notice.”
So saying, she turned on heel and returned to the stack of order forms. It wasn’t much use, however, because her boss merely followed her.
That tiny space behind the counter had never before felt so claustrophobic.
Luna’s fingers trembled as she shuffled the slips, and her own handwriting blurred before her eyes.
“Miss Talbot,” Mr. Grimm said, even as he pulled his apron over his head and secured the ties. “About last night—”
Luna plucked the topmost pink slip from the pile and held it up before her face like a barrier.
“Mr. Grimm,” she said primly, “if these orders are going to be ready in time, we must focus. Now . . .” She frowned at the slip.
She recognized her own scribbles, but the words were pretty much illegible.
“Oh dear. What do you think Miss Peabody ordered?”
Mr. Grimm took the slip. He scanned it briefly, his brow puckered, then answered with confidence, “White peonies with purple anemones and corresponding satin ribbon.” He held the paper a little closer to his nose, frown line deepening.
“There seems to be the word, ‘crystals’ here as well. Underlined a number of times.”
“Right. I remember now.” Luna reached under the counter for floral tape, wire, ribbon, a pot of glue, and a selection of glass crystals and rhinestone adornments they’d been collecting for just such a purpose. “Will you fetch me two large peonies and a handful of anemones, Mr. Grimm?”
He lingered a moment, watching her in troubled silence.
But when she continued to concentrate solely on the task at hand, arranging her supplies across the lower portion of the counter, he moved off at last, returning moments later with the requested flowers.
These delivered, he hung back, and she could feel the tension in him as he strove to find the right words to speak.
Only there were no right words. And she definitely did not want to talk right now.
“There’s a pot of dandelion and arnica tea in the nook,” she said, focusing on snipping peony stems and beginning to wrap them in floral tape. “It’ll help that nasty bruise on your jaw you know.”
“Thank you, Miss Talbot,” he said quietly. He stepped into the nook, and she listened to sounds of tea pouring. He took a sip.
“How is it, Mr. Grimm?” she asked after a moment.
“Absolutely foul,” he responded.
“Good.” She nodded firmly. “That means it’s working.”
Mr. Grimm finished the tea then went back to work fetching flowers for her.
She’d posted the NO TEA SERVICE sign in the window, due to the number of orders there were to get through.
She simply didn’t have time to stop and brew teas and read fortunes this morning.
Luna’s heart ached a little, knowing this meant she would never serve her tea clients again.
No more Silly Young Things with their various woes, no countesses suffering the throes of heartache, or confused heiresses with too many suitors at a time.
She glanced up from her work once to see Mr. Tippingsly at the window, shaking his head in despair at sight of the sign.
The poor man; he really did hate Tuesdays, but her readings had always managed to give him a bit more confidence as he navigated the perils of the day.
Luna watched him stroll sadly back up the sidewalk. Another goodbye unsaid.
Blinking back tears, she focused on a bundle of ranunculus in her hands, looping satin ribbon elegantly and securing it with a dab of glue.
Mr. Grimm was very silent throughout the morning.
She only heard him speak if he was dealing directly with a customer.
Luna was relieved. It helped her not to look at him too much, to keep her attention focused on her work.
One by one, little nosegays and corsages took shape under her hands, and she would hand them off to her employer, who took them to the kitchen to store in the iceboxes.
He deciphered her handwriting, kept her supplied with flowers and wire and tape, but for the most part left the task of arranging to her.
He made one or two attempts, but his fingers shook too much to manage it.
It was nearing noon and the time for the first pickups, when Luna turned and found her shears just out of reach. “Mr. Grimm?” she said.
He looked up.
“Will you pass me those, please?” She nodded.
Grabbing the shears, he angled them so that she might take the handle. But then his grip tightened around the closed blades, and when she tugged, he did not release them. “Mr. Grimm?” Luna said, tugging again.
“Miss Talbot.” His voice was rough, husky.
Though she knew she shouldn’t, Luna could not resist a quick glance up to meet his gaze. Once met, she was caught. Caught in that earnest stare, much closer than she’d realized. Too close.
“Miss Talbot,” he said again, “I shouldn’t have . . . That is to say, I want you to know that I never wished to—”
“Mr. Grimm, please.” Luna moistened her lips. “Give me the shears.”
He took a step forward, simultaneously pulling on the shears so that she took another step toward him. She ought to let go, of course. She ought to retreat. But she didn’t. She let herself be dragged a little closer, still staring up into his blue eyes, so deep and so solemn.
“I know,” he said, speaking low, though there was no one around to hear them save the flowers.
“I know you must see me as the worst of villains now.” His voice broke, and he took a moment to steady himself.
“But I want you to believe me when I say you are . . . safe here. With me.” He dropped his gaze then to the shears between them.
She watched his throat tense as he swallowed hard.
“What I did yesterday in . . . in the kitchen. And before that, at the turret.” He drew a shuddering breath.
“It was ungentlemanly of me. But it won’t happen again. I promise.”
Luna’s stomach turned over. She felt hot and cold simultaneously.
She should say something, shouldn’t she? Something smooth and cool and classy, something to dispel the tension of the moment. Or maybe she should laugh carelessly, pretend like it was all a great lark and meant nothing to her.
Only when she opened her mouth to speak, the only words that tried to make themselves spoken were: “But what if I want it to happen again?”
A warning voice in her head fairly screamed: Don’t say it! You’re leaving tomorrow! Before dawn! You’re so close now, don’t do anything stupid and mess it all up!
But just in that moment, all warnings and reason felt very distant, very far away. While Mr. Grimm’s face was very near, his lips parted as he struggled for air, as he waited for her reply. And she had to say something. Anything. Even if what she said was indescribably foolish.
“Mr. Grimm,” she began.
And then the shop bells rang.
Mr. Grimm looked up, over her head. “Of course,” he growled in the same sort of tone one might utter the worst of expletives.
Luna did not have to look. She knew. She knew exactly who it was who had just entered the shop. A flood of cold fear washed through her, but she forced herself to release her hold on the shears and turn.