45 Birdie #2
I finally dare to look up. His smile is wholly disarming.
That gorgeous face is all sharp cheeks and pouty lips.
His whiskey brown eyes almost seem to glow.
And don’t get me started on the hair. Golden ringlets that hang to his shoulders, brushing the clavicles he’s left exposed in a sexy, scoop-neck black T-shirt.
Faded dark jeans. Scuffed motorcycle boots.
He looks like a rock star who just stepped off the pages of a perfume ad in a magazine.
Plucking the last stone from his fingers, I drop it into the bag with a muttered “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
We rise in unison, and my eye catches the glint of his ring. It’s a chunky gold signet ring set with a polished round stone. The stone is a dark blue, veined and flecked with gold, just like the stones in my bag. “Hey, is that lapis?”
His fingers flex as he glances down at the ring. “Yes, it is.”
I take him in now that he’s standing. He’s tall, a bit broader in the chest and arms than Jasper.
Thirties maybe. Built like a rugby player.
There’s an odd kind of airbrushed quality to him that holds my attention.
And there’s something about him that feels .
. . unreal. Ephemeral. Like, if I blink, I’ll miss him. I can’t look away.
He glances down at the counter, taking note of the tray of assorted stones and my growing stack of crystal books. He drums the top of the stack with his fingers. “Bit of light research?”
I fight a blush, setting the bag of lapis aside. “Yeah. It’s sort of my first day.” I gesture around at the cluttered shop. “Clearly, I’ve got a lot to learn about all this stuff.”
“Do you know the significance of lapis lazuli?” His accent sounds foreign, but I can’t quite place it. Not British, certainly. Danish, maybe? Swedish?
“Not yet,” I admit. Spinning away, I shuffle some of the papers on the back counter. “There’s a cheat chart here somewhere. Hold on a sec and I’ll tell you—”
As soon as my back is turned, he steps in closer, his chest all but brushing my shoulder. Then his hand lightly strokes the knit sleeve of my cardigan. I suck in a breath, my body going stiff. Twisting my neck, I gaze up at him. “What are you doing?”
“They call it the wisdom keeper,” he murmurs.
“The Stone of the Sky. Egyptians, Persians, the Greeks and Romans, even the Inca right here in the Americas . . . they all believed lapis lazuli represented the universe entire. The blue is for the vast expanse of the heavens. The flecks of gold are so many stars. With lapis lazuli, a king could hold the world in his hands. That’s power, Birdie. That’s magic.”
Heart in my throat, I lean away, eyes wide. “How do you know my name?”
Before he can respond, Pickles jumps up on the counter next to us, hissing at the handsome stranger. On instinct, I reach for the cat. Scooping him into my arms, I use him as a furry shield. “My cat doesn’t like you.”
The stranger just chuckles. “Well, that’s hardly my fault.
Pickles doesn’t like anyone.” As if to prove his point, he reaches for the cat.
Pickles immediately swats at him with another low, growly hiss.
Lips pursed with a smile, the man’s gaze trails from the cat in my arms back up to my face. “Anyone but you, it seems. Lucky cat.”
Okay, I’m gonna need to have a serious talk with my stomach after this, because there’s no reason for it to swoop like we’re on a goddamn swing just because a handsome man is flirting with me. I mean, my god. I’m at work. I’m a professional.
I set Pickles down on the counter. “Is there something I can do for you? Something you’re looking for?”
“You,” he replies without hesitation. “I’m here looking for you.”
I give him my best shop girl smile. “Well, you found me. How can I help?”
As if I didn’t just ask a very reasonable and time-sensitive question, he turns and leans against the counter. Arms and ankles crossed, he’s totally at ease. “Did you know Catherine the Great had an entire room of her palace adorned in lapis lazuli?”
Wait, we’re back to lapis? My mind does a cartwheel as I rush to catch up. “I—no, I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, and the Boy King, Tutankhamun, he was bedecked in the stone upon his death. His jewels, his funerary mask . . .”
“Riveting,” I reply, my frustration rising.
“It makes a lovely pigment for paint when ground into powder,” he goes on. “Michelangelo was simply obsessed with the color. He crushed enough stone to make the blue paint of the heavens seen in his masterpiece, The Last Judgment. Have you seen it? Beyond the pages of a textbook, I mean.”
I fight back a laugh. “Are you crowding behind my counter asking me if I’ve been to the Sistine Chapel?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I have. A couple times, actually.”
His smile is a deadly weapon. “Devastating, isn’t it?”
Feeling wholly unnerved, I fold my arms across my chest. Pickles stays at my side on the counter, tail twitching. “Mostly it was hot and crowded. And I’m more of a Bernini fan.”
His whiskey brown eyes flash with interest. “Noted.”
Why is this guy being so intense? He seemed normal when he walked in.
Okay, no. You can’t be normal when you look and sound like that. You can’t be normal when I describe you as “ephemeral.” When one brush of your fingers on my skin sends my heart racing. When your voice makes my stomach flip. It’s like everything about him is designed to lure me in—
Oh my god.
Oh fuck.
I glance sharply around the store, wondering if anyone else is seeing this.
The ladies at the tea table are turned away from us, totally engrossed in their own conversation.
And the girls in the back by the bath salts are too distracted by their phones.
Who knows what happened to the Korean couple in the book room.
Whatever. I don’t need witnesses to confirm what my eyes are seeing, what my body is feeling. I know magic is real. I’ve seen it now. I’ve also read enough paranormal romances to know what happens next. This is the moment when the vampire dazzles you, seconds before the freaking bite!
Why else would Pickles be so upset? He slept through the chaos of the ferry foot traffic. He snored while Hortie swept the floor, performing a one-woman rendition of Cabaret. Now he’s wide awake, eyes locked on this stranger, tracking his every move with the focus of a laser.
Should I call for Jasper? No, he’s supposed to be dead. Where the heck is Hortie? Is that coffee shop in freaking Maine? Did she swim to the mainland? I’m alone in a tarot shop, facing a mysterious magical being, with only a cat for protection.
Swallowing my nerves, I inch away from this charming prowler. “So . . . what are you then? Some kind of local gem expert? Do you just wander the shops, wowing the new staff with your extensive knowledge of lapis lazuli?”
“Is it working?” he teases. “Are you wow’ed, Birdie?”
I stiffen, arms still crossed. “You never did say how you knew my name.”
He shrugs. “It’s a small island.”
“Yeah, well, Hortie will be back any minute.”
If he’s a magical being, he’ll know to take Hortie’s imminent return as a threat, right? He has to know she’s a witch. God, I want to call for Jasper. The cat and I need to come up with a hand signal or a code word. Something to let him know when he needs to go alert the boss.
“I’m not here for Hortense Hastings,” he replies. “I’m only here for you.”
Oh fuck, I really don’t wanna be a vampire!
“Well, I’m flattered,” I hear myself say. “But I’m at work right now, you’re a literal stranger, and this is officially bordering on inappropriate. It was sweet of you to help me with the stones, but now you’re just loitering.”
His eyes go wide with surprise. “Loitering?”
“Yes. Behind the counter is employees only.” I frantically wave my hands, clearly showing him the edges of the counter space. “I told you that already. Now, if you’re not an employee, and you’re not shopping, I really think you should go.”
His brow furrows with confusion. “But—where am I to go?”
“My guy, pick a direction,” I all but shriek.
“Any direction but down will do. We don’t have a basement here and we don’t sell shovels.
But I’ve heard Heirloom Café loves it when people loiter.
Try the cinnamon rolls, okay? Now scoot.
” I point to the door. Next to me on the counter, Pickles stands, adding a snarly hiss.
Stranger Danger’s expression shifts from surprise, to hurt, to downright crestfallen. His shoulders slump as his smile falls. “I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?”
I blink twice, still leaning away. “All what?”
“This.” He gestures between us. “Meeting you. Wooing you.”
I practically choke on my surprise. “Wooing me? The fuck? You waltzed in here like you owned the place, sporting that sexy little T-shirt and those angel curls, wearing a face that can launch a thousand ships. You crowded me and prattled on about lapis lazuli for five freaking minutes! Now you won’t leave.
What part of that am I supposed to interpret as wooing? ”
He shrugs a defeated shoulder, his expression making him look decidedly like a puppy left out in the rain. “You’re a historian. Most historians love random history facts. I was trying to establish a point of shared connection.”