Chapter 2
Three days into my research, I’d established a routine. Mornings were spent in the town archives, afternoons interviewing locals, and evenings at The Lucky Hound taking notes while nursing a single pint of their non-green beer options.
I was beginning to think the only real mystery in Cloverton was how a man as physically imposing as Rafferty O’Sullivan could be so catastrophically clumsy.
“Bloody hell, not again!”
I looked up from my notebook to see Rafferty fumbling with a tray of glasses that seemed determined to escape his grip. As I watched, fascinated, he performed an elaborate dance of near-drops and recoveries before stabilizing the tray with his hip—directly against the corner of a table.
The resulting crash made everyone in the pub wince. Everyone except me, because this was the third such incident I’d witnessed since arriving, and I was beginning to suspect these accidents weren’t entirely accidental.
Especially since they always seemed to happen within ten feet of wherever I was sitting.
“Professor!” Rafferty called cheerfully, as though he hadn’t just shattered half a dozen pint glasses. “Don’t move, there’s glass everywhere.”
Before I could respond, he was striding toward me, somehow navigating the sea of glass shards with perfect grace despite having all the coordination of a newborn giraffe moments before.
This inconsistency was noted in my mental file labeled “Rafferty Anomalies,” which was growing distressingly thick.
“I’m perfectly fine where I am,” I assured him, gesturing to my corner table well away from the disaster zone.
“Can’t have you trapped, can we?” He was already beside me, his hip suddenly bumping my table and sloshing beer dangerously close to my notes. “Oops! Sorry ‘bout that.” He grinned, not looking sorry at all. “Big bones, small pub.”
Indeed, everything about him was big. His shoulders stretched his flannel shirt to its limits, the fabric straining across his chest. Today’s selection was dark green, making his eyes even more vibrant.
He’d rolled the sleeves past his elbows, exposing those forearms that had featured prominently in my dreams the past two nights.
“I’ve been sitting here for over an hour without incident,” I pointed out. “I’m sure I can manage another thirty minutes.”
“Ah, but you haven’t tried today’s special yet!” He produced a small glass of amber liquid from somewhere. “Local honey whiskey. Made by the Macintosh sisters up the hill.”
I eyed the glass suspiciously. “I don’t recall ordering that.”
“On the house.” He pushed it closer. “Call it research. The sisters claim the recipe was given to their family by the Guardians three hundred years ago.”
“Mr. O’Sullivan—”
“Rafferty.”
“Rafferty,” I amended, “I appreciate the hospitality, but I’m here to work, not drink myself into believing in fairy tales.”
His eyes flashed, and for a moment, I could have sworn they changed color—from green to gold and back again. A trick of the light, obviously.
“One sip,” he urged, his voice dropping an octave. “For me.”
And damn it all if I didn’t pick up the glass and take a sip, just to see his reaction. The whiskey was smooth and sweet with a surprising heat that spread through my chest.
“Good, isn’t it?” His smile was triumphant. “The Macintosh honey is special. They say their bees are blessed.”
“It’s the terroir,” I corrected automatically. “The unique environmental factors affecting the flavor profile of the honey.”
“Terroir,” he repeated, mangling the French pronunciation delightfully. “Is that what they teach you in professor school?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Among other things.”
“And what else have they taught you, Eliot?” My name in his mouth felt intimate, especially as he leaned closer, his massive arms braced on my small table.
“That correlation doesn’t imply causation,” I replied, trying to maintain my academic demeanor despite the heat creeping up my neck. “And that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.”
“And what would you consider extraordinary evidence?” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “For the existence of the Guardians, I mean.”
I took another sip of whiskey for courage. “Well, a transforming wolf-man would be a start.”
Rafferty threw back his head and laughed, that booming sound that seemed to vibrate through my entire body. “Careful what you wish for, Professor.”
Before I could formulate a suitable response, a crash from the bar drew his attention. “Mal! Don’t touch that without—” He sighed dramatically. “Excuse me, duty calls. Enjoy the whiskey.”
As he walked away, I couldn’t help but notice every eye in the pub following him—including mine. The man moved with a predatory grace that contradicted his apparent clumsiness. And those jeans should have been illegal in at least forty-seven states.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. I was here to debunk myths, not ogle the local publican, no matter how magnificently his ass filled out his denim.