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Is whatever sent Mom running from my father the reason I can’t find him now?
“I’ve got that last long-shot lead to follow up on,” I remind Bram. “If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll have to think of another tactic.”
Especially since business hasn’t been great. A Touch of Magic is my dream and my greatest achievement. But without an influx of customers and cash, I won’t have the money to keep both my doors open and the detective on my case. And if I go broke, I’ll have to decide—stay here or go back to the States?
Go back to what?
Yes, my flat is ridiculously small, and other than Bram, I haven’t met anyone. I’m not looking forward to the upcoming winter. Plus, the food…ugh. Don’t Brits believe in good enchiladas? On the other hand, their history, their sense of permanence, is everything.
“You’ll find him. Don’t give up,” Bram encourages.
“As long as there’s a chance, I can’t.”
“That’s the spirit. You tenacious American girls never fail to impress.”
Thanks to my nomadic childhood, I’ve never had many friends. But my rapport with Bram is surprisingly easy. Since flirting is like breathing for him, he’s probably a fukboi. I don’t take his smiles or his charm seriously. Or any man’s.
Except for the broodingly sexy hunk of hot man I met this morning.
Broodingly sexy? I shouldn’t romanticize Marrok. He was rude. He behaved like an asshole.
But until he insulted me, I swore he wanted me. Just being near him sent desire careening through me, rushing to every quivering finger and trembling toe. The more female parts of me? I blush even thinking about how he affected those. After mere seconds of his hands on me, I lit up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza. Pathetic.
“But I actually called about Marrok,” Bram says as if he can read my mind.
“Oh?”
“You’ll hear from him soon. He feels ghastly about the row you had earlier.”
“Good. I’d planned on finding him, anyway.” And keeping my libido out of the conversation. “He’s temperamental, but his talent…wow.”
“Indeed. He’s a bit odd, but give him a chance.”
I jerk on the door handle, but the key still refuses to turn. Some days, I swear the old lock takes an active dislike to me. The sudden stutter-beep in my ear hardly improves my mood.
“I’ve got to go. My battery is dying, and I can’t get the damn door shut.”
After we agree to touch base in a few days, I hang up. I try turning the key again. Jammed.
“Damn it!” I push a strand of dark hair from my eyes. “Obstinate door.”
“Does cursing it help?”
Startled, I whirl at the unexpected, deep voice. Though the shadows shroud most of his face, my sudden head-to-toe hum tells me who hovers behind me. So does the patch of moonlight glimmering across his stormy eyes. There’s a harshness to his expression…
Reflexively, I swallow and step away, my heart lurching. “Marrok.”
“Olivia.”
Just the way his lips caress my name… Desire flares. My body pings. Suddenly, the fatigue I’ve been fighting all afternoon evaporates.
“You startled me.” My voice sounds somewhere between breathy and accusing. Fitting since I’m not sure whether to be aroused or afraid.
What is he doing here?
“Not for the first time, I think.” He edges closer until moonlight bathes him in silvery tones. “I startled you this morning as well. I apologize.”
His olive branch should make me feel better. I want it to.
