Luna squeezed her eyes tight. No, no! Mr. Grimm was a perfect gentleman. He wasalwaysa gentleman. She didn’t have to worry about that.
Perhaps his gentlemanliness was what worried her.
Because if he tried to be a gentleman at her tonight, she might justdie.
The sound of a whistling kettle caught her ear. Luna realized it had been whistling for some while and was growing louder by the moment. How long had it been since her employer disappeared into the kitchen? Had he escaped out the back alley and fled, leaving the kettle to overboil?
Pushing the hinged portion of the counter up and out of her way, Luna stomped back down the passage. Irritation fortified her against other, more delicious terrors. She slammed the kitchen door open, stepped inside.
And there he was.
Pacing back and forth in front of the stove.
He’d removed his jacket and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair, along with his tie. His collar and the top buttons of his shirt were unfastened, as though he was trying to catch a breath, and he’d rolled up his sleeves to the elbows. Even as she watched, he was in the act of running his fingers roughly through his hair, disheveling whatever remained of the pomade he’d put in it earlier that day and making it flop over his forehead. It sounded like he might be cursing with every other step, and the whistling kettle did not seem to register with his awareness whatsoever.
Luna waited a moment, observing in silence. Then she cleared her throat. “Mr. Grimm?”
He startled as though by a gunshot, whirled on heel, and stared at her. His blue eyes were huge and haunted.
“Um.” She pointed limply. “The, um, the kettle.”
“Oh. Right.” Pivoting sharply, Mr. Grimm grabbed the kettle handle, heedless of the heat. Luna winced for him, but he did not seem to notice, simply moved it from the hot burner to a cold one, then stood there for some breaths, staring at it. As though he couldn’t remember what he was doing.
“Have you, um, picked a tea?” Luna asked.
He turned his head, but did not look at her over his shoulder. He addressed the pantry door instead. “I thought the vanilla-honeysuckle?”
“That sounds about right.” Luna moved into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind her. She approached the stash of tea tins she kept on the kitchen shelf and selected her vanilla-honeysuckle llarmi blend. “Will you prime the pot?” she asked.
“What?”
“The pot. Will you prime it?”
“Oh. Yes.” Mr. Grimm jerked into motion, fetching the Royal Bastian pot from its place of honor on the hutch. His hands shook so hard, she could hear the lid rattling. Oddly enough, the sound gave her confidence. Luna felt her heartrate leveling out, her breath easing ever so slightly.
Mr. Grimm grabbed the kettle, still without protecting his hand, and moved to pour a measure of hot water into the empty pot to prime it for the leaves. His spatial awareness was rather drastically off, however, and hot water slopped all over the countertop. “Damn,” he growled.
“Oh, no worries. I’ve got it,” Luna said and hastily caught up a tea towel. She stepped to his side and made as though to wipe uphis spill. But hethunkeddown the kettle and reached out to take the towel, saying a brusque, “Let me, Miss Talbot.”
His hand came down on top of hers.
Suddenly, Luna found herself back at the top of the Lover’s Tower. Back in that moment, lying beneath the evening sky, when she’d felt his warm palm engulf her hand, felt his fingers slip between hers, felt the terrifying rightness of that connection, of that moment. Apparently, it wasn’t a one-time occurrence, because here it came again. Electricity shooting straight up her arm, passing through her heart, and grounding her with a powerful jolt.
She lost her ability to breathe. She could do nothing but stand there, staring at his hand. At those large veins and those long, lithe fingers, and those deep nailbeds. But she felt his eyes fixed on the side of her face. Burning through the mask of calm she fought to keep in place, burning through every layer and defense, right down to her trembling core.
Slowly, Luna turned her head. She couldn’t meet his gaze, so she focused instead on the hollow of his throat, visible in the absence of a tie. Why was she suddenly possessed by the powerful urge to lean forward and press her lips there? Maybe even to flick out her tongue and taste that very specific part of him, the sight of which filled her with such inexplicable hunger?
His hand, still on top of hers, tightened, gripping her fingers hard. Then his other hand reached out, took hold of her upper arm, turned her to face him. Still she could not raise her gaze from his throat. Whatever confidence his nervousness had momentarily inspired in her seemed to have fled entirely. She was a shivering little fool, on the verge of melting into a puddle of jelly right there at his feet.
“Luna.”
Her lungs expanded sharply.
If there was one thing he could say that could shock her enough to make her look up, to make her meet his gaze, that was it: the sound of her name on his lips. It was the first time she’d ever heard him say it.
Her lashes lifted, and she met those blue eyes of his. They were so sad, so deeply agonized. But there was more than sadness in them now. That raw, tortured longing she’d glimpsed in the thaumagraph was present once more. No longer hidden, no longer needing a thaumatographer’s magic to bring it to light. Completely bare to the naked eye.
“Yes, Nigel?” she whispered back. The shape of his name was foreign on her tongue.
