Page 12 of The Trick of It

She was gripping the countertop near her till like it were holding her upright, hypnotized by the thing like a cobra in a basket.

He would have sputtered if he had enough energy to keep up the ruse. Instead, he drooped, dropping his arm to his side. “You really don’t know?”

“I really do not know,” she confirmed, flinging her arms wide with a shrug.

He sighed heavily. “Fine. Then someone’s having a bit of fun with both of us. Which is worse than it just being you, up to your usual evils.”

“My usua—?!” she began, her tone kicking up an octave.

“All right, enough.” He cut her off, rolling his eyes. “Shall I kick the door shut so we can open the thing up? Or do you want to go out to the sea and toss it in together?”

“I think,” she said through her teeth, “that if it is addressed to me, you will leave it here and begone. I think that makes the most sense, amadán.”

“Ah,” he said, tutting, “I know that one. Did a residency in Kildare.”

“Heard it a lot, did you?” she replied, making him grin.

“Ah, Seph. Mind that forked tongue of yours or I’ll eat your damned letter. Aren’t you the least bit curious why someone sent it to me instead of you?”

“No,” she lied, then she pulled a face and stomped her little foot. “Yes. Did it come to the Rest?”

He nodded. “Inside a second envelope addressed to me. I’ll show you the part that I believe was meant for my eyes if you show me the part meant for yours.”

“A dangerous prospect,” she said, giving a wary lift of the chin. “Fine. Close the damned door. Come upstairs. I’ll put another kettle on.”

Rhys nodded, releasing a little sigh of relief.

As he turned and pulled the shop door shut behind him, he absently considered standing very near the kettle.

If he did that, he could blame the melted seal and warped paper on tonight’s steam and never have to acknowledge this morning’s.

Yes, that was good, he decided. She’d never be the wiser.

He was a clever man, indeed.

Chapter Four

Seph’s heart was racing. And not in a pleasant way.

She had expected an eventual confrontation, of course. She must have even expected it today, given that she’d bothered getting dressed and pinning up her hair.

But somehow, she had never anticipated Rhys Caradoc following her up into her private quarters. That had never crossed into the realm of possibility. Not even in theory. Not even in dreams.

And yet there he was behind her, footfalls light as a cat’s.

“I knew you lived in the shop,” he commented as she opened the private door to the staircase that led to her apartments above. “I just always pictured you under it, not above it.”

She narrowed her eyes but did not turn around. “Why are you picturing me at home, Rhys Caradoc?”

He gave a soft chuckle behind her. She could almost feel him shaking his head. “I like to know where you are,” he told her. “So that I might steer clear.”

She grimaced and pushed the door open, standing to the side to usher him in. “That would have been easy,” she pointed out. “If you had just stayed away from Brighton.”

“Ah, well,” he said, shrugging as he passed by her, leaving a wave of air scented with coconuts and sea salt and vanilla. “You can’t have Brighton, Seph. It’s home.”

“Yes,” she agreed, walking in behind him and pulling the door shut. “It is.”

She heard him titter again, his breath warm around the amusement as she stalked past him, refusing to wonder at what he thought of her home. She marched straight to the kettle and set about getting it to boil, her teeth aching against the back of her jaw as she did so.