Page 35 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

Nigel slowed, his feet incapable of continuing even as the violin sang on. They came to a full stop in the middle of the shop aisle, and he studied her closed eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the slight furrow of her brow. But not her eyes. Those maintained their stubborn focus on his tie. Nigel opened his mouth, searching for words that wouldn’t come.

Luna drew a little shuddering breath, and her fingers, held in his, tightened as she whispered, “What am I going to do without you, Mr. Grimm?”

“Without me?” Nigel’s eyes widened. “Miss Talbot, what do you—”

“No, sorry!” She pushed away from him abruptly, yanking her one hand from his shoulder, the other from his grasp. He tried to step closer, to keep his hold around her waist, but she pivoted nimbly and slipped away from him, hastening down the aisle. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” she said, her voice falsely bright. “I’m tired, you know. Very tired.” She paused, turned partially away from him so that he could see only the line of her shoulder and the edge of her cheek. “Actually,” she said, “I think I need to be getting on. Do you . . . do you mind very much if I nip upstairs? I left all my things there, you know.”

“Of course.” Nigel flexed his fingers, fighting the urge to reach for her again, but settled on putting both hands behind his back. “Help yourself to whatever you need, Miss Talbot.”

With a little nod, she hurried away from him, vanishing into the stairwell. The profound rose perfume vanished with her, but her own honeysuckle-and-vanilla scent lingered in his nostrils. Nigel listened to the sound of her footsteps ascending, heard the moment when she paused. Part of him hoped she would return, would rush back down and throw herself into his arms. Part of him hoped she would call out to him, invite him to come up with her. Perhaps she’d need help with her zipper again? Perhaps . . . perhaps . . .

But her footsteps continued. His apartment door creaked shut.

Nigel cursed, turned in place, and ran his hands through his hair. Oh gods! What kind of an idiot was he, allowing himself to hope for such things? She didn’t wantthatfrom him. She’d made that abundantly clear over and over again, had she not? Or hadn’t she?

After all, they’d sharedsomethinglast night.

He spun on heel, his gaze seeking the dark stairwell. His heart rammed in his breast, surging with desire to follow her. To climb those stairs, burst through that door, and take her in his arms. Lusty images filled his brain, and Nigel squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself as the worst of lechers. The truth was, he could never,nevertreat Luna in such a base, common way. She meant too much to him, and his desire for her ran too deep.

But if shedidwant him . . . if there was even achance . . .

Growling deep in his throat, he stormed back behind the counter, slammed the hinged portion up and down again firmly. He cast himself into the cane chair, bent over, and buried his face in his hands. Was she even now slipping out of that gown, letting it pool around her feet on his bedroom floor? She wore no brassiere—he remembered that detail all-too vividly. Which meant she would be practically naked, right there, beside his bed. Soft and vulnerable and waiting for him to find his courage somehow? Or—

“No!” he snarled, fingers gripping his hair. “Get it together, Grimm!”

He couldn’t say how long he remained like so. It felt like hours before he finally heard footsteps on the stairs again. Quick, light steps, with a decidedly pronounced click of boot heels. Those almost-new boots of hers, the ones he’d bought her for Green Yule. He could just picture her, clad in her little work blouse and skirt, wrapped up in her winter coat. And somehow, that image was equally as desirable as any other which ever danced through his fevered imagination.

He listened to her reach the bottom steps then slow a little as she drew near to the counter. He did not turn to look at her. He held his breath. Part of him hoped she would lift the hinged portion, would slip back into the nook with him. And if she did—gods above! If she did, he would jump from his chair, wrap her in his arms, and never let her go.

But she stopped at the counter. And his straining ears heard nothing but her slight breaths for some moments. He counted ten heartbeats, and still he had not worked up the strength to turn around and look at her.

Finally, her voice murmured, “Good night, Mr. Grimm.”

Once more the sound of her boot heels rang in his ears, clicking on tiles as she retreated across the shop, right up that center aisle where they had danced. The shop bells tinkled, followed by a long pause. Was she casting a last look back into the shop, perhaps? Was she hoping he would even now rise up and call out to her?

But he didn’t. He remained in place, his limbs like stone. His soul trapped in the cage of his own cowardice.

Another tinkle of bells, and the shop door shut. He heard thesnickof the latch. For a moment, he held his breath, hoping to hear her footsteps coming back toward him, telling him that she’d changed her mind and not left after all. But there was nothing. Only silence.

She was gone.

With an agonized groan, Nigel sat up, dropping his hands away from his face. He rolled his head back on his neck, stared up at the tangle of ceiling pipes overhead, his face oddly slack. Then, strangely, his brow hardened, and the line of his cheek tensed. An unexpected feeling came over him in a rush—a certainty, a conviction.

I need to see her.

He couldn’t say why or where the thought had come from. But it was there. Real and compelling. More an instinct than an idea. He needed to see her. Needed to watch her walk away. Needed to have eyes on her, for just a moment longer. Because somehow he knew if he did not . . . she was going to vanish from his life forever.

Springing to his feet, Nigel knocked the cane chair right over, stumbled to the hinged portion of the counter, flung it out of his way. He crossed the shop in a few quick strides, ignoring the anxious glances cast his way by the flowers. The shade on the door window was pulled down; he couldn’t see through it, couldn’t watch her cross the street or walk down the far sidewalk to Nettleton. With a frantic huff of air from his lungs, he grabbed the latch, turned it, yanked the door open.

Luna was there.

Not across the street. Not walking the far sidewalk away from him.

She stood right there. Directly in front of him.

Under the awning. On his doorstep. Her carpetbag in hand.

Gazing up at him, her face bathed in the glow of the nearest streetlamp.