Like her understated surroundings, Miss Parker needn’t add ostrich feathers or other ostentatious touches to draw attention to herself. She was gorgeous and perfect just as she was.
He swallowed. She had granted him permission to touch her art, but he had not done so, because it was not her art he longed to touch. It was Miss Parker he wished to explore. The unwrinkled gown, the soft tendrils of her hair, the contours of her lips.
These were not thoughts he could allow himself to entertain. Not with her.
Due to the snowstorm, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. Intimacy of any kind was far too terrifying to consider when he couldn’t walk away.
“Here for your hair combs?” Miss Parker asked without looking up from her work.
“Aye,” he said. “If you’re willing to sell them today. I also brought you a few biscuits.”
At this, she looked up, and her brown eyes widened at the size of his package. “Do I look like the sort of woman who would eat two dozen biscuits?”
He shifted his weight. “What’s the right answer to that question?”
“The answer is yes.” She held out her hands. “Give them to me.”
He closed the space between them and placed the parcel on the counter with a grin. “These are actually three dozen biscuits, which means there will be some left over for me, too.”
She opened a drawer and retrieved two small white plates and placed them beside the parcel. “What kind did you order?”
“All of them,” he admitted.
At last, she rewarded him with a smile. “My favorite kind.”
She placed a cinnamon biscuit, a raisin biscuit, and a square of shortbread on her plate. He did the same.
“I don’t have much time,” she warned him. “I don’t have any time, actually.”
“There is always time for biscuits,” he assured her. “I’ve done extensive firsthand research into the matter, and have never found a situation that could not be improved by delectable, sweet biscuits fresh from the oven.”
She licked the tip of her finger. “You make an excellent argument. Are you a barrister?”
“I am an itinerant ne’er-do-well.” He lowered his voice. “It pays much better.”
She smirked and took a bite of her biscuit.
Jonathan excelled at this kind of conversation. Amusing, frivolous, superficial. It was easy to be likable and charming when there was no risk of exposing one’s true self.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not using these biscuits to woo me, are you?”
He shook his head solemnly. “Confirmed bachelor, madam. My work takes me everywhere, which means no staying long enough to develop warm feelings.”
She arched a brow with obvious skepticism. “Heartless cad, are you?”
He nodded.
“So heartless, you brought three dozen biscuits to me for no reason, and gave away an equal amount?”
“Er,” he said. “How did you...”
“The bakery is just across the street. I saw Mrs. Griffiths step outside with the package. She did not appear to have expected your gift.”
“It wasn’t for her. It was for the children. They were suffering a biscuit deficiency.”
“Mm-hm.” She moved her empty plate aside and cleaned her hands with a pitcher and towel. “You may go. Leave the biscuits.”
He didn’t move.
She sighed. “All right. Take the biscuits, if you must.”
“I have nowhere to go,” he admitted. “I’m used to constant motion, to being busy. Instead, I’m... here.”
“Cressmouth has loads of things to do,” she said in surprise. “Haven’t you seen the gazette? No less than two entire pages of broadsheet are dedicated to all the Yuletide activities throughout the village. For example, there’s—”
“I don’t want any of that,” he interrupted. “Perhaps I should try to live like a local, rather than a tourist. That would be a wee adventure, wouldn’t it? A funny story to tell new acquaintances later. ‘Have you been to Cressmouth?’ they’ll ask. ‘The castle, the winter play, the snowy panorama, all the Christmastide activities?’ And I’ll say, ‘Pah to all that. I lived like a local!’”
She held up a loupe, inspecting him through one magnified eye as though he were a strange specimen. Her eye looked large and lovely. He wanted to paint it.
“Have you ever lived like a local anywhere?”
“Not in years,” he replied cheerfully. “I don’t even remember what it means. Do locals eat lots of biscuits? I’m good at that. I suppose I could find a temporary post. Are you in the market for an apprentice?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“I can pay you,” he said. “I have money.”
She crossed her arms. “I do not have time to train tourists. I’m after something bigger than money.”
Now that was interesting. He leaned closer.
“What do you want?”
Chapter 4
What did Angelica want?
A simple question that ought to have an equally simple answer. She wanted to be left alone so she could finish her work.
But did she want him to leave?
He had brought her biscuits, which ought not to be a deciding factor in an adult woman’s decisions—and if not, surely spoke more to Angelica’s addiction to cakes, rather than any warm feelings toward Mr. MacLean specifically.
Thoughts of her endless lists of tasks had woken her at dawn, and she had thrown herself into her work without bothering to break her fast. It was now half ten, and Mr. MacLean had likely saved her from fainting.
That was surely the reason her knees had felt strangely weak when he entered the shop.
“I...” she said.
He leaned closer.
She wished he wouldn’t.
From this distance, she could see striations of dark blue lapis lazuli in his sapphire irises. His eyelashes were thick, the golden-brown shade found on the underside of shortbread. He did not smell of soap, but sweet biscuits and fresh bread. A warm, cozy scent that made her wish to bury herself within it; to wrap the scent around her and snuggle in close.
Mr. MacLean was as tempting as any treat she had ever sampled, but Angelica had no time to indulge even the tiniest nibble.
“I need to concentrate,” she said firmly. Or would have said firmly, if her voice hadn’t decided
