It was a heady sensation. He’d never been a regular customer anywhere before. It was rather nice. Rather more than nice. A sinking sensation filled his stomach.
Jonathan was going to miss Cressmouth.
His muscles tightened. He left a pile of coins on the counter for the baker, and tossed a sovereign to Stephen on his way through the door. It must be just as cold out as it was a few minutes ago, but it didn’t feel like it. Not after the warmth of the bakery, in more ways than one.
He was thinking about Angelica. And his secret dream that, one day, he would find someone who would ask him to stay.
The sound of laughter caused him to jerk his gaze toward the castle. A man about Jonathan’s age with black hair and brown skin was pulling two little girls down the hill on wooden sleds. The fresh snow was too high to slide properly, but their obvious merriment indicated it was no less enjoyable.
Jonathan wondered if the family were part of the local Black community Miss Parker had mentioned, or if they were tourists, like him. He called out a greeting as they sledded by.
“Ho, there! The baker’s son has an itch to race sleds, if you’re up for it.”
“Can’t,” one of the girls called back. “We’re on our way to see the horses!”
The man stopped in his tracks, making a big show of stretching out his presumably tired arms from dragging the girls up and down the hill.
Jonathan handed him one of the parcels. “If your arms aren’t too tired, you can share biscuits and shortbread amongst yourselves.”
The man peeked under the brown paper and grinned back at him.
“Share?” he said in a voice clearly meant to carry to his daughters. “I’m the one who’s been treated like a horse. I think all these delicious, fresh biscuits should be for me.”
Both girls squealed and leapt up from their sleds, holding out wool mittens in hopes of a sugared treat.
Their father placed a single biscuit in each pair of outstretched mittens and handed the rest back to Jonathan.
“It’s yours. I’ve got mine.” Jonathan held up the parcel with the pie. “I suspect those two know what to do with a dozen biscuits.”
“Share them,” their father intoned with faux sternness. “With your cousins.”
“Nooo,” they cried, jumping up and down. “Just one more! Just two more!”
“Thank you,” said their father to Jonathan. “Happy Christmas to you.”
That was enough to make Jonathan’s smile fall. Despite the snow, he’d forgotten for a moment where they were, and what time of the year it was.
“A happy Christmas to you, too.” He turned toward Miss Parker’s shop.
“Off to buy some jewelry, are you?” said the man.
“No,” Jonathan said without thinking. “Off to share a pie with... a friend.”
The girls stopped fighting over the biscuits. They and their father stared at Jonathan as though he’d turned into a hobgoblin.
“You’re going to share a pie with my sister?” the man asked, his tone dangerous.
Oh, dear. Jonathan froze in place. Now that he said so, the family resemblance was clear. So was Mr. Parker’s obvious anger. Was it too late for Jonathan to pretend he was the baker’s delivery man?
“Aunt doesn’t allow friends and family in her shop,” said the first girl.
“Only customers,” agreed the second.
The man swept his cold gaze over him. “If she lets you loiter, she should let me in. At least I’m an expert.”
Jonathan matched his frosty tone. “She should do whatever she likes. It’s her shop. Her rules.”
The man snorted, as if Jonathan had made a jest. “You sound just like her. She acts as though this little shop—”
“Whatever she’s said about the shop, she’s underselling it,” Jonathan cut in. “Your sister is extraordinarily talented, and more than deserving of both respect and proper accolades. She may be one of the most skilled jewelers in England.”
“Papa is the most skilled,” said the first little girl.
“Papa told us so,” agreed the second.
Brilliant. No wonder Miss Parker didn’t allow her brother inside.
Chapter 8
Angelica faced away from the counter and touched her fingers to her mouth. Mr. MacLean had kissed each of her ten fingers, one by one, before attending to her mouth just as thoroughly.
She shouldn’t have let him do it.
She shouldn’t have let him stop.
He’d come to his senses faster than she had, and run off in a manner that would be comical... if she didn’t feel his absence all the way to her bones. The air was colder without him.
What would it be like when he left for good?
Her fingers curled into a fist and she sank her teeth into a knuckle. She did not wish to think about him leaving. She didn’t wish to think about him at all. She was busy. There was no time for romantical entanglements.
Yes, they got along uncomfortably well, and yes, he had started to feel like part of her town, but the latter, at least, was an illusion. He was part of every town for a few days, and then he moved on. He would move on from here as well. He had been forthright about his intentions. Though she appreciated his frankness, the warning was unnecessary.
Angelica was long used to locking away inconsequential desires in order to concentrate on what mattered most: her work. The Christmastide adornments she’d been commissioned to create, the sundry jewelry pieces that were next on the list.
She turned back to face her counter just as the bell tinkled over the door.
It wasn’t a customer. It was Mr. MacLean. He had rushed out into the cold without a hat or coat like a damn fool, yet his ruffled hair and wind-reddened face didn’t make him any less attractive.
She pretended it was the meal in his hands and not the man himself that awakened a hunger in her belly.
To hide her own strangely flushed cheeks, she busied herself arranging plates and silverware on
