Whatever Riley was up against here, she had her work cut out for her.
A bell chimed over the front door of the pub, pulling her attention from the first stirrings of a mental pep talk.
Holy shit. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the man who entered.
Everything from the harsh line of his jaw to the broad stretch of his shoulders pulled tight with a specific kind of tension that seemed . . . tortured. Even though that didn’t make sense. The expression on his face was perfectly neutral; he wasn’t limping or dripping blood.
As he walked in and moved toward the bar, Riley had the sudden, visceral memory of a painting she’d seen once. She was far from a fine art lover, but back when she was in the sixth grade, her whole class had gone to the Philadelphia Museum of Art on a field trip.
Riley had found the whole day unforgivably boring—none of the work moved her. But then she’d come to this one massive canvas, and it was like her feet sprouted roots into the marble floor.
All these years later, she still remembered how the artist had captured an angel suspended midfall. She’d felt the momentum of that still image within her own body. The way anguish strained his face and form until his plunge became like ballet, like poetry.
She felt it again—the painting feeling—now, looking at this stranger. Heat licked up her spine, as swift and sudden as wildfire.
Looking back, that painting had probably been some kind of sexual awakening. For even though the man at the bar was fully dressed, coat and all, the angel had been naked, his modesty preserved in profile.
Riley had found herself fascinated by his body, the high contrast of strength and vulnerability. Sharp ribs and taut thighs versus how tender the pink soles of his feet had looked. How those massive indigo wings had folded as he fell.
Looking at this real-life man who reminded her of an artist’s rendering, Riley realized something new about the painting.
It wasn’t the despair in the pose that had drawn her in. It was the defiance.
It was that even in the act of falling, the angel had flung up one arm, fingers curling, reaching for the only home he’d ever known, refusing to go quietly, while the other arm remained tucked to his breast, protecting his heart.
The man with his dark head bowed over the bar looked similarly braced for impact. For the fight that inevitably awaited a fallen angel on land.
What did it say about Riley that his weary resilience called to her? Probably something twisted.
Since she was someone trying to make curse breaking into a career, it wasn’t a great secret that Riley wanted to save people, but she feared the parts of herself that wanted to be saved in return.
“Who is that?” She hadn’t meant to speak the words out loud, but Eilean heard and answered anyway.
“Oh. Him. He’s been causing quite the fuss ever since he came to town.”
Wait, that guy lived here? Forget the curse; he should be Torridon’s new claim to fame.
Though if the unimpressed look on Eilean’s face was anything to go by, she was seemingly immune to this guy’s whole thing.
Riley leaned forward, lowering her voice. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s English.” Eilean moved to restock some napkins. “Like the land developers who hired you, though blessedly he doesn’t work for them. He comes here most nights, so he probably can’t cook. And he’s an archaeologist hired to—”
“An archaeologist.” Riley’s ears perked up. “Oh, that’s perfect. I just watched a movie about archaeology on the plane!”
Eilean’s slate brows came together. “。 . . So?”
“So, that can be my in!” Riley didn’t remember all the details of the film—she’d nodded off a bit in the middle—but it had been based on a true story. The main character was ripped directly from the pages of a best-selling memoir after some major film studio purchased the guy’s life rights.
“Wait.” Eilean stopped working. “You’re not going to hit on him, are you?”
“I mean, yeah,” Riley said, “but, like, respectfully.”
She didn’t make a habit of picking up people in bars, but she certainly didn’t have a problem striking up a conversation with someone she found attractive. And this guy was hot like burning—even dressed in the repressive layers of a Ralph Lauren ad, with a button-up under his sweater and a tweed blazer over top.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Eilean began to shake her head. “The assignment you took—”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Riley could already tell that Eilean saw everyone under this roof as her responsibility. “I’m not on the clock until tomorrow morning.”
She didn’t mix business and pleasure at home, but that was mostly because she didn’t want to pollute her potential client pool with former flames. Since her first trip to Scotland was likely to be her last, that didn’t seem like an issue here.
“Do I have anything—” She bared her teeth at Eilean.
“No,” Eilean said after a quick glance, and then, crossing her arms, “I suppose, in your line of work, you know your way around trouble.”
“Huh?” Riley had gotten distracted looking at the guy again. Before tonight, she hadn’t even known they made cheekbones that sharp.
“Never mind.” Eilean ushered her forward. “Good luck to you, curse breaker.”
Chapter Two
When Clark Edgeware grew warm across the back of his neck upon entering the Hare’s Heart, he simply assumed the pub’s radiator had gone to pieces in keeping with the rest of his life.
After shrugging out of his wool coat, he ordered a beer, ready to chalk today up as another with nothing to show for the job he shouldn’t have taken in this village that resented his presence.
But then, a few minutes later, when the flush wouldn’t go away, he turned to his left and saw her.
“Hi,” the woman descending from one of the neighboring barstools said in an American accent.
Clark’s first thought was that she was loud. Not her voice, but how she looked. Everything about her demanded attention. From her blond hair, so bright it was almost silver, to her eyes, heavily shadowed, as if she’d smudged charcoal across the lids, to her impossibly plush lips. And that was just her face.
Even without letting his gaze fall, his body was aware of the decadent curves of hers.
Truly, someone who worked here should do something about the thermostat.
“Umm, hello.” He tried to lean casually against the bar.
“I’m Riley.” She stuck out a hand as pretty as the rest of her, sporting a fine-lined tattoo—a starburst above the third knuckle on her ring finger.
He wanted to ask about it. He also worried that his ears were ringing.
On a delay, he accepted the handshake. “Clark.”
He knew he was looking at her too intently, but nothing had cut through the monotonous haze of his life in so long.
Ever since Cádiz, he’d been relentless with himself, trying to earn back his reputation. The few things he did outside work, he did merely to sustain himself so he could work more, harder—eat, exercise, shower, sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything simply because it felt good. And looking at her did.