Immediately, he spun to face the wall. “Er . . . you lot all right?”
Clark scrambled to his feet, hopping around on the cold stone floor trying to get to his pants, stubbing his toe on a loose slab.
“Not exactly what a father expects to find when he drops in on his son at work,” Alfie called, his voice loud enough that he was likely trying to cover the sounds of frantic dressing.
Father? Riley mouthed at Clark, hastily wrapping a sheet around herself.
“On second thought, I’ll just wait in the entrance room, shall I? While you sort yourselves out.” Alfie ducked back the way he’d arrived.
As soon as his footsteps faded Riley rounded on Clark.
“What the flying fuck is your dad doing here?”
Clark didn’t even have time to think about how gorgeous she looked, sleep mussed and barefaced, midmorning light making her skin luminous. Okay, so he had a little time.
“He said he wanted to stop by the site when I spoke to him a few weeks ago. I’d completely forgotten.” In all fairness, there had been rather a lot going on.
“Be with you in just a mo’，” he called to his dad. Realizing that he’d yanked his T-shirt on backward, Clark had to do it again.
“He’s gonna think you joined a cult.” Riley gestured to the broken ring of salt, the melted wax from the candles, the crimson stain from where they must have knocked over the rowanberries at some point, her arm moving like an irate air hostess pointing out the various emergency exits.
A cult sounded like a rather sensible cover-up for what he’d actually been doing. Clark couldn’t imagine his father taking well to the idea of a mystical sex ritual, especially at his place of work.
Speaking of. “So, did last night . . . umm . . . do anything?”
You know, besides threaten to transform him body and soul.
Riley paused, closed her eyes, as if checking in with her senses.
“No.” She shoved the nest of her hair out of her face as she bent to pull on her boots. “I don’t know what’s going on. The candles flickering and then snuffing out right as we . . . completed the ritual seemed like a positive development, but the scent signature hasn’t changed this morning.”
Well, Clark couldn’t say he was totally put out. As soon as Riley broke the curse, he’d never see her again. That proposition was becoming rapidly more threatening than any of the other terrors the castle had thrown at them.
“Listen.” He reached for her elbow without thinking, but when her eyes fell immediately to his hand he backed off. Apparently whatever permission he’d had to touch her last night had been revoked. Good to know.
“I was just going to say, before we go out there, please, whatever happens, don’t let my father ask you too many questions.”
His dad was curious by nature and virtue of occupation both, and he picked apart living people with the same precision as he applied to the dead. At some point, Clark assumed he’d suppressed his sense of empathy in order to better enable him to pluck out little pieces of people’s hearts, taste them, and categorize their contribution to society.
Riley tucked her hair behind her ears. “Why would he wanna ask me questions?”
Clark had never seen her so fidgety. It made him almost calm in comparison—like the universe was out of alignment unless they were opposing forces in some capacity.
“You won’t be surprised to hear that I don’t get caught in compromising positions that often. At least, not like this.” It was why Patrick had been frozen out while Clark was merely put on a tighter leash. His father didn’t believe him capable of deception or, in this case, reckless disregard—because he didn’t expect much of anything from Clark.
Not to mention, the way I look at you is obvious. “My father will assume, I’m afraid, that this mess was all your doing.”
By the time they were decent enough for the entrance hall, his dad had worked himself into a theory. Clark could tell by the way he studied Riley, his head tilted just so. The same expression as when he picked up his trowel for a delicate extraction.
Riley hugged the wall on her way out, like she thought she could slip past without a formal intro, but his dad cut that off at the pass, striding forward with his signature rakish grin.
“Apologies for disturbing you this morning.” Alfie Edgeware wore his gray hair comfortably, his cheeks sun-browned, each of his fine lines well-earned. While all the Edgeware men shared the same bone structure, his father’s face had more character, scars and pockmarks that make him rugged—approachable—to Clark’s pretty. “I’ve been on a lot of work sites over the course of my career, but as it turns out an old man can still be surprised. I’m Alfie. Clark’s father.”
He used the title, Clark knew, not as a primary identifier, but under the assumption that his reputation preceded him.
“Riley.” She held out her hand, back straight.
His dad slid his leathery grip into hers, raising a brow like he expected to hear more. A last name. A form of relation. But Riley, clever girl, gave nothing away.
“Nice to meet you.” She didn’t sound particularly pleased. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my room at the inn.” Riley dipped her head in a way meant to signal her exit, but her approach misfired—the obvious withholding snared his dad’s attention.
“If you’re only in town for a visit, you should join me and my son for lunch. I’ve arranged for a private tour of a distillery on the Isle of Skye. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
All of this was news to Clark—and Alfie to a tee. Find something local and exclusive, enjoy handing it out like a benevolent king, repeat.
“I appreciate the offer.” Riley looked to Clark, holding his gaze to confirm she understood the earlier directive not to give his father an in. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to pass this time.”
Once again, she made for the door, but this time Alfie turned to Clark. “Surely this lovely young lady hasn’t tired of your company already?”
The most surprising thing about the comment was that Clark wasn’t ready for it. The smarting meanness of the words, belied by a chipper tone.
Last night, he’d gone into it promising himself he’d leave nothing on the table. That meant prying himself open for Riley, inch by inch. Even his father’s unexpected arrival hadn’t managed to close everything back up.
He was already trying to think of an excuse, but Riley didn’t bother when she cut in.
“Actually.” Clark knew that little half smile. He’d seen it right before he found a dagger pointed at his heart. “You know what? I am available.”
Clark stepped between them, just in case, as he led the way out.
A few hours later, after he and Riley had had a chance to shower （her） and panic （him）， his dad drove them in his rental car out to Skye. The gorgeous drive included rolling green hills, misty moors, and the loch—as mysterious as it was vast. Not that Clark could appreciate any of that.
He kept waiting for an axe to fall, his palms so sweaty they left damp spots on his dress slacks. But his father must have wanted the benefit of eye contact for his interrogation, because he kept the conversation light—chatting about people he’d met abroad, something funny someone said to him on the plane, the perils of jet lag.