“My love is red, my hate is white!” Marianne insisted from the stage. “But what color is my soul?”
Who cares? Flynn thought in the midst of thundering applause and whistles for Marianne’s rather bland color scheme. But with the applause, he felt Rachel pull away, and reluctantly lifted his head.
She blinked up at him, her lips curved into a wonderfully Cheshire little smile of pleasure. “Okay,” she said, brushing the lock of hair from his brow. “You cannot tell me that wasn’t the result of a spell.”
Flynn grinned. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?” He stood, helped Rachel from her chair, and escorted her out as Marianne trotted out another appallingly bad bit of poetry. “Water runs swift, the moon sinks low . . .”
They walked out onto the sidewalk, and Rachel paused to adjust her shawl around her shoulders. She turned a brilliant smile to him, one that was shrouded in lavender and lovely, soft light. “Thanks. Thanks so much for asking me for coffee, Flynn.”
“What—you’re going?” he asked, surprised by his disappointment.
“I really should. I have to get up and go to work,” she said. “I mean, such that it is. I wouldn’t call it work, really, but still, I should strive not to screw it up.” She took a step toward the car park, looked at him to see if he was coming.
This was definitely not how he wanted the evening to end, but he reluctantly stepped up beside her, and together, they walked down the sidewalk toward the tiny car park. But just before they reached it, Rachel stopped and turned, pressed her back against the brick wall of the coffeehouse and peered up at Flynn. “How long are you in the States?”
“Indefinitely,” Flynn said.
“Oh.” She glanced at the car park, drew her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment. “Do you think . . . I mean, are you planning . . .”
Her voice trailed off; she bit her lip again. Flynn stepped close to her, lifted her face to his. “I’d really like to see you again, Rachel Lear,” he said sincerely. “If that’s quite all right with you.”
She seemed to consider it for a moment, but then Flynn saw the light of a smile in her eyes. “Maybe,” she said. “But I’ll have to speak with chocolate first. He has all my attention, you know. And then, of course, I really should consult the spell book.”
“If I may, I’d like to go on record as not really caring for eyes of newts, if you please.”
“Okay,” she said, and laid a hand lightly on his chest, tapped one finger. “No newt eyes, but I hope you’re okay with newt tongues.”
“What, you think me a complete rube? Of course I’m quite all right with the tongues. It’s just the eyes.” Flynn grinned, covered her hand with his. “Then shall I ring you up?”
“Yes, please,” she said, and the light in her eyes spilled over to her whole face. “I’ll just jot down the number,” she said, already fumbling around in her big tote bag. And while she rummaged around for a pen or paper, Flynn honestly couldn’t help himself—he dipped his head again, kissed the delightful curve of her neck.
Rachel let out a contented sigh and stopped rummaging about her bag. Flynn took that to mean carry on. He put his hands on her waist as his lips moved across her skin, along the line of her jaw, to her mouth. Her enormous bag hit him in the foot when she dropped it to lace her arms around his neck, and they stood there, making out like two teenagers, until someone pulled out of the car park and honked at them.
Flynn stepped back, chuckling a little, and picked up her bag.
He made sure she was safely tucked away in her car before leaving, and kissed her once more. “Cheers,” he said, with a little wave, and walked away, her number in his pocket, a happy jaunt to his step.
He got in his rental, pulled out, and moved down the street, his mind sort of numb and his body uncomfortably hard, and really looking quite forward to their next encounter.
Behind him, Rachel watched him speed off, and released a long, blissful sigh. That man thought she, Rachel Lear, was sexy. And he wanted to see her again! The most magnificent guy in the whole wide world wanted to see her, Rachel Lear. Again!
With a squeal of happiness, Rachel turned in the opposite direction and puttered home, having completely forgotten that she had earlier wondered how he had learned of her weaving class, as it was her own doing and not associated with Brown University.
Chapter Twelve
When Myron showed up for work at the Rhode Island Historical Preservation Society curator offices Wednesday morning, the head curator, Darwin Richter, stopped by his cube with a bespectacled gentleman who was wearing a Windbreaker and jeans.
“I’d like you to meet Detective Keating,” Darwin said. “He’s from the Rhode Island State Police and he’s been looking into the spate of thefts we’ve had.”
“Great!” Myron said, coming instantly to his feet.