It wasn’t even praise, not really, but something in her warmed anyway.
He won’t lose sight of the battle, she reminded herself. He’ll look for the first opportunity to undermine you again. He hadn’t even agreed to let her take the dagger she had found back to the inn so she could study it. Martin had made them compromise by keeping anything either of them uncovered at the castle in one of Clark’s firesafe boxes.
“On second thought, you know what, never mind. Please go ahead and let this interaction lure you into a false sense of security before we both make our way back to the castle this morning.”
Clark gave a low laugh. “I suppose I’ll see you there.”
Riley experienced a moment of mourning for the man she’d met in the pub—the one who had seemed entertained by her eccentricity rather than annoyed by it.
He almost made it to the hallway before tripping over the strap of a bra gone rogue from her half-unpacked luggage.
At least it was one of her nicer ones.
Clark’s face flushed to complement the hot-pink lace. Crouching to remove it from his ankle brought him eye level with her jeans. “You’re not planning to wear those trousers to work in the castle, are you?”
“I was.” Riley ran her hands down the front of her pants, checking for stains or holes she might have missed, but no, they were fine. “Why? What’s wrong with them?”
“You can’t be serious.” He stood up, scowling. “Look at the state of the cuffs.”
“Ummmm.” She guessed they were kind of frayed.
“The castle is dangerous. There’s loose stonework, insufficient lighting, overgrowth-obstructed ledges.” He made a beeline for her dresser. “What else have you got?”
“Excuse me.” Riley rushed forward to press her back to the wooden drawers, keeping them closed. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you root through my clothes.”
The depths of his arrogance were astounding. Only someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth would dream they were entitled to tell others what to wear.
Clark ran his fingers through his dark hair, looking harassed. “What if I ask nicely?”
Riley snorted. “Not even if you got down on your knees.”
They both stilled. Why had that come out sounding like an invitation?
“I—ah . . .” When Clark bit his lip, looking not altogether opposed to the idea, Riley rubbed absently at her wrist, finding the heightened kick of her pulse and an echo of the firm clench of Clark’s fingers. The way he’d applied pressure had been so measured, even as his eyes had devoured her. Just hard enough to make her feel it.
Under her sweater, her nipples tightened. Shit.
“Don’t even think about it,” She might have been talking to herself, but he didn’t need to know that.
Clark cleared his throat. “If you’re so desperate to keep this job, at least put a thought to the risks.”
“Call me desperate one more time.” Riley gave him the smile she reserved for men who thought they could tip their way into her pants.
He pressed his hand to his chest, rubbing, as if the next words came carved from his skin. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
No, she told the part of herself that wanted to sag against the dresser at those words. Don’t listen to him.
Riley didn’t blame her mom for turning away from curse breaking—mostly she didn’t—but sometimes she wished someone had her back on these assignments. Wished for more guidance, more comfort than the curling pages of Gran’s journal could provide.
She loved curse breaking, critics be damned. But her calling came at a cost. It meant she was alone. Not just here, so far from home, but in life. Always removed. Othered.
It was a cheap shot from the universe, the way Clark looked at her. So handsomely earnest.
“You can’t try to get me fired and then claim to care about my well-being.” If he really gave a damn what happened to her, he wouldn’t have decided his ambitions mattered and hers didn’t.
“Fine.” Clark clenched his jaw. “I knew you’d make everything difficult.”
Ugh. Her blood heated.
“You’re the one who invited yourself into my bedroom!” She hadn’t asked for a fashion consultation any more than she’d asked to have her emotions chewed up and spit out from the moment they’d met. “I’ll have you know that these jeans have survived eight-hour shifts slinging pickleback shots for irate Philadelphia sports fans. That’s right, for the guys who threw snowballs at Santa Claus.”
Clark tilted his head. “Are you saying you’re a bartender?”
Oops. Way to go, Riley. Why not hand him fresh ammunition for his “she’s a fraud” campaign? He would reach for his phone any second now, ready to dial Martin.
“Look.” She folded her arms. “Not that I need to justify anything to you, but the curse-breaking business—not the practice, but the actual charging-people thing—is kind of new for me. And it’s not so lucrative yet. Especially with British jerks trying to get me kicked off assignments.”
Clark lowered his chin, just slightly, in acknowledgment.
“I pick up shifts when I need to, and the bar is actually a great place to find curse-breaking leads. More than one of my clients started as a customer coming to drown their sorrows without realizing their repeated problems had supernatural origins. I’m starting to build a pretty robust referral network.”
“I see,” he said, but his dark brows drew together. “Actually, no. I don’t. You’re obviously enterprising. Why would you place your bet on curse breaking?”
Right. Her choice must seem silly and shortsighted to him.
But the answer to his question was complicated, messy.
Part of Riley pursued curse breaking to honor the Rhodes women who raised her—alone—with limited means and without the luxury of a safety net to fall back on. Another part wanted to help people, to protect them, give them a path to healing.
Some of the individuals she worked with suffered the consequences of a curse for years while well-meaning friends and family told them their experiences came down to nothing more than coincidence or chance. When she took their fears at face value, Riley saw in their eyes, their posture, that they were grateful simply to be believed.
But there was a last part, one she could only admit to herself on dark days—a selfish need to be special. Someone who could do what others couldn’t.
Riley liked who she was when she broke a curse. Powerful, useful, respected. Needed—even if only temporarily.
Yet in her gut, Riley knew none of those answers would appease Clark.
“I think we both know nothing I say will make you see what I do as anything more than a scam.” Clark had already proven that he’d never believe something he couldn’t understand.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said eventually, but then, as if he couldn’t help himself, added, “But you must know you’re facing an uphill battle. If money is a concern, surely there’s something else you could do? An easier path.”