The Darkest Midnight. R. A. Finley

be okay,” Abby said quietly and then carried the ladder away.

      At the jingle of the sleigh bells hung on the main door, Thia turned with a practiced smile. Not too exuberant, or the prospective customer could be put on edge. No one wanted a pushy salesperson, and certainly not before ten in the morning.

      A vaguely familiar woman smiled in return and drifted to the right of the door, toward the table of boxed holiday cards. With only three days left before Solstice and Christmas only a few days after that, she was cutting things rather close.

      Thia’s quick survey of the sales floor showed plenty of available clerks should the handful of browsers need help. She knelt down, disappearing from view, to straighten out the jumble of gift boxes and wrapping supplies. Nearly everyone wanted things gift-wrapped lately. And why not? The season was stressful enough without the added pressure of trying to tie a perfect bow.

      They were almost out of small handle-bags. She’d need to get on that before the lunchtime rush. A stack of folding boxes insisted on sliding every which way, and she searched in vain for something to serve as a prop.

      The back of her neck tingled.

      A throat cleared, the sound masculine and originating above her on the other side of the counter. More tentative than impatient. She arranged another smile and stood.

      She found herself looking at the base of a man’s neck where it rose from the collar of a beige and blue checkered shirt. She adjusted her gaze upward to his face. He was taller than expected somehow. Different in other ways, too, although why she’d formed any expectations at all in those few seconds, she couldn’t say.

      He was of middle age and on the tall side of average (as she’d already noted) with clean-shaven, pleasant features and a reserved, almost tense expression. His blond hair was neatly trimmed. Everything about him was neat, she realized, from the line of his brown corduroy jacket to the drape of his wool scarf.

      The tortoise-shell frames of his glasses completed the image and made her think of academia. The slight tint of the lenses obscured his eyes a bit, but his irises were most definitely brown.

      Her stomach jittered and she felt flushed.

      Oh, goodness. At thirty-two she knew all too well the symptoms of acute attraction. She also knew how rare such a thing was for her. Nerves and confusions had her turning up the brightness of her smile. It felt forced. Overdone, but it was too late to dial it back now. “May I help you?

      “Hello,” he said. And then made a visible effort to relax. His smile was charmingly shy. “Hi.”

      She felt a surge of delight that was completely out of scale for the situation, and took it as a positive sign. Maybe getting over Cormac wouldn’t be as hard as she’d feared.

      “Hi,” she said.

      And they proceeded to stare at one another like fools.

      He must have realized it was his turn. “I was hoping you—that is, wondering if you could help me.”

      “Yes,” Thia said, amused. “Of course.”

      He cringed. “You already asked me that.”

      “I did.”

      His laugh—a nearly soundless huff of breath—caught her unprepared. So astonishingly familiar.

      But his eyes were brown, not blue. Cormac might be able to make himself into anyone in the world thanks to spells called glamours, but he couldn’t change the color of his eyes. She would know them anywhere. Wouldn’t she?

      “I need a gift for my…uh…friend,” this man who was not Cormac said. “A Christmas gift. I’m new in town, and this shop was recommended.”

      “Welcome to Granite Springs.”

      “Thank you.”

      “What sort of things does your friend like?”

      His expression blanked. “I don’t—I’m afraid that I don’t really know her all that well. It’s…complicated, I suppose you could say.”

      “But you want to buy her something.” Thia tried to put him more at ease. “That’s very thoughtful. We’ve got a nice selection of jewelry—I don’t think there’s a woman alive who doesn’t like jewelry.” She tapped the counter glass. Below were several velvet-covered boards of necklaces and pins.

      He leaned away in subtle but definite rejection. “That feels rather….”

      “Personal?” she offered. “Good point. What about something decorative for the home? We have—”

      “I might have seen some things in there that looked, uh, pretty.” He pointed to the Glass Tower—a rectangular case near the foot of the stairs. “Could you show some to me?”

      “Of course.” Feeling a blush creep into her cheeks at the idea of going with him—(what was she, sixteen?)—she bent to grab the keys from the shelf below the counter. When she straightened, she found him waiting at the narrow pass-through.

      “It’s just over there,” she said. Good grief, as if he didn’t know that.

      Yet instead of preceding her, he gestured for her to lead.

      She did, but he stayed close, catching up to walk beside her despite the unusually rapid pace her nerves caused her to set. She felt profoundly self-conscious.

      “Have you lived in town long?” he asked.

      “Almost a year.”

      “And you’re well?” He made a small sound, almost like a cough. “Doing well? It certainly looks as if you are.”

      “The store, you mean?” Arriving at the Tower, she went around to the back. He stood at the front, so she saw him through the plate glass. He appeared sheepish again, his gaze darting away and back in turns—and she wondered if maybe he did know what the expression did for him.

      She turned the key, pulled open the door.

      “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t talk to people much. In my line of work, that is. I meant—well, I meant that you seem…happy. Are you?” He let out a tense breath. “Happy?”

      Oh. Her mind flashed to the morning’s garage disaster. and she felt her carefully crafted mask of retail salesmanship slip if not drop entirely.

      The man put his hands in his pockets, tucked his head. “I’m sorry—again. I’m making a mess of this. Forget I said anything, would you? That’s a nice piece there.” One hand immediately left his pocket to point.

      “The butterfly?” She reached for the delicate figure made of silver and glass. One of her favorites.

      “Yes.”

      “It’s funny,” she said, removing it. “A friend of mine—of sorts—mentioned butterflies to me just the other day. This one is beautiful, isn’t it?” She held it out.

      “It is.”

      In taking it, his fingers skimmed the backs of her hands, and the light touch was like an electric shock. Thia’s heart leapt, a clumsy start to the race that followed.

      Her gaze automatically sought his, but he was intent on the butterfly. His expression grave, he lifted it. The wings caught the light and took it from beautiful to exquisite. Blue became vibrant cobalt while faceted, clear segments glinted and played with reflections, giving the impression of life caught and held within.

      “Thank you,” he said. “This is the one.” Lowering it, he looked at her. Brown eyes, she reminded herself. Not blue.

      “Great!” Too exuberant. Awkward. She was such an idiot.

      He could have started walking to the counter to make the purchase, but he didn’t.