Page 20 of Tattered Edges

Unfortunately, it seemed luck was not on my side when my hair dryer was on for a short two minutes before it cut off.

And that wasn’t the only thing that lost power.

The bathroom light was out, too.

I put the hair dryer down, abandoning my coffee as I went into the next room and tried the light switch.

Nothing.

“Shit,“ I whispered to myself.

I must have blown a fuse.

Trouble was, I had no idea where the fuse box was.

I spent a good five minutes searching the place but came up empty. When I ran out of walls and closets to search, I tucked my feet into a pair of shoes and decided to try the stairwell.

That, too, was a dead end.

It didn’t make any sense that the fuse box to the upstairs flat would be in the store, but it was an old building, and I wasn’t a European architect or engineer, so I convinced myself it was worth a look. I made it as far as the storage closet before my bad situation went to worse.

I’d killed the power in the store, too.

“Of course. Of course this would happen the one day I’m on my own,” I muttered, hugging my arms around my middle.

It was cold in the stairwell, but I didn’t want to stand in the dark closet, even if itwaswarmer.

Then again, if I didn’t act fast and get the power switched back on,nothingwould be warm.

I contemplated calling Victoria but quickly decided against it. It was the first Friday she’d had off in months. She’d been such a help; she deserved the peace of not being bothered. Especially by the likes of me.

I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth and gnawed on it a little as I thought of my next best option.

Archie and Eloise were out of the question, for more than one reason—the least of which was I didn’t have either of their phone numbers. I did, however, have a neighbor.

Chances were good Rory would know where the fuse box was. Our buildings weren’t exactly the same, but they were touching each other and had been for decades. They must have been similar. Even if they weren’t, Rory wasn’t an American. He was a local and could probably guess where it was far better than me. Not to mention, he was aman,and men were supposed to know stuff like this.

I hesitated for a solid thirty seconds, aware it was still early. At least, early for a man who ran a pub and probably rarely saw his bed before midnight.

All that aside, I was desperate. Desperate enough to hurry out into the cold without my coat and jog my way to his door.

I rang the buzzer then folded my arms across my chest and hid my hands to shield them from the frigid breeze. The temperature made me hyper aware of my wet hair. I glanced up the length of the building to the windows on the third floor, willing Rory to come down. When there was no answer, I pressed the buzzer again, holding it longer this time and then repeating the act for good measure.

“For bloody sakes, I’m coming!” I heard him yell through the door.

I gasped, then was quick to call back, “Sorry. I—”

He opened the door before I could finish explaining it was a bit of an emergency, and the sight of him caused a glitch in my brain. For a moment, I couldn’t remember words—notanyof them—too distracted by all that was him.

The only thing he had on was a pair of sweatpants. It was obvious I’d roused him from sleep. His hair was a categorically sexy mess, in a way that was not at all on purpose and made me envious of his pillow. As for the rest of him, pale as he was, he looked like he’d been sculpted from marble by Michelangelo himself, an artist who knew what a man ought to look like.

As I stared at him, I was overwhelmed by a great wave of disappointment—disappointment that all I’d managed to get out of him on my first night was a kiss.

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve beckoned me away from my coffee, or must I guess?”

“Right. Sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said with a shake of my head. I sealed my eyes closed tight in an effort to reset my brain. When I opened them again, I made sure to focus only on his face.

He was scowling again—which, honestly, didn’t take away from his appeal in the slightest.

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