Page 39 of When London Snow Falls

“Trust me?”

I hesitate.

I mean, who knows what Ben’s into, exactly. How much is there to know after only a week? I know little, other than he’s Scottish, rocks out like he was born on stage playing to live audiences—which I knew from before this last week—and fucks with intent, which I’ve learned since. He doesn’t strike me as the axe-murderer sort, but then again, Ted Bundy had seemed perfectly nice at first, too. Perhaps he has a secret lair where he keeps lions and he’s going to feed me to them, like some weird snuff kink.

Will Camden Passage be the last thing I ever see?

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” he breathes against me, licking my earlobe, and I shudder. “I bet your nan would approve.”

“What? Leave my nan out of this,” I protest. “You sick bastard.”

He gives that delighted laugh that does something odd in the core of me, and then his lips are on mine and I melt.

“You promise you’re not a serial killer?” I ask.

“Charlie! You shouldn’t say such things about your nan, for God’s sake. Manners.”

I grin, and his hands are over my eyes.

“Now we’ve cleared that up, we’re nearly there,” he says. “Who knows what you’re thinking with that overactive imagination of yours, but I’m promising good things. You’ll see. Now. All you have to do is keep walking. I won’t steer you into walls or traffic or anything foul, I promise.”

“Shit, I wasn’t worried about that before, but now I am.”

“Hush. C’mon, we’re walking here.”

And we do. One tentative step after another, and I really do hope we won’t be walking like this for too long. But he’s good to his word.

“Stop,” he says easily. “Hang on while I get the door.”

“This better not be a lion’s den. Is that some weird Scottish kink? Like shortbread?”

“Aye, shortbread’s an important kink to be aware of, but I’d say keeping dens is something more in line with your people, babe. Wasn’t Byron English? Kept a bear at Cambridge, I think. Doubtless he’d have needed a den for that. And Byron was half Scottish, actually.”

“God, what a horrible thought.” I grimace, trying to imagine where one would keep a bear in that town—roaming the Backs, picking off tender first-year freshers arriving at uni? Or perhaps in some college quadrangle? Complete with “keep off the grass—don’t feed the bear”placards for the tourists?

I hear the creak of a door and bells and figure it must be a shop from the lane, because we haven’t gotten far. A music shop? But why the mystery then? Or some sort of sex shop? Opium den maybe? Hell if I know.

“Open your eyes,” Ben says, a smile in his voice.

And I do, blinking against the light as I try to take stock of my surroundings. This isn’t any kind of sex shop or opium den. There are colors everywhere. It takes a moment to make the connection. “You’ve brought me to…a wool shop?”

“Isn’t it grand?” he enthuses with glee. “Welcome to my church.”

“And here I thought that was the stage,” I say, glancing around. It looks like a very nice wool shop, though I don’t have a clue about these things. There are shoppers in here, including a couple of ladies who must be nans.

A woman comes over to us and I’m immediately thinking of desperate excuses why I’d be in a wool shop. But Ben is nonplussed. In fact, he gives her his charismatic grin.

“Ben, so good to see you,” she says, and they exchange a hug and air kisses, much to my surprise. He must be a regular.

“Hiya, Eleanor. Meet my friend, Charlie.”

“Hello, Charlie,” she says with a warm smile, dark hair skimming her shoulders. She’s at least middle-aged, not quite nan age, but definitely older than us. “Very good to meet you.”

“Hi,” I say. She seems nice, and I let my guard down a little.

“Can I help you find anything today?” Eleanor asks.

I look at Ben. He smiles in his open and easy way. “I’m just showing Charlie one of my favorite places.”

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