Page 96 of Morally Black Betrothal
“I just placed an order,” he muttered.
“It’s not just any order.” Pearl turned back to me. “Your man here put in a standing weekly delivery of lemon delights for his entire office. Honey, that just made my rent problems go away. Simone didn’t tell me she was marrying my guardian angel.”
Brendan studiously avoided my gaze. “It’s nothing. And, ah, we should be going.”
“You have fun now,” Pearl called out.
Brendan grabbed my hand and ushered me out onto the street.
“Brendan—” I started, but he silenced me with a look as the Aston pulled up.
“It’s nothing,” he said again as he opened the door, his hand sliding to the small of my back to guide me in.
I chose to leave it at that.
As Brendan’sdriver (whose name I learned was Anthony) took us through the city, Brendan’s arm remained stretched across the back seat, draped over my shoulder. His fingers occasionally toyed with the collar of my coat while he checked his phone. Nobody could see us outside the vehicle. Touching me now was not part of the act.
We both knew it. But neither of us said a thing.
We were on an unfamiliar block just east of Franklin Park when the car slowed in front of a darkened brick building. The letters “WBF” were carved into a wooden sign hanging over the door.
I stepped out and looked around. My neighborhood wasn’t actually that far from here—just on the other side of the park. Even so, this wasn’t an area I would walk around in by myself at night. It definitely wasn’t a place I’d expect Brendan Black to visit.
Brendan followed me onto the sidewalk, and his hand found the small of my back again. When I turned to face him, it moved to my hip.
“This is…not dinner,” he said, almost apologetically. “And the neighborhood isn’t great.”
“Is that a bird on the front door?” I examined the etching on the glass. It looked like a robin. Or maybe a sparrow.
“Yep, this is the Wild Bird Fund.” He fished a set of keys out of his jacket pocket. “It’s an ornithological advocacy center. They have a hospital where they take care of hurt birds in the city—most of them get hurt flying into windows. The staff rehabilitates them until they can be released back into the wild. They also have a learning center for children and a small research facility on the third floor.”
I gaped as he combed through the keys.
Brendan looked up, as if he could feel my gaze drilling into him. “What?”
“Birds? Really?”
An adorably crooked smile flickered over those otherwise stern features as we walked up the stairs of the front stoop. “I can’t have a hobby too?”
“You—yes, of course you can, but—birds?”
He was usually such an imposing man. So powerful, almost predatorial. Now I had this vision of The Black Prince sitting in the Boston Common wearing one of those utility vests and maybe a bucket hat, holding a pair of binoculars and a birding book.
Brendan Black was a dork. A secret, gorgeous, imposing, but undeniable dork.
I somehow managed not to throw myself at him there and then.
“Wait. How do you have keys?” I asked as he unlocked the door. “Do you own this place too?”
“No, but I did give them a large endowment a while back. They let me come in sometimes and help with the rehab stuff. You’ll see.”
He took my hand and led me inside. At the end of the darkened hall, a bit of light shone through the bottom of a door. A few errant chirps filled the air.
The door opened, and a slight man with a newsboy cap appeared. “Brendan! There you are.”
Brendan led me down the hall. Up close, I could see the man who’d greeted us was much older than I’d first thought, probably nearing eighty. A pair of tiny glasses hung off the tip of his nose, and the brown corduroy slacks, wrinkled, white button-down, and brown knit sweater vest reminded me distinctly of the grandpa I’d met once before he’d passed when I was little.
“Hello, Pyotr,” Brendan said as he shook the man’s hand. “Thanks for waiting around for us tonight.”
