Page 36 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“Do not look at me. I am unwell,” Mr. Hawthorne said dramatically, his hands clutching the robe like a protective shield.
“Are you sick?” I asked.
“No, he isn’t a morning person,” said Otis.
Mr. Hawthorne shuffled around the table, keeping a fair distance from me, to make his morning coffee. The heady scent of coffee beans overtook the kitchen while Mr. Hawthorne stood at the counter, back to me, shivering and grumbling under his breath. Then he poured a cup of coffee, large enough he needed two hands to carry the mug, and vacated the kitchen with haste. Only to poke his head back in, still covered by a robe, but nothing could conceal his grimace.
Somehow, he gave me a slow once over with his eyes concealed. “What would you like to wear?”
“For what?” I asked skeptically.
“Our outing. We are going to the capital today.”
“Right, I will grab a dress from my luggage,” I replied. Otis sat our breakfast on the table. He made sausages, eggs, and fried potatoes covered in sage and cheese. The scent made my mouth water.
“You have nothing appropriate to wear,” said Mr. Hawthorne.
I scoffed. “You do not know what I brought.”
“Based on what I have seen, let me repeat myself, you have nothing appropriate to wear.”
“I don’t care what I wear. We have more pressing matters. Car—”
Mr. Hawthorne cut me off with a dramatic gasp. “You must care! First impressions are important, particularly in this line of work.” He took a large gulp of his coffee, followed by a deep breath. “The capital is full of wolves, Miss Moore, and I would think you have had enough of them. If you know what is good for you, you will dress well and proper and hold your head high; otherwise, we will be eaten alive.”
“I will wear my best dress, but may wediscuss—”
“No, you will wear a dress I procure for you.” He took another drink, then deemed dressing me important enough to risk revealing his morning self. He dashed to my side, set his coffee aside, and took me by the waist. His curled finger caught my chin to move my head from side to side. “How do you feel about red?”
“I’ve come to loathe it entirely,” I answered.
“Good. Red it is.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He caught my hand, then spun me dramatically. I nearly fell, if not for him catching me beneath the arms. My back met his chest, firm even beneath that ridiculous robe, and he settled his chin on my shoulder. I got a peek of him, the unkempt strands of his hair wild beneath the hood, eyes somehow brilliantly green when the light caught them right. I had the abrupt and ridiculous urge to catch his hair in my fingers, wondering if it was as soft as it appeared.
“You cut a fine figure, and it is a shame to hide. Today, you shall be the most lovely woman in all of Eldari—thanks to my spectacular work, of course,” he said, sharing a smile unlike the others, crooked and elusive, imperfect.
“And if I do not wear this dress?” I challenged.
“You will.” He pushed me toward my seat and grabbed his mug to drink then smacked his lips together. “We must prepare ourselves for battle, especially if we may run into a Thatcher.” He meandered out of the room, slightly hunched, as if the weight of the day already unsettled him. “And we shall purchase more suitable attire for you in town, something marvelous and grand, in case we are in need of it.”
“I do not need new dresses!”
“A dozen more, at least.”
“Mr. Hawthorne!” He was gone, the sound of his flopping slippers dissipating into nothing.
I made way to follow him when Otis declared, “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. He is especially crabby if one dares to interrupt his face care routine.”
“He has a face care routine?”
“A thirty-minute one, at least.”
That didn’t surprise me, either.
I fell into my seat to eat breakfast, which tasted delicious, but I was too busy angrily grumbling to compliment it. “We should talk about Carline, not what dress I am about to wear because we may or may not run into someone…” I looked across the table at my companion. Otis ate quietly, even as I stared at him. “Thatcher.”
