Chapter 8 - The Third Shirt
Two weeks later, the autumn leaves were falling across the North Shore in vast drifts of crimson and gold.
Corsini House was no longer silent.
The windows in the drawing room were kept open during the afternoons, allowing the crisp, salt air from the bay to blow through the high velvet curtains. The Garrard turntable played almost constantly—not old Italian opera, but Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, and the occasional modern record Sadie had snuck into the leather storage cabinet while Julian was in Boston.
At four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, Sadie was standing in the long gallery.
She was wearing a soft yellow cashmere sweater, dark trousers, and a pair of leather loafers she had bought in Salem with her new salary.
She wasn't cleaning.
She was holding a clipboard, reviewing the restoration estimates for the third-floor guest rooms.
A pair of heavy leather shoes clicked against the oak floor behind her.
Julian walked into the gallery. He had left his suit jacket in his study; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in that casual, dangerous way that still made Sadie’s breath catch whenever he walked into a room.
He stopped beside her, looking up at a large oil painting of his great-uncle Arthur.
"He looks miserable," Sadie noted, nodding toward the painting.
"He was miserable," Julian said smoothly. "He spent sixty years worrying that someone was going to steal his horses."
He reached out, his broad hand resting on the small of her back. The heat of his palm sank through her yellow sweater, sending a sweet, familiar warmth straight down her spine.
"The board meeting in Boston ran late," Julian said softly. "I had to listen to three hours of real estate projections from men who think an eight percent return is a miracle."
"Poor Mr. Corsini," Sadie murmured, tilting her head up to look at his sharp jaw. "Did you tell them they were dead octopuses?"
Julian’s gray eyes flicked down to hers, a sudden, dark spark of delight lighting up his pupils.
"I saved that for the legal counsel," he said.
He turned her toward him, his hand sliding from her back to her waist, pulling her two inches closer until her loafers were almost touching the toes of his handmade shoes.
"I brought you something," Julian whispered.
Sadie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. "If it's another pair of oxfords, Julian—"
He pulled a small, flat box wrapped in navy paper from his trousers pocket and held it out toward her.
Sadie looked at the box, then up at his face. Her fingers were steady now as she untied the white ribbon and folded back the paper.
Inside lay a single wooden spoon.
It wasn't an antique. It was carved from light, polished cherry wood, with a small silver band around the neck engraved with three numbers:
11:47
Sadie looked down at the spoon, her breath catching in her throat.
"For your microphone," Julian murmured into her hair, his lips skimming the shell of her ear as he leaned down. "In case you ever feel the urge to perform for the armchairs again."
Sadie pulled the spoon from the box. She looked at the polished cherry wood, at the small silver band, at the man who stood holding her as if she were the only object of value in a house filled with millions of dollars of dead history.
She raised the wooden spoon to her mouth like a microphone.
"Mr. Corsini," she said into the cherry wood, her dark eyes shining with quiet, triumphant light, "your taste in gifts is almost as ridiculous as your security system."
Julian let out a low, deep laugh that vibrated against her ribs.
"Say that again," he whispered, his gray eyes burning down into hers with absolute, terrifying devotion.
"Looking right at you?" she teased.
May you like
"Looking right at me," Julian agreed.
And then he kissed her—slow, heavy, and deep—right beneath the portrait of his miserable great-uncle, while the Garrard turntable in the drawing room played Miles Davis into the warm, golden afternoon.
