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“It was.”

A pause. That glow again. “Thanks, Cannon.”

I am completely fucked.

CHAPTER 7

Jubilee

The third antique store is where I finally fall in love. Not with Gage, obviously. That would be ridiculous. No, I fall in love with a music box.

It sits inside a glass cabinet near the back: a miniature carousel on a dark walnut base beneath a clear glass dome. Six tiny horses circle a gilded center pole, manes flying, their saddles and bridles crusted with little rhinestones that catch the light like frost. I twist the brass key underneath, and the first delicate notes of “The Carousel Waltz” from Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Carousel chime through the glass.

“Oh, my God.”

The carousel actually spins. The glittering horses rise and fall on their brass poles as they circle. I crouch in front of the cabinet like I’ve found buried treasure. After last night, that’s a metaphor I should probably retire.

I haven’t been near a real horse in ten years. My chest aches anyway, sweet and sharp at once.

For thirty seconds, I forget Mom. The landlord. Debt. Dead men beneath protected plants. But not Gage. Because I know he’s somewhere behind me.

That’s another thing I like about him. He doesn’t hover. He stays within eye-shot, but he doesn’t trail me like an oversized guard dog. At the first shop, he disappeared into old cameras. At the second, he spent ten minutes examining an antique coffee grinder like he was considering matrimony. Here, I’ve caught him photographing old bakery signs and cookware. And possibly me. Twice. Maybe three times.

As long as he doesn’t post my picture on his five million-follower platform, I’m perfectly fine with photography from the man who helped dispose of my first homicide. My boundaries have become inconsistent.

The music slows. I turn over the tag. $199.95. My smile dies. That’s a monthly electric bill.

I set it carefully back inside the cabinet. Breakfast was already enough. Gage is eyeing me from the opposite side of the glass. I move on before he notices what I’m leaving behind.

The shop smells like old paper, furniture polish, and dust. Several clocks tick from different corners, none agreeing on the time.

He’s at a shelf of cookbooks, a wicker basket on one arm with three books, an old pastry cutter, and a tiny brass chicken already inside.

I edge closer with curiosity. “Anything interesting?”

“Always.” He pulls out a faded green hardcover and flips through its yellowed pages.

“I noticed you have old recipe books in some of your photos.”

One brow lifts. “You noticed that?”

Shit. I become extremely interested in a chipped ceramic pitcher. “Your channel is very informative.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

An easy smile crosses his face as he turns another page. “I was about to invite you to see the collection. It’s gotten ridiculous. One room of my house technically stopped functioning as a guest room.”

I laugh. “You have an entire room of cookbooks?”

“Books. Menus. Recipe cards. Kitchen tools.” He shows me a page stained brown near the bottom with handwritten measurements. “Everything’s digital now. But these tell a story. Somebody made this recipe enough times to ruin the page. Changed things. Figured out what worked.”

“More work?”