beautifulâand vaguely frightening.
âWhat happened here?â Serafina asked Pauline in a shocked whisper.
âOh dear,â Pauline murmured, pushing her battered straw cowboy hat back on her head and scratching the salt-and-pepper mane underneath. âItâs been awhile since I took a proper interest in the shop. Looks like the Wolfâs been letting his babies have the run of the place in my absence.â She tsked her tongue. âIâll have to speak to him about it.â
Sera tried to find a part of that pronouncement that made sense, and failed. Then she noticed there was not just one shop affected by the floral invasion, but two. Catty-corner to Paulineâs was another, somewhat smaller shop at the far right. A wooden sign hung above it, carved with silver-gilt letters.
âLyric Jewelry,â Sera read aloud, moving closer to investigate.
If possible, the jewelry store was even more overgrown with foliage than her auntâs. Sera couldnât be sure, but it looked as though the migration had begun from the smaller shop and crept inch by inch until it engulfed its neighbor like some primitive jungle.
Then, out of that jungle, stepped Indiana Jones.
Or at least, his doppelganger.
Tall. Lanky. Sandy blond, beneath a battered leather outback hat. Dressed in slouchy olive cargo pants and a waffle-knit thermal shirt that clung almost indecently to the angles and planes of his lean torso. He sported scuffed motorcycle boots and a heavy, intricately wrought silver chain about his neck. Another chain snaked from his belt around to his back pocket, probably anchoring a wallet as beat-up and worn-in as the rest of his attire.
The man brushed aside a stray vine and exited the jewelerâs shop, pausing momentarily to adjust to the afternoon light. As he encountered the oddly lucent sunlight that seemed unique to Santa Fe, he squinted and tipped down his hat, but Sera had already caught a glimpse of the most astonishing green eyes beneath the battered brim. Her breath caught as the man vaulted easily over the porch rail, eschewing the two wooden steps and landing lightly on the dusty pavement beside the two women.
âMiss Pauline, so nice to see you today,â said the adventurer, nodding politely to Seraâs aunt and tipping his hat to them both. âWe have missed you around here.â
Seraâs imagination couldnât have picked a more intriguing accent for Indy had she been writing his dialogue herself. It wasnât Southern, or British, or even Australian. No, it was⦠Israeli? It was very faint, but sheâd lived and worked in New York long enough to recognize the distinctive lilt of the soft vowels, and the exaggerated precision of his diction.
âAnd who is your lovely friend?â Moss green eyes sized Serafina up from beneath the brim of that hatâa hat that should have been ridiculous, and somehow wasnât.
Lovely, my ass. Sera had the unmistakable impression that his choice of words was no more than a courtesy. There was something chilly and imponderable in that green gazeâlike the opaque waters of a hidden forest pond. She knew she was no supermodel; working around so much rich food meant she would never be anything but pleasingly curvy, and her petite statureâjust five feet twoâhad earned her the nickname âshort stackâ in culinary school. Still, Sera wasnât used to such casual disregard from the male sex.
She squelched a childish urge to sniff her pits, crossing her arms defensively under her breasts instead. Well, heâs not that good-looking either, Sera consoled herself. Ruggedly appealing, yes. But closer inspection of his features revealed they were a bit too strongly stamped upon his visage to be called traditionally handsome. His nose was a little too prominent, his incisors just a teensy shade crooked. He was on the south side of his thirties, with deep laugh lines around his eyes. And
âWhat happened here?â Serafina asked Pauline in a shocked whisper.
âOh dear,â Pauline murmured, pushing her battered straw cowboy hat back on her head and scratching the salt-and-pepper mane underneath. âItâs been awhile since I took a proper interest in the shop. Looks like the Wolfâs been letting his babies have the run of the place in my absence.â She tsked her tongue. âIâll have to speak to him about it.â
Sera tried to find a part of that pronouncement that made sense, and failed. Then she noticed there was not just one shop affected by the floral invasion, but two. Catty-corner to Paulineâs was another, somewhat smaller shop at the far right. A wooden sign hung above it, carved with silver-gilt letters.
âLyric Jewelry,â Sera read aloud, moving closer to investigate.
If possible, the jewelry store was even more overgrown with foliage than her auntâs. Sera couldnât be sure, but it looked as though the migration had begun from the smaller shop and crept inch by inch until it engulfed its neighbor like some primitive jungle.
Then, out of that jungle, stepped Indiana Jones.
Or at least, his doppelganger.
Tall. Lanky. Sandy blond, beneath a battered leather outback hat. Dressed in slouchy olive cargo pants and a waffle-knit thermal shirt that clung almost indecently to the angles and planes of his lean torso. He sported scuffed motorcycle boots and a heavy, intricately wrought silver chain about his neck. Another chain snaked from his belt around to his back pocket, probably anchoring a wallet as beat-up and worn-in as the rest of his attire.
The man brushed aside a stray vine and exited the jewelerâs shop, pausing momentarily to adjust to the afternoon light. As he encountered the oddly lucent sunlight that seemed unique to Santa Fe, he squinted and tipped down his hat, but Sera had already caught a glimpse of the most astonishing green eyes beneath the battered brim. Her breath caught as the man vaulted easily over the porch rail, eschewing the two wooden steps and landing lightly on the dusty pavement beside the two women.
âMiss Pauline, so nice to see you today,â said the adventurer, nodding politely to Seraâs aunt and tipping his hat to them both. âWe have missed you around here.â
Seraâs imagination couldnât have picked a more intriguing accent for Indy had she been writing his dialogue herself. It wasnât Southern, or British, or even Australian. No, it was⦠Israeli? It was very faint, but sheâd lived and worked in New York long enough to recognize the distinctive lilt of the soft vowels, and the exaggerated precision of his diction.
âAnd who is your lovely friend?â Moss green eyes sized Serafina up from beneath the brim of that hatâa hat that should have been ridiculous, and somehow wasnât.
Lovely, my ass. Sera had the unmistakable impression that his choice of words was no more than a courtesy. There was something chilly and imponderable in that green gazeâlike the opaque waters of a hidden forest pond. She knew she was no supermodel; working around so much rich food meant she would never be anything but pleasingly curvy, and her petite statureâjust five feet twoâhad earned her the nickname âshort stackâ in culinary school. Still, Sera wasnât used to such casual disregard from the male sex.
She squelched a childish urge to sniff her pits, crossing her arms defensively under her breasts instead. Well, heâs not that good-looking either, Sera consoled herself. Ruggedly appealing, yes. But closer inspection of his features revealed they were a bit too strongly stamped upon his visage to be called traditionally handsome. His nose was a little too prominent, his incisors just a teensy shade crooked. He was on the south side of his thirties, with deep laugh lines around his eyes. And
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