Steelhands - Jaida Jones [60]
“I suppose I can allow that,” Luvander said. He finished up his packaging with a ribbon and a bow—even Yesfir would’ve crowded into the shop to make fun of him for that detail, I thought, but then again, Proudmouth wouldn’t have been too keen with the way I was handling, or failing to handle, my students. What our girls didn’t know was for the best these days, all things considered. “But please, don’t touch anything. You’re not delicate enough. You’ll tear something.”
I rolled my eyes. “Good to see you, too, Luvander,” I said.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, grinning. “I’ve just always wanted to order you around. You can’t blame me for taking my chances now, can you?”
“Guess I can’t,” I agreed.
It seemed funny to me that women would flock to have such delicate accessories sold to them by a man with a big purple scar on his throat—wasn’t it the kind of thing that made the daintier sex faint clean away?—but he’d covered it up for the most part with a white scarf, tucked into the front of his vest. He looked good, healthy, like he was living well and taking care of himself. I didn’t have anything to scold him about.
“But don’t you think this would look sweet on Balfour?” Luvander asked, plucking up a little blue number with a peacock feather sewn right onto it.
It actually, somehow, reminded me of him.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again right quick. I wasn’t about to wade into that hill of fire ants for any reason. Besides, I knew when a man was having a laugh at my expense, along with someone else’s.
“I’m so sorry; it appears I’m still teasing you,” Luvander said, setting both the box and the fancy little hat aside with a loud crinkling of wrapping papers. “I suppose it’s my own small way of letting my nerves get the better of me. Not to mention paying you back for all the times you woke me up by shouting in the night. Soiled my pants more than a few times because of you, so I might as well make you squirm now, right?”
“Too much,” I told him. “Don’t need to know what’s in your pants, Luvander.”
“Hah!” Luvander said, coming out from behind his counter. “I suppose you’re right, at least about that.” He paused for a moment, pushing aside one fancy curtain and peering out onto the street. “He’s never been here yet, you know. Balfour, I mean. Said he’d come and he never did, that charming little snake. It’s because all those diplomats got hold of him, and he perfected a no that sounds just like a yes.”
“He was probably just worried you were going to rig a bucket of glue to pour down onto his head the minute he crossed the threshold,” I told him, eyeing the door. The layout of the shop was perfect for that kind of setup. Ghislain and Jeannot would’ve had it up there in no time, teamwork never being a problem when you shared the common goal of making another man miserable. “And then you might’ve put that fancy little peacock number on top of the glue, and he’d be wearing it for weeks, at least until the glue flaked off.”
“I would never!” Luvander said, putting a hand to his throat like a woman grasping for her pearls. He took that opportunity to tug the scarf up to cover the mean hook of his scar, where it’d started peeking over the top. “Wasting an expensive hat like that—you have no idea. And the glue’d be murder to get off the floors. I haven’t broken even yet, much less made enough to hire a shopgirl for that kind of thing.”
“Bet you a shopgirl’d work here for free,” I said. “You could hire some fresh-faced ’Versity student who’s all ideals and no brains; she’d be falling all over herself to work for one of the famous airmen. Just a little something to write home about; she’d be the talk of the town.”
“Speaking of which, how is your professoring