The Collector | 18+

【05】The Mind of a Mule

Ulrik

"So, where to, Miss Connelly?"

After a stop at the office she shared with two other people, we were now out of the museum. The sun I'd enjoyed upon arriving was now hiding behind a thick layer of gray clouds, and the atmosphere was charged with pending rain. Hopefully, we'd be settled wherever she wanted to go before it came.

When I looked down at her, she had her eyes on the darkened sky, mechanically adjusting her suede jacket over her shoulders.

"Gigi's Parlour," she eventually replied. "It's right around the corner that way."

I moved to the side with a nod, inviting her to lead the way. Her walk was resolute and determined, and I wondered if she wanted to avoid the rain or if she was eager to be rid of me.

When Henrikson had forwarded me her email, along with a quick note from him saying the sword had resurfaced, I hadn't taken the time to look at who she was. A grave mistake on my part.

Mila Connelly was nothing like what I'd imagined she would be. Firstly, she was much younger than any historian I knew who held such a prestigious position. Secondly, she was much, much prettier than I could ever have anticipated. Attractive women didn't do much for me anymore, but this one had something special about her, something that had dried my throat and sent an unexpected rush of blood in my loins upon first seeing her.

And thirdly, the most important thing of all, she had the mind of a mule and was as unpredictable as wildfire. She blew hot one second and then cold the next, keeping me guessing which of my words might anger her and which ones might win her back. Of all the people I could have been against, I'd ended up with a brilliant, excitable young woman with a strong work ethic, and around whom I struggled to keep a straight head.

Even as we walked side by side in silence, I couldn't help but steal glances at her profile. She was an attractive woman, by anyone's standards, but particularly mine. Free of any artifice, aside from some mascara and a pink-colored lip gloss, she was remarkably beautiful. I couldn't remember when the last time was that I'd been around such a woman, subdued by something as elementary and trivial as physical appearance. But no matter how she looked, it didn't explain the potent reaction I had to her.

Maybe living like a hermit, isolated from the world in the Westergaard Estate, wasn't suiting me as much as I thought it did. One pretty face and my mind was all over the place.

By the time we reached the place she'd mentioned, we hadn't exchanged a word. My tongue was eager to speak, almost pulsing in my mouth, but I didn't know what to say. The woman intimidated me, which never happened.

Even from the outside, I could tell that Gigi's Parlour was a lively and crowded place. A few tables were set in front of it, protected from London's notoriously bad weather by a retractable awning, and there were several people gathered outside, enjoying a cigarette. Miss Connelly didn't hesitate and walked straight by them to go to the glass door.

A chime screwed to the door announced us, and I eyed the room with curious interest. It was undoubtedly British, with the overuse of decorative elements and how kitsch it all looked. But there was a certain warmth to it, which I guessed was the appeal of it. Everything was second-hand, there weren't two matching chairs, and the tableware was just as eccentric.

Miss Connelly could have chosen any place in the entire city, and this was where she wanted to eat? Interesting choice.

A server who'd heard the door chime came our way. "Hi, Kojo," she saluted him.

"Hey, Mila. Are you here to eat?"

"Yes, for two, please."

The man looked up at me, offered a polite nod, and then scanned the room. "Is the table there alright?" he asked, pointing at a small round table pressed between a larger table and the floor-to-ceiling window of the restaurant's front. She hesitated for a moment, surely aware of the forced proximity it would put us in, but eventually nodded. There wasn't any other table available, anyway. With a practiced gesture, the waiter invited us to head to our table.