Nine-Tenths

Fourteen

I'm totally on time, because I traded away that sunset alarm clock for a real, metal jangly one. Maybe a dick move, seeing as Gem bought the clock for me, but better a dick than fired.

Hadi and I meet early so we can look over the work Dav paid for. The kitchen walls are in and painted, with a taped-in gap where the new oven is going to go. Until then, Hadi's arranged to get pastries from a woman doing all-local, all-organic catering from her own kitchen. The roaster is still on backorder, though.

"Don't worry, he won't last that long," Hadi says, having been the recipient of a panicked phone call last night about how I had somehow developed some stupid-ass crush on a man who had stabbed me with his hand. "And Min-soo said she'd come in if you need help. Not that you will in dead-time."

That's the thing about St. Catharines—when Brock University and Niagara College let out for the summer, the place is like a lockdown-era ghost town. The only people who actually live here are retired artists, folks who work in customer service, or exhausted teenagers manning tourist attractions by Niagara Falls. Without the drunk students to block the view, you realize that downtown is sad and pathetic, filled with wretched pensioners who have nothing better to do than ride the bus and smoke outside of malls, and rundown dive bars that are barely passable in the daylight, splintered and scuzzy. The Business Association has been working hard to revitalize St. Paul Street, posh upscale bistros and fancy boardgame cafés clustering around the new performing arts and arena venues, but the rest of the street slowly rotting in stale beer and dilapidated glitter.

Hadi is on the forefront of the business owners trying to make the downtown appealing and useful year-round, but the tourists are slow to pick up on the idea that there's more to St. Catharines than a wine festival and a few sagging art galleries.

"Yeah, okay." I shove my right hand into my jean's pocket to keep my arm still and supported. I don't need the sling any more, but I try not to jostle it. I walk out to the front, past the counter, marveling at how everything sparkles. "Jeeze, this is impressive."

"Tudor's team does good work," Hadi agrees.

"Tudor?" I ask.

"Your dragon."

"He's not my dragon! Do you think they're related? I've never heard of other Tudors but the queen."

"Her Majesty is a cousin, on—" Dav says from the door, his rich accent rolling across the empty café.

I jump, wounds twinging. Oh shit, I think, and check my watch. 8am exactly. Of course the posh bastard is punctual. Did he hear Hadi call him 'my' dragon?

"On my mother's side," he finishes slowly, coming to a cautious stop, as if afraid he's scared us. Okay, to be fair, we are both standing behind the counter with wide bunny-in-the-headlights looks on our faces, but it's only because we had just been discussing him. Hadi hasn't reconnected the little electric bell over the front door yet and I'd never realized before, but Dav walks softly.

"Why are you staring? Am I late?" Dav asks, glancing down at his wristwatch—heavy gold, like the buttons on today's waistcoat.

"Um, uh, no?" I splutter.

Shit. He's not as handsome as you remember, cut it out.

Ah, who am I fooling?

Because he is.

My stomach flops at the sight of his hair back in its usual Errol Flynn swoop, and his slacks seem especially well-tailored today. The sleeves of his navy-blue floral button-down were already rolled up to his elbows, ready to work, and get it together you absolute trashfire.