A Score to Kettle (A Pebble Cove Teahouse Mystery Book 3) by Eryn Scott

Author:Eryn Scott [Scott, Eryn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kristopherson Press
Published: 2020-06-12T16:00:00+00:00

14

I jumped back, letting out a strangled screech.

Van stood next to me. His eyes widened.

“Rosemary, calm down. I’m sorry. It’s just me.” He held up his hands, one of which held a flashlight.

Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about, I thought to myself.

My gaze flicked between his face and the light. I hoped all of my questions about why he’d blown out my candle were written on my face because I was too surprised to verbalize them.

“I didn’t want you to singe any of the books.” He pointed to the shelf in front of me. “You were getting close there with the flame. Sorry, I didn’t realize it would scare you so much.” He watched me take in his explanation as if he would gauge his next words on how I accepted these.

Maybe I had been getting close to the books. It was likely I’d forgotten that the light I held was a flame, and not a flashlight.

I exhaled the rest of my worries. “The storm has me a little jumpy, I guess.”

Van returned to his normal easy, laid-back posture almost instantly. “This is a great room, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Libraries are usually my favorite place in a house,” I said in lieu of a direct answer about this library in particular.

Even with the light of Van’s flashlight, I still felt clammy and chilled, like something wasn’t right about this space. There was also something not right about how close Van stood to me. I inched away, my attention lingering on the diary sitting in front of me on the shelf. I wished I could grab it without Van noticing.

“This room is definitely my favorite here,” he said. “I’ve learned so much about my family from the books inside this library.” He studied the space, then settled into one of the old wingback chairs facing the shelves.

I followed suit, sitting in the other chair and setting my extinguished candle on the side table in between us. Pulling a match from his pocket, he relit my candle and clicked off the flashlight. As much as my instincts told me to run away from him, the promise of getting information about his family was too enticing to pass up.

“I saw the family history your dad wrote,” I said conversationally, trying to cover up my eagerness. “Is that what you’ve been reading?”

Van scoffed, “My dad didn’t write that. That man couldn’t find a thing in the world he couldn’t hire out. He hired someone to look up that history for him and took the credit, as usual.” Van’s eyebrows lifted in exasperation. “Hiring people to do his dirty work was how my father operated. No, that family history is a joke. Even if he didn’t write it, he still controlled what went in and what didn’t. My father hated his father, Sullivan Junior,” Van said, agitation tightening his tone. “He spent my whole life complaining about the man and how he made terrible business decisions, how he lead with his heart instead of his brain.

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