His Lucky Charm

I’m a historian. I deal in facts, dates, and documented evidence. I came to Cloverton to debunk their ridiculous local legend about “The Guardians of the Green.” I expected to find a tourist scam. Instead, I found Rafferty.

Rafferty is the owner of the local pub, The Lucky Hound. He’s loud, boisterous, and has a laugh that makes my knees weak. He’s also incredibly clumsy. He knocks things over with his hips, he’s always breaking glasses, and he seems to have a personal vendetta against the mailman.
He’s decided I’m his personal project. He drags me to parades, forces green beer on me, and keeps “accidentally” brushing against me in crowded rooms. The chemistry is explosive.
But there are red flags. Like the fact that he refuses to touch anything made of silver. Or that he gets weirdly aggressive when other guys buy me a drink.

I’m a man of science, but when Rafferty pinned me against the wall of the pub’s cellar and told me I was “his luck,” logic went out the window. I just hope I survive the hangover.