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She had tried sketching him a few times before but always came up short.

He had a long, straight aristocratic nose, full, firm lips… Her pencil glided down the paper, manifesting her images onto the page.

She didn’t remember his eyes, but if she were to draw them, they’d be deeply set, surrounded with thick lashes, the gaze penetrating, staring straight into her soul.

Add a bit of stubble, change the shape of the lips a little bit to make them softer, wider…

No, she was changing too much. He didn’t look like the mystery man at all anymore. She held the drawing away from her face and squinted.

A sigh.

She was sketching him again.

Ford.

He seemed to have invaded her mind and refused to vacate the premises. Every time she thought about a man, any man, his face appeared before her eyes. It was like a curse!

Grace believed in curses. And if she didn’t know Ford, she’d think he bound her to him by magic. What else could explain her constant thoughts about the man?

There was nothing special about him.

Certainly, he was strong, clever, witty, and rather handsome. His body was appealing, and his hands were large and hot and…

She shook her head. She needed to stop the useless musings.

He was also arrogant and condescending. Hard and unyielding. Except, he wasn’t, was he?

He had listened to her ramblings and changed his mind based on her opinions.

If he were hard and unyielding, it was only in his body.

Grace huffed out a breath. Would she ever cease thinking of him?

If she were lucky, she’d never see him again.

She threw the sketchbook onto her desk, closed the logbook, and moved to the center of her room. She removed the rug and the planks from the floor. Within the floorboards hid her most important possessions: a pouch with money and a few important documents.

She placed the logbook there, leaving no room for anything else. Then she replaced the planks and covered the floor with the rug.

How was she to solve her woes without the thief-taker? How was she to get her brothel back?

Perhaps she needed to put her feelings aside and seek him out. He didn’t care about her feelings toward him. From his point of view, their relationship—including their passionate interlude—was strictly professional.

She turned and noticed the shadow move past her room.

Grace frowned and peeked out of her room to see Harmony moving away.

“Harmony?” she called. “Did you want something?”

Harmony turned with a sheepish smile. “Oh! I wanted to talk with you, but you seemed busy.”

“Yes, I was. I didn’t even notice you walking by. But I am free now.”

Harmony’s features turned concerned. “That is unlike you not to notice me. You always see and hear everything.” The last sentence was said with a slight smile, in a good-natured jest.

Grace smiled back. “Right. Well, I’ve been out of sorts lately.”

“Yes,” Harmony agreed. “Me too. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”