Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
After barely escaping a serial killer, Delaney Crosswell felt like the world was unsafe. Except for when she was in Rev’s arms. She knew that danger was a part of the motorcycle club, but the sexy biker quickly proved he’d burn the world down before letting anything touch her
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1
DELANEY
Human hair was a fascinating historical textile, even if most people found it creepy. Earlier in my studies, it had taken some adjustment to get past being a little disturbed about working with a stranger's hair. Especially knowing they’d passed away. But now, I saw it as a historical material like silk or leather. And I was in awe of how artists had woven it into intricate designs, like the wreath on the antique Victorian mourning brooch I was restoring.
Adjusting the lamp, I was careful to keep my hands steady as I used compressed air to clean the microscopic debris from a crevice in the back. The piece needed to be properly cleaned before it could be restored, and I had to be careful not to introduce moisture that could seep past the gold and destroy the hair and foil-backed gems used as decoration. The reflective metal behind the jewels enhanced their brilliance but made cleaning more complicated.
The brooch was so delicate that I couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Nothing else existed for me until I finally finished the cleaning. Leaning back, I smiled, filled with the satisfaction of coaxing something broken back toward beauty.
I had been so lucky to get a coveted spot in the accelerated art conservation track. In large part because it offered the opportunity as a restoration apprentice with the museum and university preservation partnership. The lab was quite prestigious, so the competition was fierce.
I was thrilled I’d been chosen since this was where I felt most alive—bringing the past back to life, one careful stroke at a time.
My phone lit up on the corner of the worktable, the soft vibration pulling a smile from me as soon as I saw the name on the notification. I peeled off one glove and swiped the screen.
Mom
Still at the lab? It’s getting late. Dad is being grumpy about his deadline and asked me to remind you that even brilliant restorers need food.
I huffed a quiet laugh, my thumbs flying over the keyboard.
Me
Almost done cleaning the mourning brooch. I’m packing up soon.
Mom
That’s my girl. We’re so proud of you, honey.
I grinned at my screen.
Me
Thanks. Tell Dad I’ll be equally proud when he kicks his deadline’s butt.
Having a sci-fi author for a father had been interesting growing up. His schedule varied from being available to spend lots of time with me to disappearing into his office for weeks on end when he had a book due to his editor. Luckily, my mom’s hours at the library were very regular.
I got my love of books from them at an early age, which helped tremendously with my studies. And helped me snag my scholarship.
But it was the time I’d spent with the stacks of old books my mom let me “fix” as a kid that had really helped me discover my passion for preservation. Dad spinning wild stories about ancient artifacts and lost civilizations hadn’t hurt, either.
While other girls were out at parties, I was happiest with a pair of tweezers and something fragile that needed my patience. Even now, social events and academic mixers drained me, but the conservation lab was my happy place.
My mom sent me a laughing emoji, and I replied with a heart before setting the phone down again and reaching for my gloves. I’d just slipped the left one back on when the quiet scrape of a shoe behind me made me jump.
I spun on my stool, my pulse quickening.
Dr. Magnus Kinghorn stood just inside the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back, watching me with an unnerving stillness that people said came from being so brilliant. He wore his usual tailored jacket, silver threading through his dark hair, every inch the respected art historian.
I really hoped he hadn’t seen me on my phone. As the lead of the entire partnership between the museum and my university, the fate of my career was literally in his hands.
“Dr. Kinghorn.” I pressed a hand to my chest with a breathless laugh. “You startled me. I didn’t hear you come down.”
“My apologies, Delaney. I thought you might still be here.” He moved closer, stopping beside the worktable. His gaze dropped to the mourning brooch under the lamp. “How is our little Victorian lady progressing?”
I relaxed a fraction, happy to talk about the work and not me being on my cell phone. “The crack is almost ready for repair now. One more round of cleaning should do it.”
Using my gloved hand, I turned the piece so he could see better.
“Hmm.” He leaned in, studying the brooch with clinical appreciation. “Yes, I concur.”
I took a deep, satisfied breath. “Thank you.”
“Preservation is really just deciding what deserves to survive,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Some things should be kept exactly as they are before the world ruins them.”
I nodded, charmed despite the odd phrasing. “That’s beautiful. And exactly why I love this work. Giving broken things another chance.”