The sun was setting in candied, sweet pink and orange. It brought out the streaks of red in Simon’s hair. The strength in his jaw. He was his age. Was he unattached? Were the ladies blind enough to pass him up? … The gentlemen?

Zechariah thumbed the first button of his vest open just before dropping his hand, eyes on him as he did so.

“Prague, Mr. Ward.” There was a teasing note to his address.

All it took was the miniscule brushing of fabric against fabric for him to be red again. It was Zechariah’s fault, he was certain – he had been seeing how close he could get. He held a hand up to stop the apology.

“My fault,” he said … though he did not apologize, watching him intently.