Feet beating a furious pace on the sidewalk, Elise Woodward skidded across uneven pavers in front of the five-story walk-up. The instant she stopped sliding, she grabbed the handle and flung the front door wide. Ancient hinges groaned a warning. Beveled glass rattled in the pitted wooden frame. She ignored the clatter and, heaving her shoulder bag, raced across the lobby. Without looking, she shot past the elevator with a stained Out of Order sign taped across its face, and made for the stairs. Her shoes rapped over cracked floor tiles. The strike of each footfall echoed, buffeted by a low ceiling in the small space. Her heart adopted the rhythm, hammering inside her chest as she took the steps two at a time.

Out of breath, palm slapping against the handrail, she rounded the next landing and headed for the fifth floor. Almost there. Another thirty seconds, and she’d be home. Keys in hand and at her apartment door. After that, she had…Elise glanced at her watch and grimaced. Crap. Less than five minutes to change her clothes, grab her kit, and dash into the night again.

Otherwise, she’d be late.

For her very first consultation.

That it happened to be with a priest was neither here nor there. Late was late, no matter how God fearing or forgiving the client.

Worn carpet bunching beneath her heels, she stopped in front of her apartment door. Pea green paint peeled from the surface, revealing different colored layers underneath, the same way a Gobstopper did when cracked open. Digging her keys out of her bag, Elise drew a deep breath. As she exhaled, she shoved her key in the lock. The metal teeth stuck, resisting the forward momentum. In a battle with the deadbolt, Elise shook her head. Yes, indeedy. She lived in a real peach of a place, so low-brow even the paint protested, curling away from the door, obscuring part of the number seventeen screwed into its center.

With a hard twist, she turned the lock, cranked the handle and—

“About time you got home.” Graced by a thick French Canadian accent, the voice came at her like an arrow from the kitchen tucked into the back corner of the flat. Elise glanced in that direction. A pastry chef at a popular downtown bakery, Amantha stood like a pixie armed with baking prowess. All of five foot nothing and stationed at the butcher block that served as the kitchen island, her best friend—and roommate—wore a red apron with pink piping and a threat on the front—How can you help? GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!

Reading the warning, Elise closed the door and raised a brow. “Not going well?”

“Stupid soufflé. It collapsed when I took it out of the oven.” Her friend scowled at the pan sitting on the cooling rack next to her.

Her lips twitched.

Amantha’s eyes narrowed. “You laugh, you die.”

She held up both hands in surrender.

Dark brown eyes leveled on her, her friend plunked a turquoise mixing bowl down on the countertop. Brandishing a pink-tipped whisk like a sword, Amantha pointed at the clock hanging between two arched windows in the living room. “You’re late, El. You’re never going to make it if—”

“I know. I know.” Lifting her bag over her shoulder, Elise flung it toward the loveseat. The leather satchel bounced, assaulting frayed purple upholstery as she skirted the bistro table and jogged toward the short hallway to the right of the kitchen. Wrestling with the buttons on her coat, she swept past the narrow refrigerator, turned into her bedroom, and kicked off her shoes. “I got caught up at work.”

“On a book?” Hot on her heels, bright green spatula now in hand, Amantha appeared in the open doorway. “Or is Attila the Nun breathing down your neck again?”

Elise swallowed a snort of laughter. Attila the Nun? Really? As curator of the rare book and paper conservation department in the National Museum of Scotland, her boss might be exacting—obsessive even—but honestly, Dr. Scott wasn’t all bad. Although…she frowned… Amantha might be on to something with the whole nun thing. In the six months Elise had worked at the Museum, her boss hadn’t gone out once. Not on a single date. Hell, the woman spent so much time in the conservation laboratory, Elise couldn’t be sure she ever went home at all.

Or owned real estate outside the rare book library.

“A new exhibit arrived today,” she said, tossing a tank top onto the twin bed pressed against the back wall of her tiny room. “I unpacked all the boxes to make sure nothing was damaged during transport.”

“Well, you’ve got…” A furrow between her brows, Amantha plucked her phone from her apron pocket. Striped peppermints cartwheeling across the back of her phone case, she glanced at the screen. “Three minutes to change and get out of here. Father Matthew might lock up if you’re not there at ten, like you promised.”

Stripped down to her underwear, Elise wiggled into her designer jeans. Even on sale, she’d spent too much money on the pair, but well…hell. She hadn’t been able to walk past without grabbing them. Elise smiled as she zipped up. So flattering. Super comfortable. Dark denim, perfect for every occasion. Just right for a relaxed meeting with a new client.

God, she hoped it worked out.

She wanted the job. The extra income would be nice, sure, but getting the nod from Father Matthew—and her hands on the antique book collection in St. Giles’s library—meant more than the money. She needed the reference for her resume. A letter of recommendation from the priest would help her land the only fulltime job available in the Book Conservation Department at the Museum. As it stood now, she was one of four interns vying for the position. With her degree in Applied Museum Studies—and a concentration in book conservation—she had a shot. But with less than a year’s experience? She flexed her hands. Less time on the job meant less employable. Elise sighed. The way of the world sucked sometimes.

So did the threat of going home.

Elise blanched at the thought.

Not that she didn’t like Ottawa. It was a nice city, the place she’d grown up, but…ugh. The idea of returning home with her tail tucked between her legs—of proving her father right—rankled. She was independent now. Much better off on her own. She’d fought too hard, for too long, to crawl out from beneath her Dad’s overly critical thumb. No way would she give up her dream of one day becoming the rare book curator in the National Museum of Scotland.

Not for her father. And certainty not for Gus Whittaker…the overbearing asshat.

With a scowl, Elise reached for her favorite V-neck sweater. The magenta cashmere caught on the coil of her low bun before slipping over her head. Gus. Elise crinkled her nose. What kind of a name of was that anyway? A wimpy one. An annoying one. One without an ounce of integrity, just like the man. God. Thinking about the cocky jerk made her want to reach for one of the battle axes in the medieval exhibit.

Gus actually believed he was a shoe-in for the job. He was so sure the head curator would select him for the position, he never stayed late or helped other interns. Not that she wanted him anywhere near her, but well…

Adjusting her sleeves, Elise smoothed the cashmere cuffs. Gus and his arrogance bugged the hell out of her. The rat-faced fink needed his ego smacked down and his butt kicked…and not in that order either.

Elise paused to look up at the ceiling, imploring the God of Payback to descend on Rat-faced Whittaker and deliver what he deserved as she looped a scarf around her neck. “I hope you’re listening.”

Amantha rolled her eyes. “Superstitious much?”

“Just a little,” she said, shrugging. “Never hurts to ask.”

“Well, do it with your feet moving.” Amantha pointed at her with the end of her iPhone. “Get going.”

“Yup.” Slipping into her boots, Elise shoved her arms into her coat and, adjusting the collar, brushed past her friend on the way to the front door. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Good and—oh merde. I almost forgot. Hang on a sec.”

Halfway across the living room, Elise glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

Grabbing a brown paper bag off the top of the fridge, Amantha tossed it to her. “For Father Matthew.”

The bag crinkled as she caught it. “Muffins?”

“Cranberry-apricot. Fresh from the oven.” A sparkle in her dark eyes, Amantha winked at her. “His favorite.”

Gratitude punched through to grip her heart. God love her best friend. No one knew better than Amantha what impressing Father Matthew meant to her. Meeting her friend’s gaze, Elise smiled. “You’re all kinds of awesome.”

“You know it,” she said, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Now, shoo and…bon chance!”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” she said, holding up the bag. “I’m armed with muffins. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Amantha laughed.

With a wave, Elise snagged her satchel off the couch, tucked the muffins inside, then grabbed the briefcase housing the tools she used to repair rare books. Please Lord, give her the opportunity to use it. That’s all she needed, a chance to show the priest her skills and convince him the church’s library needed someone like her to see to its care. But as she exited the apartment and jogged down the stairs—hard plastic kit banging against the outside of her thigh—doubt poked at her. What if Father Matthew said no? What if he refused to grant her access to the manuscripts in need of repair? What if her plan fell apart, and she didn’t get the reference she needed to impress the panel of Museum curators deciding who got the job?

The questions tightened her throat.

Elise shook her head. No sense worrying about it now. Negativity never got a girl anywhere. She’d made a decision and set her course. Had told Father Matthew she would be there, so…onward and upward. Time to put some skin in the game. The priest was expecting her. Which meant she needed to up the pace. She had a fifteen-minute walk ahead of her, just enough time to reach St. Giles Cathedral, slip through the side door as promised, and meet her soon-to-be client.