Cassie Mint

  Clock Work

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-59-5

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

  1. Kilian

  2. Piper

  3. Kilian

  4. Piper

  5. Kilian

  6. Piper

  7. Kilian

  8. Piper

  9. Kilian

  Teaser: The Gift

  About the Author

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

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  One

  Kilian

  “You’re certain about this?”

  My old school friend Maxim hovers in my workshop doorway, his chin buried in his winter coat against the cold. His cheeks are slapped pink by the frosty breeze, and his shoulders are bunched around his ears, dark hair dusted with snow.

  I level him a look. “Why? Do you want me to change my mind?”

  It’s not like I want a new apprentice. My workshop is my sanctum, a place of peace and focus, and adding another person into the mix fills me with dread. I’ve regretted saying I’d take his sister on for weeks now.

  But Maxim and I have history. Long years spent together kicking a ball in the school yard, then growing into men. Those younger days feel like a century ago.

  There’s a small noise behind Maxim. A pair of big, dark eyes peers around his shoulder.

  Pale, freckled cheeks. A button nose. Bee-stung lips that fill my brain with dark, sinful images.

  “That her?” I ask, then shake my head and address her directly. No need to be rude. “It’s Piper, right?”

  “Yes.” Her voice is a whisper. Nearly lost on the wind. “It’s nice to meet you, Mister Ziegler.”

  A small hand thrusts around her brother, and after a brief pause, I take it and squeeze gently.

  Her fingers are so slender. Like the tiny, delicate clock pieces I work with.

  “Piper is a little shy,” Maxim explains, like she’s not right there. As I watch, those freckled cheeks turn pink, her eyebrows pinching in consternation. “And when she’s nervous, she gets clumsy. She left her last two jobs after some expensive, ah, incidents…”

  Perfect. I’ve invited a terrible klutz into my priceless workshop. What wonderful news.

  For a brief moment, I contemplate turning them away. Maxim wouldn’t blame me, not really—he knows how fragile my work is. He knows I can’t allow sloppy mistakes. You don’t become a world-famous clockmaker through poor judgment calls, and he just admitted outright that she’s a serious risk.

  But one look at his sister keeps my mouth shut. Piper stares down at the snow-covered ground, quiet despair slumping her shoulders. A pale blue scarf rests against her throat, the fringed ends dancing on the breeze, and a white knitted hat covers her dark hair.

  As I watch, a gust of frosty wind blows through the narrow street, ruffling her hair and making her shiver.

  It’s decided.

  She’s cold, and I did agree.

  “Here.” I push the door to my workshop wider and step to the side. “Come in, Piper.” I don’t invite her brother inside. I’m not a damn coffee house, and if she’s here, we’ll be working. That’s that.

  Plus a selfish part of me wants to get her alone. To see what she’s like once she steps out of Maxim’s shadow. I don’t examine that urge too closely.

  “Will you be alright?” He fusses over her as she squeezes past. Piper nods, the movement stiff with irritation, and comes to stand in the entryway. She focuses on me instead of her fretting brother, and blows out a soft breath, her eyes tracking over my features.

  Her inspection makes me weirdly nervous, but when she meets my eyes again, I feel settled. Anchored to the earth.

  “Shall we get started?” Piper murmurs. Her fingers flex against the strap of her satchel, and she seems eager.

  Yeah. Eager is good.

  We’ll get along just fine.

  * * *

  “The kitchen.” I nod through an open doorway, halfway through my tour. Piper trails behind me, her cinnamon and clove scent hanging in the air everywhere we walk.

  She smells like a baked good. Fucking delicious.

  “Help yourself to whatever you like. There are coffee grounds, and fresh milk, and tins of tea leaves, and the mugs are…” I trail off and frown at the high shelf. Then glance back at the small girl behind me. “Can you reach those?”

  Piper blinks up at me. She shrugs.

  “Uh. Okay.” I leave her in the doorway and stride across the kitchen, selecting a cream colored mug without any chips and placing it on the counter. “This one can be yours. And, uh…” I pull down all the drinks supplies too, just in case she can’t reach those either, cluttering up my nice orderly space. “If you like working here, we’ll get you a step stool. Okay?”

  Piper makes a soft sound. It’s suspiciously like a snort.

  I peer back at her, frowning, but her expression is wiped clean. “Alright, then. Let’s move on.”

  I show her my office, with the solid oak desk and a view straight over the snow-capped mountains. A laptop whirs in front of the cracked leather chair, a contrast of old and new, and bookshelves and a small dark green sofa line the walls.

  “I do the business stuff in here. Accounts and bookings, that kind of thing.” Piper inches further into the doorway beside me, and I go still, my pulse thudding. Level with my bicep, her mouth presses in a line, but she says nothing as she scans the room. Not a word.

  Well, shit. Does she like it? Does she think it’s the ugliest fucking thing she’s ever seen?

  Why do I even care? Goddamn it.

  “I can show you all those things too, if you like.” A tiny smile. Victory. “They’re boring as hell, but they’re important if you want to make a living doing this.”

  “I like numbers,” Piper murmurs, and I almost punch the air.

  “Oh yeah?” I nudge her gently, and she glances up at me, startled. “Stick around, then, Piper. I hate doing the accounts.”

  I’m only being nice, but you’d think I’d just laid the world’s sweetest compliment on her. Because the moment I say she should stick around, Piper beams up at me, and it’s like her whole face comes alive. She’s bright and beautiful, so pretty she’s hard to look at—and it’s like staring into the sun.

  “Maybe I will,” she says, her voice a little stronger.

  Jesus Christ. “This way,” I tell her, throat dry.

  I show her the rest of the rooms. The waiting area for customers; the shop where I sell small pieces and give demonstrations to tourists. The shelves and shelves of handmade clocks, ticking in perfect harmony; the walk-in safe where I keep the most valuable ones.

  And last of all, my workshop, with its big wooden bench and bright windows; an unlit hearth and hundreds of tools hanging on the walls. A big magnifying glass hunkers on a stand on the desk, kept on a folding brass arm so I can pull it where I need it, and a clock is splayed open on the table, like a body on an operating table.

  It’s funny, seeing this place through her eyes. It’s like a mad scientist lives here. Or someone from a folk tale—if the elves in folk tales were big, burly assholes with dark beards.

  I end the tour after the workshop. I don’t show Piper my apartment on the top floor; it seems too personal. Dangerous, somehow, and besides—there’s nothing she needs to know about up there. Only the rooms where I sleep and bathe and live.

  She’s here to work. To learn as my apprentice. So I draw that line in my brain, and I resolve here and now: I’ll never cross it.

  Piper is my apprentice.

  That is all.

  Two

  Piper

  One month later

  I step onto my wooden foot stool, stretching up to pluck Kilian’s favorite coffee mug off the shelf. He pretends not to have a favorite, but he’s not fooling me. This one has two chips in the rim and an over-thick base, and he still uses it more than any of the others.

  I prod at it as I wait for the water to boil. The mug slides an inch over the counter top, its glossy black china winking in the daylight filtering through the kitchen window.

  Why this mug?

  Why clockmaking?

  …Why me?

  A month ago, I took this job out of desperation. I’m twenty years old and living with my older brother and his wife, for goodness’ sake. I’ve been fired from two jobs in the last six months, and I have no prospects. I’d have taken anything.

  I’d have chopped meat for the butcher or emptied the tow n garbage bins. Jeez, I’d have served drinks to the lecherous skiers up at the mountain lodge.

  But it didn’t come to that, because Kilian took me on. A world-famous clockmaker accepted me, the undeniable human disaster, as his apprentice. I didn’t get it. I still don’t.

  And ever since, he’s become the most tantalizing puzzle to me. I kind of suck as an apprentice, because all these hours I’m supposed to spend learning about clocks, I’m watching him instead.

  His thick, dark beard, trimmed close to the jaw. His big, strong hands which perform the most tiny, detailed tasks. His soft-looking wool sweaters and the fine lines around his serious eyes.

  Kilian Ziegler is famous, at least among clock-lovers—an admittedly small segment of the population. But he’s an artisan. A true craftsman.

  I don’t really care about that stuff. I just like how he smells.

  “Milk, no sugar.” I hold our coffees up as I walk into his workshop, the scent of sawdust and brass in the air. Kilian glances over from his desk, then back down at his work. Hundreds of tiny clock pieces glitter, spread over his station.

  “Good. Piper, come here a second. You’re missing the important bit.”

  I sidle closer, placing his coffee at a safe distance—learned that lesson in my first week—and sip from my mug as I stand at his shoulder. Bless him, Kilian really wants me to learn.

  A delicate tool balanced between his fingers, the clockmaker tugs the magnifying glass closer and shows me what he’s doing. He’s polishing cogs and dials. Filing down rough metal edges. Brushing away minuscule specks of dirt.

  “You see?” he murmurs, his expression rapt as he studies his own work.

  I stifle a smile. “Sure.”

  “They fit together perfectly. A truly seamless design.”

  Like Kilian and the jeans clinging to his thighs. “Uh-huh.”

  “This model is a classic. One of the greats.”

  I study where the neckline of his black sweater meets his throat. “Definitely.”

  The clockmaker glances over at me, eyes narrowing in suspicion, but I offer him a sweet smile. His cheeks turn pink above his beard, his throat bobbing as he swallows, and he stares. Pins me with his searching gaze.

  “You’re teasing me,” he grumbles at last, turning back to his work and pushing the magnifying glass away. My stomach sinks, and I shift from foot to foot. He’s annoyed. Kilian glares at the cog in his palm like he could intimidate the rust clean off, and crap, I really need this job.

  I should try harder. I should focus, damn it, and try to actually learn his craft, not just clean his workshop and bring him coffees. But something about Kilian’s presence relaxes me so much, I forget I’m at work, and when I’m relaxed… all I want to do is stare at him. Hear his low, rumbly voice and feel his warm gaze on my body.

  When I’m with Kilian Ziegler, clock repair is the last thing on my mind.

  “I’m not.” I pluck at his sleeve, then quickly snatch my hand back. Better not touch him. Better not test my control like that. “I’m not teasing you, Kilian, I swear.”

  He sighs, not deigning to reply, and then he shifts on his stool, working again. Lost in his own world, the walls between us built safely back up.

  I wander away from the wooden bench, coffee mug cooling between my palms, and gaze blindly at the snow falling past the window. My stomach aches. Have I always been such a disaster?

  The last few jobs weren’t like this. I never relaxed, and that was kind of the problem. I was so tense, so panicked all the time, that I made stupid mistakes. Broke things and dropped things and generally made myself a pain in the ass.

  I haven’t dropped anything here since that coffee in the first week. I haven’t even broken one of those fancy expensive tools. Kilian’s too calming for that. And even though I never usually speak above a whisper, with him, I’m chatty as hell.

  But even without dropping things and causing damage, I’m still screwing this up—I can feel it.

  If I don’t learn how to focus around him, the clockmaker will send me away. My chest twists at the thought.

  I couldn’t bear it.

  * * *

  Send.

  There’s a whooshing noise as another email flies into the void. I lean back in Kilian’s office chair, the leather creaking, and click idly through his inbox.

  He was so awkward about giving me this task. Like he was taking advantage or something, never mind that he’s paying me to be here. Never mind that I love the business side way more than the clocks.

  Schedules. Invoices. Planners.

  There’s something about a perfectly managed planner that is borderline erotic. I didn’t mention that to him, obviously. I don’t want my new boss to think I’m insane.

  But a soft knock on the door frame interrupts my thoughts, and I bolt upright in his chair. Kilian grins at me from the doorway, eyes twinkling.

  “Woah! Hey, there. You looking at something you shouldn’t, Piper?”

  I flush bright red, even though I’m not, damn it. I’m just answering emails, like he told me.

  “No.”

  Kilian snorts, striding inside and crossing to a bookshelf, leaning down to search the spines. “Not sure I believe you, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart. Once in a while, that name slips out, and every time it does, Kilian makes this sour expression. Like he wishes he could stuff it back into his mouth; chew it up and swallow it down.

  Too bad. He can’t take it back, because he keeps saying it, and I keep hearing it. And even though it makes him all sour, it makes me feel like fireworks are going off inside. I grin at him from behind the desk, happy again.

  “It’s your office.”

  “Hm?” Kilian frowns, tilting his head to read the book titles. He’s only half listening, but I don’t mind. I love that little humming noise he makes.

  “It’s your office. You don’t need to knock.”

  Hazel eyes glance at me then. His beard shifts as he smirks. “I do, Piper. How else will you know to close all those dodgy websites?”

  I splutter, and his smirk widens. He’s watching me. And the chair creaks as I shift, suddenly restless, secretly wiggling my butt in the hollow made by his big form.

  There’s something so delicious about sitting in Kilian’s imprint. It’s like this physical reminder of how burly he is. Broad and manly and tall, my body swallowed up and surrounded by him, even when he’s not here.

  I love being in this office. Kilian may love his workshop, but this is my happy place, with its filing system and the cup of perfectly engineered pens that write in smooth, vivid ink. And bonus: it smells like him. Like soap and polished wood.

  “I’m traveling next week.” Kilian’s face is serene as he scans the bookshelves, like he didn’t just stick a lance through my happy bubble. I deflate on his leather chair. “There’s a grandfather clock that can’t be moved.”

  “Time waits for no man,” I mumble stupidly.

  “Exactly.”

  Kilian finds the book he’s looking for, tugging it off the shelf and flipping it over to read the back. I stab the mouse with my finger, clicking aimlessly around the laptop screen. Will he be gone for the whole week? Seven days without seeing Kilian?

  This is the worst. Weekends are bad enough.

  Stupid grandfather clock.

  “I can draw up a list of tasks for the week. Give you a spare key to the workshop.” Kilian frowns down at the book, but he’s not reading anymore. His eyes aren’t moving.

  “Okay.” I clear my throat and try to sound professional. “Don’t worry, I can handle it.” I hope.

  “Or…”

  Or what? Has he finally realized how useless I am?

  “Or you could come with me.” Kilian’s frown deepens, a blush spreading beneath his beard. “To learn.”

  Holy shit. A trip away with Kilian? “Yes,” I say quickly. “That option. I’d like to come with you, please.”

  I don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t need to know. Wherever Kilian Ziegler is, that’s where I want to be.

  Is he a suitcase or a duffel bag kind of man?

  Will we drive or take the train?

  Can we do fun stuff too while we’re away? Like go out to dinner together? Could we get drinks and visit galleries and stroll down cobblestone streets arm in arm?

 

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