Louisa’s heart dropped. But then his decision made sense. Museums, especially smaller ones, operated on very limited funding, and the recent economic downturn had affected donations and grants. Who would ever have thought the situation that brought her to Philadelphia could happen twice?

“I’m pretty sure your father’s reputation helped too.”

Her assistant’s answer was yet another blow. Louisa hadn’t even gotten this entry-level position on her own merit. Currently living in Stockholm, her father was a renowned expert in Viking burials, and she was inadvertently borrowing his academic success. The events in Maine, and now here in Philadelphia, were out of her control, yet her career was in jeopardy. She suppressed the surge of self-pity. How could she feel sorry for herself when a woman had been violently murdered?

April picked up the article. “I saw this picture before. Who is he?” She brought the red-framed glasses hanging on a chain around her neck to her nose.

In the photo, Conor’s lean face was turned away from Louisa and toward the cameras. He’d been furious at the macabre story-lust of the media. Anger hardened his angular features. With his unshaven jaw, he looked more than a little dangerous. The motorcycle boots and leather jacket contributed to his bad-boy persona.

“His name is Conor Sullivan. His family owns a tavern in South Philadelphia.”

“He lives here?” April pursed her lips and raised a single brow. “Please tell me you’re seeing him and then give me all the details.”

“No. I’m not seeing him.” What would it be like to be with him again? Heat crept up Louisa’s neck.

April raised her eyebrows and considered Louisa from over the half lenses of her reading glasses. “Is he an asshole?” she asked with her typical bluntness.

“No.”

April made mmm, mmm sounds at the photo. “Scorching.”

Conor’s hotness wasn’t in question. “We don’t have much in common, and we met under such bizarre circumstances. I’m sure he doesn’t have any interest in seeing me.”

April studied the picture. “Louisa, he might not be looking at you, but his body language is all about you. He’s practically wrapped around you. If a man like that was paying me that kind of attention . . . Wonder how he feels about older women.”

Louisa couldn’t hold back a short laugh. “I admit. He is good-looking.”

She bit into her sandwich. April’s distraction had allowed Louisa’s stomach to settle, which undoubtedly had been her assistant’s intention. Louisa struggled to connect with people, but April’s honesty and humor, along with Louisa’s determination to be less of a loner, had eroded Louisa’s resolve like the persistent drip of water on rock.

“Honey, calling that man good-looking is like calling Michelangelo’s David a nice statue.” April fanned herself.

“I don’t usually go for the bad-boy type.”