“Well, feel free to look around. There’s a work area and storage room at the rear.” Reese had been killing time back there when he heard the door creak open and ventured out to investigate.

She remained seated as she said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing here at this time of the evening? It’s awfully late to be working.”

A lie hovered on his tongue, but he swallowed it and told the truth—or, at least, part of it. “I come here when I’m restless. When I feel the need to escape my house.” There was nothing worse than lying in bed, drowning in colorless shadows and unnatural silence while his body and mind battled for control. Every part of his physical being longed for sleep. Craved it like an addict needs opium. But his mind lived in fear of the moment he drifted off—when he relinquished control of his thoughts to the foulest of demons. They sat on their haunches, ready to charge into the void, swamping and suffocating him. He shuddered but pretended to merely shift in his seat.

“I see,” she said simply—and something in her perceptive blue eyes suggested that she did understand.

He cleared his throat, leaned back, and stretched his legs. “As I was saying, you’re welcome to inspect the shop if you’re curious.”

She shook her head and straightened her spine. “I’ve seen enough. Your building will suit my purposes perfectly.”

Reese chuckled. “I’m afraid this place isn’t available to let.”

Miss Kendall’s face crumpled. “Why not?”

“As I’ve already explained,” he said slowly, “I use it.”

“But you haven’t even heard me out,” she countered. “I only require the use of the room one evening each week—and I’m willing to pay a fair sum.”

“How much?” Lord knew he could use the money, but the real reason he asked was because the amount she offered would provide a useful measuring stick. Give him an idea of how badly she wanted to rent the space—and what she could afford.

She paused, probably unaware that her forehead crinkled. “What do you think would be reasonable?”

The slight tremor in her voice said she was just shy of desperate—and that her coffers were nowhere near full. But she wanted to know his price.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin, idly wondering when he’d last shaved. When one rarely slept, the days melted together like pats of butter on a hot skillet. “If I were willing to let out my building for one evening a week—which I’ve already indicated I’m not—I’d have to charge ten pounds.”

“Per month?” she asked hopefully.

“Per week.”