No. That was impossible.
He shook his head, physically dispelling the image. The Mystery Girl was gone. She was a ghost from three years ago. Delaney Kingsley was a practical, English spinster who was stern.
She probably learned it from one of her clients, Rowan reasoned. Or maybe she heard it in the street. It is a common song.
He dismissed the familiarity.
But he couldn't dismiss the voice.
It was a beautiful voice. It was rich and slightly husky, stripped of the sharp, professional tone she used with him. It sounded sad. It sounded lonely.
It sounded exactly like he felt.
The attraction hit him then, hard and sudden in the quiet hallway.
It wasn't the polite appreciation he felt for Celine's beauty. It was a visceral ache in his chest. He wanted to open that door. He wanted to walk in and see her sitting there, probably in her gray dress, letting her guard down.
