‘Isaidthey were a gift from the designer.’
‘Right, well, that sounds…’
‘Irreplaceable?’
‘I was going to say stupidly over-priced, but no, I can’t replace them. Sorry. But I could clean them up for you. Take them off.’
An exasperated laugh escaped her lips and she shook her head. ‘What? I’m not giving you my shoes.’
‘Go on, I’ll be five minutes.’ The man was stooping a little and indicating she should kick them off, flustering her and inciting her annoyance even more.
‘Just forget about it. I’ll get them fixed when I go home. And I’ll sendyouthe bill,’ she added, narrowing her eyes at Bear under the man’s arm. The dog’s little pink tongue peeped out of his mouth as he happily swam stumpy legs through the air.
Bear’s owner only watched Nina with his head tipped a little, amusement written across his face. He was smirking at her and she hated it, so she glanced into the room.
‘You’re using the computer?’ she asked.
‘I’m just finishing up in here. She’s all yours.’ He swept an arm, welcoming her inside, but she didn’t move, looking askance at him now, telling herself to ignore that inadvertent flex of arm muscle as he restrained the squirming dog and diverting her attention from the way his brown eyes were framed with thick, dark spiked lashes – the likes of which Luke would have paid a fortune at Shibui Spa to emulate. Instead she glanced in at the computer and printer, shiny and new, beside a charging station on the table top.
‘So this is where they keep the twenty-first century in Port Willow?’
‘Hmm?’ The man cocked his head.
‘Nothing. There’s no window in there,’ said Nina, still on the threshold. ‘This paint’s probably toxic, you know?’
‘Is that so?’ He leaned back, relaxed against the frame.
‘These cheap brands; they’re all deadly. Haven’t the owners heard of chalk paint?’
Nina knew a thing or two about decorating, having overseen the interior designer Luke had brought in to remodel his apartment last year, turning his walls from ‘feather pillow’ white to ‘snow day’ white and making everyone remark gushingly on the huge difference this carefully considered change had made.
He raised his brows, clearly entertained. ‘I’m sure this stuff’s fine. I’ve been working in here all day and I’m still breathing, and I know paint.’
Nina scanned the man’s hands and arms where streaks and dots of black and white marked his skin and overlapped with the delicate Celtic knotwork of tattoo ink.
‘You’re a painter?’ Her off-handedness turned to curiosity, then to charm. Finally, she thought. This must be one of the artists this place is supposedly crawling with. He certainly looked bohemian in a rugged sort of a way; Scottish, and stubbled, dark-haired and with something a little devilish behind his eyes. That must be the creative spark.
The man couldn’t help but smile all the more. ‘I am.’
‘What sort of thing do you do?’
‘Oh, ceilings, walls…’
‘Frescoes? Murals?’ She considered him for a long time. He didn’t seem the fine art type. ‘Street art?’
‘Emulsion, skirtings, bit of coving.’
Her face fell.
‘I’m a painter and decorator. Name’s Mutt.’
He held his free hand out for her to shake before seeing her wince at it as though the dry paint might somehow spoil her immaculate clothing on top of his dog spoiling her shoes. He quickly whipped his hand back, wiping it on his hip.
‘Your name’sMutt?’
‘It’s sort of short for Murray.’
‘Right. Well if you’re finished, Mutt…’ She squeezed through the doorframe but not before the Newfoundland pup lunged its head to take a lick at her face.
