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‘No, it’s a he. He’s called Mr Shishkin.’
Feeling his curious gaze, she felt her face grow warm.
‘After Ivan Shishkin, the Russian artist.’ Her eyes met his. ‘It’s a long story, but when I was about fourteen Lucas went to Russia with some mates and he sent me this postcard of a painting of some bears climbing in a wood by Shishkin. And then he gave Sóley the bear when she was born, so...’ She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, thank you for bringing him up.’
Smiling stiffly, she edged past him and, leaning forward, tucked the bear under her daughter’s arm.
‘You don’t need to thank me. In fact, I should probably be thanking you.’
She looked up at him in confusion. ‘For what?’
He held open the door, then closed it gently behind her.
‘For letting me in. I know it can’t be easy for you—sharing her with me, letting me get close to her—so thank you. And, if I didn’t say so before, thank you for telling me about her. If you hadn’t done that...if you hadn’t put your personal feelings to one side... I would never have known about her.’
He meant what he was saying. She could hear it in his voice. But that wasn’t what was making her skin tingle.
‘What do you mean, my personal feelings?’ she asked slowly.
He studied her for a few half-seconds. ‘I mean that you don’t like me very much.’
‘I—That’s not—It’s not that I don’t like you. I just don’t...’ She hesitated.
‘You don’t trust me?’ He finished the sentence for her.
There was a small, strained pause. ‘No, I suppose I don’t.’
He waited a moment. ‘I can understand that. But if this is going to work—you and me and Sóley—I want that to change, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make it change, to make you trust me. And I think the best way to achieve that is by talking and being honest with one another.’
She stared at him mutely. The blue of his eyes was so clear and steady that she could almost feel her body leaning forward to dive into their depths.
‘Why don’t we make a start over dinner?’
Her pulse twitched, and she took an unsteady step backwards.
Dinner. The word whispered through her head, making her think of soft lights and warm red wine, and his fingers moving through her hair, and his mouth tracing the curve of her lips, stealing her breath and her heartbeat...
‘I was planning on getting an early night,’ she said carefully. ‘It’s been a long day.’
His eyes fixed on hers.
‘Not for Iceland,’ he said softly. ‘Please, Lottie. We can eat and talk at the same time. And Signy has already prepared the food.’
Lottie hesitated, but who could resist an invitation offered up so enticingly?
An hour later, with the entire uninspiring contents of her suitcase lying on the bed, she was starting to regret her decision. It wasn’t that she cared what Ragnar thought—not really—it was just hard working out what to wear. At home in her draughty cottage with Lucas she just put on more layers, but Lucas was her brother. Then again she didn’t want to look as if she was trying too hard.
In the end she settled for pale grey skinny jeans and a black cable-knit sweater, smoothing her hair into a slightly more glamorous version of her usual low ponytail.
She had thought they’d eat in the kitchen, but instead she found a table set for two in the dining area of the huge living space. The table was striking, made of some kind of industrial material—carbon fibre, maybe. It looked more like a piece of an aircraft than something you would dine around. But clearly it was a table, and it was set for dinner.
She breathed out unsteadily.
Dinner for two.
Only not some heavy-handed, candlelit cliché.
There was a soft, flickering light, but it came from a huge, slowly rotating, suspended black fireplace that she didn’t remember seeing before, although obviously it must have been there. But maybe her mind was playing tricks on her, because the furniture looked different too—less angular and stark, more enticing...
