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“It’s your fault. I was going to tell you before you wrinkled your uppity nose at my best work in ages and said it wastoo modern.”
His mouth twitched as he feigned indignation. “There’s nothing uppity about my nose and I definitely didn’t sound like an R&B singer on steroids when I said it wastoo modern.”
‘Unfortunately,’ he thought considering most women were into that soul-deep crooning voice thing, as he followed her down the walkway before stepping down a small flight of stairs into a room the size of a small aircraft hangar.
She laughed and crooked a finger over her shoulder, beckoning him to follow. Like he needed to be asked twice.
“This is some place.” He spun a three-sixty, taking in the eclectic mix of rippled steel ceiling, white-washed stone walls, honey-coloured wooden slat blinds over monstrous windows, and the largest, brightest splashes of paint passing as pictures hanging on the walls at various spots throughout the warehouse.
“I like it.” She headed into a tiny kitchenette at odds with the size of the rest of the place. “What would you like to drink?”
“Coffee’s fine. Black, one sugar thanks.”
He headed over to a spot-lit corner featuring a giant Japanese screen inlaid with the finest mother-of-pearl cherry blossom motif. It was a work of art and he couldn’t help but run his fingertips over the exquisite craftsmanship.
Damn, he missed field work, missed the excitement of searching, the thrill of discovering ancient items of beauty. Things like this screen were made for the world to appreciate, yet the closest he got these days was staring at priceless pieces behind the glass of a museum cabinet with the rest of the public, rather than touching and feeling and experiencing the sheer rush of finding a beautiful artefact.
“If you like the screen, what until you see what’s behind it.”
She joined him, handing over a mug of steaming coffee before stepping around the screen and jerking her head to indicate he should follow. “This is where I work. Though I guess it’s not really your thing, being somodernand all.”
“Give a guy a break,” he said, sipping at his coffee, wondering whether the jolt of energy coursing through his veins came from the caffeine rush or the sight of Beth picking up pliers and a shiny sheet of steel, caressing the metal with the kind of touch she’d reserve for a lover.
“I’ll think about it.”
He loved her impudent smile as she gripped the metal with the pliers and twisted it into a star with origami-like precision.
“You’re very talented.” He drained his coffee and placed the mug on a sideboard before joining her at the workbench. “What’s the real reason you didn’t tell me about all this?”
Her hands stilled, the pliers appearing surprisingly delicate resting in her palm despite their size and function as she raised her eyes to meet his.
“Because you were having too much fun putting me into a nice, neat box, organizing your opinions like you do the rest of your life.”
“Where did that come from?”
Though he had a sinking feeling he knew. She was brash, funny, exuberant; and obviously thought he was the opposite considering her nickname for him. She thought he was a pedantic workaholic who couldn’t have fun. Sadly, she was right. He never used to be that guy but he was these days and for what? To prove something to a man who probably wouldn’t notice if he danced naked on top of the Sphinx?
When she didn’t respond, he sat on a stool next to her and picked up a miniature wrought iron basket. “On second thoughts, don’t answer that. Being your boss, coming down heavy on you and all the discipline that goes with it hasn’t given you a very good impression of me, huh?”
She gnawed on her bottom lip and he struggled to ignore the surge of lust at how much he’d like to do the same.
“Actually, you’ve been pretty great about everything.”
“But you think we’re too different.”
Hell, he’d probably reacted to her work exactly how she thought he would. Though she didn’t say the words, he remembered her disappointment when he’d commented on her showstopper at the auction before she’d masked it with her usual quick wit.
“Not really,” she muttered, lacking total conviction, and he stood and drifted toward a nearby bookcase constructed from twisted metal and glass, grasping at a change of subject before he was sorely tempted to prove to her how similar they could be.
Scanning the shelves, the strange mix of anatomy and psychology texts next to classic literature surprised him.
“Bit of light reading?”
She swiveled to face him, wariness clouding her eyes. “Just some stuff I read in my teens while trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You read anatomy textbooks in your teens?”
She shrugged and fiddled with the pliers, twisting a metal sliver into a pretzel. “I was gifted.”
