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After that, I need to start contacting suppliers and contractors. It’s one of the more tedious parts of the job and will likely make up the bulk of my afternoon. Not the most fun of tasks, sitting hunched over my laptop sending email after email and hoping they’ll respond in a somewhat timely manner, but a necessary evil. Once that’s all done, I’m free to get started on thefun. Sourcing furniture, decorations, and artwork to make each room in the townhouse come to life.
The sky is overcast and grim — a standard March morning here — but the property looks just as beautiful as last week as I approach it. My dream home definitely isn’t in London but if itwas, it might just be this place.
As I climb the stairs, I imagine this building filled with whispers of me. Photos of me and my friends will line the walls. The rooms will be filled with furniture and art that I’ve painstakingly picked out. It’ll be warm and cosy, a space I’ve carved out withmein mind.
I’m a long way from owning something like this, but a girl can dream, and I’m happy to start off small. If all goes well, I’ll be out of my parents’ house in the next few months and into a small two-bedroom flat on the outskirts of London. Nothing too wild, and a far cry from the townhouse I’m currently in, but it’ll bemine.
My firstrealhome.
The thought always makes me smile, but today even more so than usual. I can feel it — this dream I’ve slowly been working toward for as long as I’ve been able to dream — and I’m close.Soclose. Give me three months and it’ll be just like Bailey said. I’ll have the promotion, a pay rise,anda new house.
And then I’ll work on the wholenew manthing.
Maybe.
The second I reach the fourth floor landing, my phone buzzes angrily in my pocket. I take it out and glance at it, my mood souring almost instantly. An email notification stretches across the centre of my screen.
FROM:Finn Hawthorne
SUBJECT:Further thoughts
BODY:Hi Amber. Have had some more thoughts about the wallpaper on the third floor, can we dis…
Seethis? This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid. I swipe away the notification and barrel toward the backroom door, irritation bubbling inside me like a volcano. Maybe I can pretend I haven’t seen it and tell him it’s too late to make any more changes.
I throw open the door — my mind racing to figure out a professional and polite way to decline this amend — and immediately freeze.
Finn Hawthorne is sat on the floor, back pressed up against the wall. His laptop rests precariously on his thighs, and there’s a sea of paper scattered around him. He doesn’t notice me at first. His brows are furrowed, eyes glued to the screen in front of him as he furiously hits the keys on his laptop.
My phone vibrates again and somehow I know — justknow— that it’s another email from him.
The sound seems to pull him out of whatever trance he’s in because he looks up suddenly, jolts when he spots me, and blinks.
“Amber?”
I nod, still hovering in the doorway. “Hawthorne.”
He rubs at his eyes and it’s only then that I notice how tired he looks. His hair is mussed, like he’s been doing nothing but running his hands through it, and his eyes are dark and heavy. I wonder how well he slept last night. Judging by the two styrofoam coffee cups beside him, and the bluish purple smudges beneath his eyes, not very well.
“What’re you doing here?” He runs a hand down his face and tries to stifle a yawn. “Did you get my emails?”
I ignore his first question. “The emails youjustsent?”
He nods, apparently not seeing the problem at all. “Any thoughts?”
“I’ve not had the chance to look through them yet,” I say. My jaw is working overtime to stop me from saying something I’ll regret. “Given that it’s only just gone 9 a.m.”
Either he doesn’t hear the sarcasm dripping from my tone or he just doesn’t care. Instead of looking even vaguely apologetic, he merely yawns again and stretches. As he leans back, the hem of his shirt rises and I catch a glimpse of taut skin and a streak of golden curls dipping into the waistband of his trousers.
I look away quickly.
“Are you going to come in?” he asks.
I’m still standing the doorway, and I hate it, but I feel like I’m intruding. This was supposed to bemysafe space for the next few months, but he’s claimed it for himself already.
I shake my head. “I was just leaving.”
“You just got here,” he says with a frown. “Whyareyou here?”
