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She lifts a brow and hums. “That’s very specific.”
“I know what I like.”
She tries to hide her smile by spearing some chicken onto her fork and taking a bite. “Well, I hope you find her one of these days.”
I wonder how long we’re going to pretend like I haven’t already.
14
FINN
I’ve developedan annoying new habit. Staring.
Specifically, staring at Amber.
It’s as if there’s a magnet between us and it keeps tugging on my gaze, twisting my head in whichever direction she happens to be in. Like right now, for instance. She’s lounging on her bean bag, slowly making her way through the lunch I bought her today while she scrolls through her phone.
And I can’t look away.
The light from the nearby window spills across her face, highlighting things I’ve never noticed before. Like the streaks of slightly lighter brown that sporadically appear throughout her chin length hair. Or how there’s a tiny constellation of little brown freckles dotted along the apples of her cheeks. A ray of sunlight scatters across her chest and draws my attention lower.
The first few buttons of the fitted blouse she’s wearing are open, offering up a tantalising peek at the swell of her breasts.
I shake my head and force my attention back to my own lunch. We’ve sparked up something nice after our trip to collect the chandelier, and I don’t need to ruin it by ogling her while we’re supposed to be working.
But then I feel that magnetic pull again and, before I know it, I’m watching as a slow but bright smile starts to spread across her face. Her eyes widen slightly and she makes a noise that’s halfway between a squeal and a happy sigh.
“Good news?” I ask through a mouthful of bánh mì.
Her gaze flits over to me and her smile seems to widen a fraction. “The best news.”
She spins her phone around and points excitedly at the screen. An artsy looking Instagram page is open. Photos of carefully placed furniture, colourful fabric prints, and dainty looking ceramics dominate the screen.
I squint at it. “Not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be looking at, sweetheart.”
She gives me a tiny roll of her eyes at the name, but otherwise doesn’t protest. “This is the Instagram page forThe Interiors Fair. It only happens once a year and it’s basically a giant indoor market but everything has been curated by famous designers, editors, and collectors. You can get some really amazing finds there. I’m talking like one of a kind antiques.” She leans forward on her bean bag and I have to fight to keep my gaze from dipping down her neck and into the popped buttons of her blouse. “A girl I follow on Instagram found a pair of hand painted and upholstered French Louis drawing room chairs last year for £200!”
I have no idea what ‘French Louis drawing room chairs’ are, but I could sit here for hours and listen to her tell me about them. The excitement in her voice is infectious and I can’t help but match her smile as she launches into a mini speech about how jealous she was when the girl posted about them.
It must be nice to be so passionate about something that it brings you to life like this.
“I had to miss the fair last year because Cynthia had me running errands for her.” She pulls a face, but then the smile is back. “But it’s coming back again this year on Saturday, and I’m going to go.”
“Sounds like it’ll be a good time.” A thought pops into my head and I frown. “You’re not going for work, are you?”
She shrugs. “Not explicitly. But if I see anything that might work for the club while I’m there and it’s within the remaining budget, I might pick it up.”
“So you’re going for fun?”
It’s an innocent question but there must be something in my tone that rubs her the wrong way, because she suddenly sits up a little straighter and her smile disappears as her lips turn downwards. She looks a lot more like the Amber I first met than the cautiously friendly woman I’ve come to know.
“Yes.” Her tone is clipped, curt, and guarded.
“Well, it sounds like it’ll be fun,” I say slowly, trying to figure out where exactly this conversation went off the rails. “Hope you have a good time.”
She watches me for a long moment, beautiful brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. But whatever it is she sees reflected on my face must satisfy her, because her expression soon softens. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just– I guess I’m just defensive. If I tell my mother or Patrick where I’m going, they’ll just…” She trails off and huffs out a clearly frustrated breath. “Let’s just say, they don’t support my career and they definitely don’t support me doing it for fun in my free time. Why waste my time doing something that doesn’t make me any money, when I could spend it studying and retraining in something else, you know?”
The more I learn about her mother and her husband, the less I want to know.
