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“We do,” I concede. “But I rarely use it. I like walking. New York’s an interesting city, when I walk it’s almost a guarantee I’ll stumble on something new every time I leave my apartment.”
“Yeah, London’s a bit like that too,” she says. “That’s actually how I first found out about this fair a few years back. They don’t really advertise it properly – it’s more of a ‘if you know, you know’ kind of situation, and I accidentally came across it doing the walk of shame one Saturday morning.”
My eyes widen a fraction. It’s clear that she immediately regrets divulging that to me, but she quickly schools her expression into a mask of casual indifference. “Don’t pretend likeyou’venever done the walk of shame before, Hawthorne.”
“Nothing shameful about it,” I say with a shrug. “But no, I haven’t.”
The queue shuffles forward and I use the opportunity to step a little closer and bridge the distance between us. “And anyone who spends the night with me isn’twalkinghome either.”
“Why? Because you’resogood, they can’t walk once you’re finished with them? Disappointing, Hawthorne.” She shakes her head and gives me a blank stare. “If that’s the kind of line you’re using on women, I find that very hard to believe.”
“That wasn’t a line,” I say with a smirk. “I meant that I always pay for a cab home for them as a bare minimum, as any gentleman should. But.” I lean in and bump my arm against hers. “Interesting that your mind went there.”
A blush creeps up her neck. “My mind didn’t go anywhere.”
“Sure sounds like it did.”
She runs a hand through her hair, doing her best to hide the way her lips are desperately trying to curve into a smile. “You must have misheard.”
I didn’t mishear and she knows it. Still, she gives me a look that tells me she’s not going to budge on this, so I shrug. “Guess I must have.”
We only have to wait for ten minutes or so more before it’s our turn to enter the fair. Strangely, it’s being hosted inside a church. We walk into the large chapel and, as beautiful as they are, the high stone ceilings and colourful mosaic windows pale in comparison to the rows and rows of stalls that fill the space. They’re covered in bright artwork, furniture, ornaments, fabrics, and there’s even a stall that’s been crushed under the weight of a large, comfortable looking armchair.
Amber is practically vibrating with excitement. Her deep brown eyes flit this way and that as she takes in everything around us. I follow close behind as she leads me through the fair, stopping every now and then to admire something on a stall and take a photo.
“Is this for your moodboard?” I ask as she stops in front of a stall and immediately begins taking photos of a pair of lamp bases.
Her eyes are bright as she drags her gaze away from the bases to me. “These arevintage Fornasetti’s.”
I nod like I know what she’s talking about.
“He was an Italian designer,” she says with a little laugh, clearly seeing through my act. “An icon, really.”
I glance at the price tag the vendor has scrawled on a piece of paper in front of the bases. My brows shoot into my hairline. “That much for two lamp bases?”
Amber rolls her eyes. “Good design costs money, Hawthorne. Everything fromFornasettiis made by hand in Milan.” She points at the base nearest her. “You see the design on that? All hand-drawn and hand-painted. Someone’s put their heart and soul into learning this craft and creating this and I think that’s beautiful. So yes, it’sthis muchfor two lamp bases.”
She’s scolding me and is most definitely on the verge of calling me cheap again, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“Why’re you smiling like that?” she asks, instantly suspicious.
“Am I smiling?” I say, even as I can feel my grin stretching further. “I didn’t notice.”
“Don’t ruin this for me, Hawthorne. If you’re here just to make fun of me, you can leave now.”
“I’m not making fun,” I say. “I just– I feel like I understand you a little better now.”
Her initial reason for getting into interior design might be tinged with sadness, but it’s clear that she’s truly found something she loves. I’m somehow both jealous and incredibly happy for her at the same time.
“What do you mean?” she asks, eyes still narrowed with suspicion.
We’ve meandered away from theFornasettilamp bases and now we’re slowly walking up and down the busy aisles.
“I mean exactly what I’m saying, sweetheart. I like listening to you explain these things to me. I like knowing whyyoulike this kind of stuff.”
We stop in front a large ornate mirror. It’s in need of a good clean, and about as wide as I am if I hold my arms out to my side, with a thick decorative gold border around its edge. Amber practically purrs in appreciation as she runs a gentle hand down it.
“Nowthisis a dream. A holy grail type item.”
