Page 11 of Tears of Ink

“Do you know a lot about art?” I snap. This was a waste of my time and anxiety, not to mention the packet of smokes I consumed as I paced outside the back of the hotel while I summoned the nerve to come in.

He lifts his shoulders, but his eyes never leave my face. It’s unsettling. “I know some, I guess.”

I raise an eyebrow. I bet he knows jack about art. “And you’re familiar with installations, and how they run? You know your mother’s plans and how she intends to use my time invested pieces to create her exhibition?”

He doesn’t answer but his lips twitch at the edge. I slide back out from my seat, and as I straighten my legs, I drop my bag on the floor. Curse it.

“You’ll forgive me if I cut this meeting short.” I bend to pick up my sprawled belongings but he’s already there, a long arm sweeping down to the floor, his slender fingers picking up my glasses case, and portfolio. I stand and hold out my hand to the outrageously handsome man in the expensive suit. “Please,” I say gesturing at my belongings.

He flicks through the pages, his focus settled on the sheets of my dreams and aspirations. “Sit.” He motions for the chair.

I glare. I am not a golden retriever. “I think I’ll stand.”

My rebuke is met with a casual lift of his shoulders. Digging somewhere deep inside me, I find the will to stand tall and nonchalant as he carelessly flicks through images of my soul’s work.

It’s like being exposed naked and gawped at. I’ve shown the portfolio to other people—of course I have—but I’ve never shown it to someone who looks quite like that in a suit before.

My nonchalant stance is undermined by the fact my damn eyes won’t behave themselves and sweep over his broad shoulders every twenty seconds. His hair is so short; really, it’s nothing more than a buzz cut. I don’t know why I thought rich people in suits like that would have artfully styled hair, straight out of an expensive salon or barbers.

I’m so busy on my internal discussion about his military buzz, I don’t notice his eyes lifting from the pages of my bound book to my face. I’m just staring at him. Maybe with drool. I lift fingers to my lips just to check. If he sees my indiscreet drool wipe he doesn’t acknowledge it. And, why would he? He looks like that… he probably has women launching themselves at his feet and hiking their skirts while he walks down the street.

Jesus, calm down, Faith.

In the three minutes he’s been staring at my work I’ve become ever so slightly psychotic.

“So, how do these pieces tie together? What’s your underlying theme?”

Gah, that level deep voice rumbles under my skin.

Does he realise how incredibly attractive he is? Probably.

I can’t think straight.

“I’d rather discuss this with your mother. I can’t help but think she’d be my beneficial audience.”

His stare is flat. Direct on my face. It doesn’t once drop to the neckline of my shirt where I know ink teases and waves from under the silk. “Gerard mentioned you were incredibly difficult,” he mutters.

Did he indeed? Gerard clearly wants a black eye.

I hold my hand out. I don’t have time for this. I have bar work I need to search for. Or… I need to think of going home…

He sighs and smooths his hands across the white tablecloth. Those fingers… my eyes stalk out on sticks.

He stands, and I assume he’s going to give me back my book and let me scurry away. Instead, with another small, half repressed sigh, he holds out his hand again to me in greeting. “Let’s start again.” His smile when it hits my face is like the beam of a lighthouse. It’s just… just… I don’t have anything to describe it with. It shines, it dimples, it glows with the light of a thousand suns. Okay, maybe I do have words, but they are the crap ramblings of a twelve- year-old.

“Elijah Fairclough.” The smile is still focused on my face. I don’t know what expression I’m pulling but I’m guessing it’s amusing because his smile morphs into a smirk.

I should leave, grab my bag and go. The wild beating of my heart I have going on is pathetic. If there is one thing I don’t do, it’s pathetic.

I shake his hand. “Faith Hitchin.”

He gestures for the seat and my legs instantly fold.

“I’m sorry she’s not here. What can I say? She’s easily waylaid at Barneys.”

I don’t smile. “Is this even a serious project? I don’t want to waste my time. This is my last summer before my final year.”

The lapis gaze locks onto my stare. “I can assure you this is a very serious project. Bowsley Hall is in need of a cash injection. We want to turn it into something useful to the community, to create a lasting initiative that will improve the fortunes of the building.”