Page 12 of Tears of Ink

“And an installation will do that how?”

“It will give an old tired house a new purpose.”

“Old and tired? That’s not much to say about your home.”

He chuckles wryly. “Oh, I don’t live there. Hell no.”

I raise both my eyebrows. “You aren’t selling it?”

He leans forward; his gaze hasn’t once broken from my face. “It’s got prospects I think you will like.”

“How do you know?”

He pushes my black bound book towards me, but I allow it to sit between us on the table. “I can tell.”

I narrow my gaze and his lips curve at the edges again.

“Can I offer you a drink? Or would you like lunch? We can discuss more.”

The thought of eating in front of this man makes me want to stab my eyes out with the silver fork on the table. “A drink would be okay.” Faith…

He waves for the hovering waiter. “What would you like?” Jeez, that gaze is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It makes me want to go home and grab out my paints and churn through them until I’ve found the perfect shade.

I haven’t touched my paints for four years.

“Whisky on ice.”

He raises two fingers to the waiter without saying a word. His other hand rests on my book and I want to snatch it away and run for the door. “I’m sorry about the setting. I don’t know why my mother insists on coming here.”

I sit on my hands because for some inexplicable reason they are shaking. “It’s an interesting choice.”

“Have you sold many pieces, Faith?” His change of direction takes me by surprise.

“Some. Gerard hooked me up with a couple of galleries who’ve sold pieces of my pottery.”

His eyes flick across my face at Gerard’s name and I can’t help but wonder what he knows. Does he know I slept with my lecturer? Did Gerard kiss and tell? I stare back, swallowing painfully.

“What do you prefer, sculpture or ceramics?”

I hesitate as he says ceramics. Most people with no knowledge say pottery.

My shoulders lift and fall. “Either.”

That unsettling blue lands directly on my face, dropping to my lips. “Sure.”

A frown scrunches my face. “Are you saying I’m lying.”

“No.”

Surely this doesn’t need to be so uncomfortable? What’s going on? I want to slap myself. This is the opportunity of a lifetime and I’m screwing it up, and all because his suit fits like it was cut onto his skin and his eyes are sharp enough to slice the surface of my skin. Who cares? It should be his mother I’m meeting.

The waiter brings our drinks, the ice clinking in the glass. I pick mine up as it barely touches the table and take a sip. The whisky is peaty and heady with malt depths. I lick my lips, enjoying the sour tingle on my tongue.

Maybe the alcohol will help me behave like a normal human being. Maybe.

He doesn’t touch his glass. If he’s not too careful, I might shoot it back.

“So can you tell me more? Why a residential? Why my sort of art? Wouldn’t a painter and a painting exhibition have a wider appeal?”