Page 63 of Tears of Ink

“I’m happy to be an afterthought on this occasion.”

“You might as well look at that one.” He points to the furthest easel, and for some inexplicable reason, my stomach twists as I walk towards it.

It’s me.

In black chiffon.

I’ve got a frown on my face, my lips pursed in disdain. It sums up our meeting at The Ritz in perfect accuracy.

“I keep thinking about that day.” He’s close, his breath brushing along the back of my neck.

“Why?” It’s nothing more than a whisper.

“Because I was an arse, a complete fucking arse, but the thing is, Faith.” He teases me around to stare into his deep blue eyes. “That’s what this family does to me.”

“So get out. I promise you it’s not that hard.”

He sweeps a searching gaze over my face and I twist a little, so he can’t read me.

“I can’t run.”

“Why?”

There is no excuse for having your family disallow you from speaking the truth. I want to smack Jennifer over the head with one of the canvases if it will make her see sense. Why is he a bloody lawyer when he’s so incredibly talented he could have the art society on their knees? And I’m not exaggerating here. I’ve never seen paintings like it.

“Because my dad ran, and I have to be more of a man than him.”

C H A P T E R E I G H T E E N

We are sitting cross-legged on the floor of his once-bedroom-now-secret-studio. “So where did you study?” I ask. It’s impossible to keep my eyes away from the dense oil roses. I want to touch them.

“I didn’t.” He shrugs, his face open and relaxed. Right now, he’s only the guy in sliders. His smile is bashful, and he runs long fingers through his hair. “I did my GCSE art and then I was told I needed to focus on a job which would be more appropriate for the Fairclough name.”

I shake my head in shock. “I cannot believe that. It sucks.”

“Yeah.” Another shrug lifts his shoulders. “I guess so. I got over it, did what I was told.”

“So how did you manage to wrangle this summer art club idea?”

His lips curve into a delicious smile. “It was a compromise.”

“Between what? I can’t imagine your mother compromising about anything.”

The attic is calm and soothing. The kind of place you could sit for hours and read a book in slanting rays of sunlight, or paint endlessly until the sun dipped down too low for natural lighting. There is something Eli about it. The man in sliders who’d turn up unannounced just to apologise.

That growing intense craving pinches my tummy and I shift my eyes away from his golden skin and spend some time studying the wood floor. It doesn’t help. “I was engaged, as you know.”

Don’t I just. An inexplicable stab of jealousy twists in my chest when I think of him with that stick insect socialite. Someone like Eli, the guy whose heart is smeared in paint all over these canvases will never be happy with a woman like that. I just know it.

Not that he would be happy with me either—that’s not the way I work—but he deserves more than someone immaculately groomed and living a veneer of an existence.

Call me judgemental.

“And.”

His eyes bore into mine. “It wasn’t right. There was discussion about how the situation could be retrieved and I suggested the art camp.”

I nod, slowly trying to get the story of this man to sit right in my head.