Page 19 of Tears of Ink

His face falls flat, all signs of joking evaporating. “I won’t.”

“Good,” I say. Whether I mean it or not I don’t know.

“Tell me about the roses.”

My hand flutters to the skin under my collarbone. “There isn’t much to tell. Before I came to London I fancied something pretty.”

“Who did them?”

“My uncle.”

“Wow, that’s a delicate hand for a man.”

“I drew them.” I blush. I don’t know why. He’s had my portfolio for two days, it’s not like he doesn’t know what my drawings look like. These are different though; they are mine and on my skin.

His gaze burns hotter than the pen used to draw and colour them. “How did he get the blending like that?”

“A nine pin needle.” I’m exposed under his scrutiny and I pull my jacket together, cutting off his view. It doesn’t help. That unsettling blue drifts to my face like he can read everything there.

“Will you come to see Bowsley? See if you think it could work for you.”

My shoulders sag. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime, so why does it seem so dangerous? “And you don’t live there?” My face scorches.

He grins. “Am I so awful that’s the deciding factor?”

“Yes, that exactly.” I giggle again—someone get me a training bra please.

“I don’t live there; can’t think of anything worse.”

“You don’t need to make my decision not to come any easier.”

“My mother lives there—”

“When she’s not sipping sherry at The Ritz,” I interrupt.

That gaze brightens on my face again. “Well remembered. She’s um, determined.”

“In what way?”

“In the way that we should all be doing the right thing. Marriage, children, heirs to the family name.”

I blanch. “Married? How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Four years older than me. Why am I even working that out?

“Tell her to worry when you’re forty-eight and still driving around town in that chick catcher car.”

He laughs so loudly the rest of the pub garden turn to look. “Chick catcher?”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “You know what I mean.”

He holds his hands. “Guilty as charged, apparently.”

“I’ll come.” The decision is made.

“Thank you.” We watch one another, and I study the profile of his face.