Page 39 of Tears of Ink

With a small wave, I slip into the building.

This is bad. It’s so, so bad.

Because Elijah Fairclough is beautiful, and smart, and kind. Elusive and complex. All the things I crave and want.

But I know I’ll never break my rules for anyone, and he looks like the kind of guy who wants things just his own way.

I shut the apartment door, resolute. I will stop this. I will stick to my own ways, and no one will ever make me change them.

They keep me safe and that’s all that matters.

C H A P T E R T W E L V E

The rose colour walls wink at me as I sit on the white linen. Now I’m here it’s surreal. There’s a tray of tea things on the side: biscuits, and a teapot with steam coming from the spout. I told Jennings I don’t need tea brought to my room, but he didn’t seem to take me very seriously.

I’ve spent the last hour wandering around my various studios. All of them are blank spaces, apart from all the equipment already purchased on my behalf. I’ve even got a brand-new kiln, not one caked in other people’s disasters. All the studios are waiting for me to fill them with ideas, experiments, and a deep vision they hopefully will inspire within me.

I can’t believe I’m here. Me. If I think for too long on what I’ve agreed to do over the summer—to try to teach other people, to guide them, to be put on show—a wave of nausea rises in my stomach. I don’t really want to throw up in my pretty room, and the en-suite wet room is too pristine to be sullied with the contents of my stomach, so I keep swallowing it back down and trying very hard not to think at all.

“Knock, knock.” I glance up toward the voice on the outside of the closed door.

“Come in.”

I smile at Elijah as he pokes his head around the side. It’s impossible not to stare at that handsome face. My first assumption that night in the pub garden was correct—he’s beautiful.

“Why do you look like you’re about to puke?” he asks.

I glare at him, forgetting how lovely he looks as he irritates the hell out of me. “Why do you look like a knob?” I mutter under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear. He chuckles and pushes the door wider open. There is someone behind him who I didn’t know was there. That’s bloody embarrassing. Way to go being professional, Faith.

“Faith, this is Tabitha, my younger sister.”

A dark head of hair peeks out from behind his broad shoulders. He’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. Not that I’m taking any notice of what he looks like. Much. I am only human, and he is apparently a god of good looks and easy charm.

“Hi.” I wave at the petite dark-haired girl behind him. She’s younger than me, and much younger than him. That’s an age gap of note.

“Hi.” I stretch up from the bed and step closer to shake her hand. She’s a fragile and delicate version of him. What is a handsome and strong profile on him has been delicately chiselled into fine elfin features on her, but there’s a light in her eyes that reminds me what it’s like to be a teenager— before life fucks you over.

“I love your work.” She smiles nervously. “I’m so excited to see you working here.”

I frown. “How have you seen my work already? I haven’t done anything yet.”

I twitch from foot to foot. It’s weird having the tall hulking shape of Elijah standing in the feminine pink bedroom he painted for me. I glance up at him through my lashes. He’s frustratingly elusive, blowing hot and cold. Over the last week, he’s been helping me move my stuff out of the studio and transporting it down to one of my rooms here. I’ve given my studio back to the university —I still haven’t spoken to Gerard and nor do I plan to. I’ve got the weekend to sort myself out here, and then on Monday we are opening the doors to six teenagers who will be here for three weeks. I panicked when I found out it was so soon—but Jennifer assured me the rooms are supposed to be bare, the idea being that I’m supposed to fill them over the summer.

I still don’t know if I can perform on request. All I know is I’ve got to try.

“Eli showed me the pictures from your portfolio,” Tabitha says, and I raise an eyebrow at her older brother who somehow is managing to stand there looking completely innocent.

“Did he indeed?”

Elijah shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the ceiling.

“That’s a private portfolio.” I glare at him.

Tabitha’s eyes widen, and she looks like she might cry. I let it go. Honestly what’s the point? “Would you like to see the bits I brought from my studio?” I ask.

“Can I?”

“Sure, why not.” I smile at her. She’s nothing like her brother who’s full of confidence.