Page 53 of Tears of Ink

“The family haven’t decided what she’s going to be yet, so until they do, she just has to hang around here being nothing.”

I stare at him in confusion, ignoring his immediate presence as he sits close to me on the blanket. “What do you mean the family haven’t decided?”

He stares up at the glass ceiling. “The family way is the only way.”

“Meaning what?” I press.

His eyes fall on my face; even in the growing depth of night they are piercing and tempting.

Like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing, his finger lifts and trails along the string of roses I have across my collarbone. “What I mean is that what the family says is what happens.”

“You make it sound like the Mafia.”

He chuckles. Is he really close, or is it my imagination? It’s like he’s absorbing the air around me. “It’s worse—far worse.”

“How?”

I thought I had the worst family in existence.

“Everything is for the Fairclough name. Everything.”

“That’s why you’re a lawyer?”

“Yes, although I do like helping people.”

“Like the family you’re helping now?”

His face darkens a fraction, and it isn’t a cloud drifting over the moon causing it.

“So what else do your family say?”

His thumb rubs across the peach and pink rose petals as if he’s mesmerised by their existence. “So, I don’t have any tattoos, and it’s nothing about being scared of pain.”

“So why?”

I sit up a little straighter, pulling away from his touch. As if awakened from a dream, he realises what he’s doing and busies himself getting the wine out of the bag, along with two glasses.

“This is a very deep conversation for a late evening glass of wine.” He hands me a glass and disarms me with a smile. I won’t be deterred though. I want to know what’s under that exterior. Once again, I think of the two sides of Elijah Fairclough. There’s the businessman I met in the Ritz and the guy in sliders who knocked on my door to apologise.

I don’t know who’s the stronger. Or even if he wants one of them to win over the other. Although I know I want to see more of the guy in the sliders. He’s charming and deep. I can sense it.

“It’s disapproved. What if someone were to see? What if we were on a holiday and the press caught a picture of it? What if it offended someone?”

I snort my wine everywhere. “That’s ridiculous. Ink is an expression of individuality.” I’ve known this since a young age. I’ve known it since I first picked up a pencil and a scrap of paper and put the two together, creating an alchemy of magic that spilled onto the paper. My sixth sense, the one jingling now during my conversation with Elijah, is one of my strongest personality traits. It’s what people say to me that helps me sketch for them what they want on their skin. It’s their voice. Their thoughts.

I want to know what he looks like under his clothes. Under the gorgeous blue shirt, loose at the collar is a canvas of bare beautiful skin.

“So, what about Tabitha?”

“I think she wanted to be a vet.” He smiles and takes a sip of his wine. “She was always saving things when she was little. There was always some poor animal hidden out in a stable that needed her attention.”

I chuckle and take a sip of the chilled wine. It’s delicious and smooth.

“Yeah, it was great until she coaxed an injured fox into the kitchen and it crapped all over the place. It took months for the smell to go.”

“Gross.”

His eyes shine, all thoughts of his “family” problems seem to be forgotten. “Here, have some cheese.” He slides over a small wooden board with a curved knife.