and dark. For the love of all things gorgeous, he belongs in an art gallery.
His hand comes up, reaching towards me, and my eyes finally give up their focus on his stunning face. He pulls at something that’s trapped in the door.
Something black with white polka dots.
I gasp and reach up to my neck to feel for my scarf. It’s not there. My eyes snap to his again, finding more sparkles of mischief as he slowly winds the material of my polka-dot scarf around his fist. Oh good God, he has something of mine, which means I need to talk my legs into moving so I can get it from him.
Shit, this is ridiculous.
I barely lift a foot off the floor before my intention to claim back my scarf is halted. He lifts it to his nose and watches me as he inhales deeply. The muscles between my thighs go into spasm. I burn up. I can’t move. But I can talk. Just. ‘My scarf, please.’
He starts taking slow steps backwards, keeping my scarf where it is for a few moments before he slowly lowers it, revealing a smile that could floor every woman in a ten-mile radius. ‘Payment for saving you.’
What? Saving me? I’m jobless because of him. The man is delusional. And too fucking hot for his own good. I swallow and close my eyes, trying to gather my patience. It takes far longer than I’d like, and when I finally open them, ready to take on this annoying idiot, he’s gone.
Air hits my lungs and burns them, and my hand goes to my chest when the rate of my heartbeat suddenly registers. It’s frantic, wild, fighting within the constraints of my chest.
What on earth?
I push my way round the door and land on the street. He’s nowhere to be seen. My hand goes to my neck again, just to check my scarf isn’t there, just to check I didn’t imagine what just happened. My neck is bare. If my pulse wasn’t thudding in my veins, I would think I’d dreamed that.
Payment for saving you.
I laugh under my breath and start taking slow, tentative steps towards the main road.
No, arsehole, you didn’t save me. You ruined my fucking day.
Chapter 2
I let myself into the communal door of my building, just as I hang up to my mum. She seemed well – positive, actually. It was lovely to hear but difficult to match. I fed her a load of rubbish, told her my first interview went great and I expect to hear from them. I couldn’t tell her the truth.
I take the stairs to my first-floor flat slowly, feeling a little weary, but liking the sense of belonging that grows as I come closer to my front door, despite the limited furniture and personal effects. I’ve slowly formed a home that’s something close to cosy – and it really is cosy – but I’m bordering on skint as a result.
Slipping my key into the lock, I push the door open and drop my bags before kicking off my heels on a sigh. The part of me that knows my dad wasn’t all too fond of me venturing into the daunting world of the antiquity business wonders, stupidly, whether he’s influencing all this bad luck. Trying to get me back to Helston to run his junk shop. I wince. ‘I didn’t mean that, Dad.’
My mobile rings, and I retrieve it from my bag, groaning when I see the number of the estate agent I’ve hired to sell my dad’s shop. ‘Hello.’ I drop down on to my couch.
‘Miss Cole, Edwin Smith here from Smith and Partners.’
‘Hi, Edwin. Any news for me?’
‘Well, you see, we’ve had plenty of people through the door, but, frankly, Miss Cole, potential buyers are struggling to see past the junk that’s piled ceiling high.’
My blood heats, his statement cutting deep. ‘Junk?’ I ask, not bothering to tame the insult in my tone, and ignoring the fact that I constantly refer to my father’s treasure as junk.
There’s a slight pause before he speaks again. ‘The stock,’ he says diplomatically. ‘I think it would benefit everyone if it was cleared from the shop. Buyers will see the amazing potential without . . . the stock cluttering the generous space. And you’ll get your sale far quicker. I’m working in your best interest, Miss Cole,’ Edwin adds. ‘It’s been on the market for over a month with no bites. Alternatively, we could revise the asking price.’