Page 21 of Flare

“I know, but you love me.”

“I do. Now keep an eye on these customers while I see to the mountain man in my studio.”

Kip regarded me with a sly smile. “Well, if you need any help with that, you know where to find me.”

* * *

I took my coffee upstairs to find Beck making one for himself in my tiny but perfectly formed kitchen. A two-burner gas hob, a small oven, and a metre of empty prep counter were pretty much all I needed. My one concession to luxury—a restaurant-worthy stainless-steel fridge for all the leftovers my mother insisted on providing as if I was at imminent risk of starvation.

I wasn’t. Between inner city living and my mother’s drill sergeant approach to ensuring her teenage son didn’t leave home without the rudimentary basics of preparing a decent meal, I was quite capable of fending for myself. But tell that to any mother of Malaysian heritage and see just how faryouget.

Beck glanced up and eyed my carry cup. “I thought we weren’t doing coffee.” He threw me an amused look.

“We aren’t. We just happen to be sharing space while also drinking a beverage.” I batted my lashes.

“Also known as having coffee.” He smirked.

“But nodateattached,” I pointed out.

“Right.” His expression flattened. “So, I take it you liveup here as well?” He added a pod to my coffee machine and cast a puzzled eye around the brightly decorated room. I could almost hear the cogs grinding. I might design and wear a lot of black and white, but I loved rich colours, and the soft furnishings were awash in vibrant prints. It was always amusing to watch people’s reactions when they visited for the first time and tried to make sense of it alongside my designs.

“I do. It saves on rent while I’m starting out.” I cut a couple of slices of Louise cake from my mother’s latest baking adventure and carried the plates to the small table at the window. It was one of my favourite places to sit and watch the parade of people who lived and worked here, a kaleidoscope of colour and clothing and general city buzz.

The coffee machine vibrated into action as I settled into a chair. Almost dark, and with a mid-winter icy northerly blowing fresh off the harbour, a bustling line of commuters juggled their way toward the station, all wrapped in that ubiquitous New Zealand black, umbrellas up against a light drizzle, the streetlights casting a soft glow on the damp tarmac. And in the distance, above the low buildings staggered down the hillside opposite the store, the Devonport ferry made its way across the harbour, its lights bobbing in the gloom.

These small delights almost made up for the flat’s lack of outdoor space apart from the barren back yard downstairs, and the hundred-year-old windows that allowed a rat’s sniff on a still night to wake me from a dead sleep. Beck appeared at my side, making me jump. “Shit!” I held my carry cup away from my clothes as its contents slopped down the side. For a big guy, the man was unnervingly stealthy.

“Sorry.” He grabbed a tea towel from the kitchen and handed it to me. “Can I take a look at what you do?”

I wiped the spilt coffee from the table and took a second to think. No one other than family, Kip or Hunter,evergot to see my designs before they were done. Most designers were funny that way, as if the mere cast of a wayward eye might send the creative juices spiralling to oblivion. Tantamount to a writer showing an incomplete draft of a book to a total stranger. Never. Gonna. Happen.

“Sure.”What the fuck?“Just lift the slipcover from the board. I doubt I need to watch you for industrial espionage, not unlessNew Zealand Hunting Magazinehave decided to up their game.”

I caught the twitch of his lips before he turned away and wondered why the hell I wasn’t freaking out at a virtual stranger meandering through my carefully guarded workspace? Beck, touching my work, staring at my colour boards, lifting my fabrics for a closer look?

I pulled out my phone and sent Hunter a text.He’s in my flat. Fingering my swatches!

Beck glanced across at the ding of Hunter’s return text, then continued his exploration.

If that’s code for something I don’t want to know about then all I can say is wrap up and play safe. Laughing emoji.

Fucker.

Then a second text.Seriously. Are you okay?

Was I?I texted back.Fine.

Dots came and went.Then relax.This is good, Rhys. It’s been too long. He’s not Nolan.

Easy for him to say.

Beck glanced over the designs currently pinned to my board, stopping to look closer at one or two before trailing a hand along my enormous cutting table and past my selection of mannequins, all in various states of dress and missing the odd appendage or two. Then he scrutinised the dozens of rolls of fabrics stacked along one wall before examining my brand-new, state-of-the-art sewing machine and overlocker.

He took his time, and since I couldn’t even begin to guess what was going through his head, I decided to let it go and take the opportunity to really study the man in person.

I liked what I saw.

Beneath that scruffy beard and untrimmed hair lurked kind features, a whip-smart brain, and a warm, cheeky smile at odds with the outwardly gruff demeanour he wore like armour plating over that scar. I doubted he even knew just how often his fingers lifted to touch it. Wide shoulders framed his body, primed to stave off any untoward attack, and the beard and the scowl hid every scrap of softness unless you took the time to really look. Someone had hurt Beckett Northcott, maybe more than once—I recognised the signs. Hell, I wore them. And heaven forbid anyone see this man’s tender places.

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