Page 53 of Hot Greek Summer

It was very difficult to argue a case against his logic, because the thought had crossed Winnie’s mind that The Fonz was probably best where he was too.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘In that case I’ll go then. I’d hate to keep you from your work.’

She stamped off across the olive grove, muttering under her breath about rudeness and meanness and suddenly a little bit bereft about the idea of The Fonz never returning to his home.

‘Hang on. Winnie, stop.’ Jesse caught up and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘I was rude.’

‘Yes, you were,’ she said, turning back to him.

‘Can I show you something?’

Part of her wanted to say no and stomp on home because his rudeness warranted it, but the greater part of her was curious and had her shrugging, ungracious.

‘What is it?’

He turned and started walking back towards the house. ‘This way.’

She followed him, looking at anything but the way his low-slung jeans cradled his ass. He bypassed the house and led her around the outskirts to a separate outbuilding, a barn, presumably.

‘In here.’ He unlocked the door and held it open for her to go in ahead of him.

‘My studio,’ he said, unnecessarily given that it was clearly his workspace. The wall on the other side of the brick and wooden barn had been replaced almost entirely with glass to flood the space with natural sunlight, illuminating the centrally placed work plinth. He was halfway through something large by the looks of the part-finished sculpture currently mounted there, surrounded by tools and tarpaulin. Winnie couldn’t help but feel envy at such a fabulous place to work, all of the space and light. Other pieces lay on a long planked workbench off to one side, and a potter’s wheel sat in one corner with accompanying stool. It was very much a working space: plaster splatters and dust sheets, buckets of clay, tools, easels, brushes, and the scent of art materials, turps, paint and clay.

‘I love it in here,’ she said, dropping her angry attitude because she knew what a big deal it was to show someone your work. He’d offered her an olive branch in the form of a peep behind the curtain, in both a professional and a personal sense, because as an artist his work was intensely personal. ‘Thank you for showing me.’

He nodded. ‘Come on through.’

Winnie followed him across the room to a door behind the potter’s wheel. He pushed it open and led her into an equally sunlit but much smaller room, equipped with a desk and chair, a work table and lamp, an armchair and an easel with a cloth protecting the artwork from the glare of the sunshine.

‘Is this your planning room?’

‘It was,’ he murmured, closing the door and leaning against it.

‘Was?’ she said, suddenly uncertain.

‘I can plan in the house or in the main studio.’

Winnie wasn’t sure that she followed as he watched her carefully.

‘I want you to work in here, Winnie. It’s big enough for jewellery design, I think?’ His eyes searched hers.

What?‘Jesse, no,’ she said, flustered, blindsided by his out-of-the-blue suggestion. ‘I don’t need a workspace. I’ve said this already, I left that part of my life behind.’

He huffed. ‘I tried that too. It doesn’t work. Even if you still think so right now, I guarantee you that within a couple of months your hands will ache to create again.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not you. I’m not some big-shot artist, and I’m not tortured by the need to create. My hands are busy enough here, especially now new guests have started to arrive.’

He laughed humourless and low in his throat. ‘Sounded like it out there just now.’

Winnie could feel her temper unravelling. ‘What is this? You ignore me for days, then you do this.’ She gestured around at the room he’d clearly spent time preparing for her. ‘And then it’s right back to belittling me again.’

‘I’m not belittling you,’ he shot back. ‘I’m trying to help.’

‘But I don’tneedhelp,’ she said, frustrated. ‘I’m happy as I am, Jesse.’

He pushed a key towards her on the desk. ‘It’s for the door there,’ he said, nodding towards the external door on the far side of the room behind the easel. ‘You can have your own entrance to come and go. Lock this one if you like. I won’t come in and mess with your stuff.’ He tapped the back of his head once against the door behind him.

‘You’re not listening to me,’ she said softly.

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