Page 50 of Quinn, By Design

“I wasn’t sure you’d come today.” Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close. His scent a promise of passion and shared delight.

“I thought of staying away.” A part truth, because the child in her feared Niall was a creation of her imagination, the hero her adolescence had conjured when she’d dreamed of a man she could love. “Then decided we could be trusted to be responsible during office hours.”

“Maybe you’ve got more self-discipline than me.” He slid a hand down to cup her backside and press her into his body.

“I doubt it.” She gripped two fistfuls of his hair and tugged his face away from hers. “Maybe you could follow me home and have dinner with me?”

“Just dinner?” The circles he was rubbing on her butt made forming words of more than one syllable difficult.

“I’m open to other offers.”

“You control this—” he started to say.

She covered his mouth with her fingers. “Then I’ll have to be more explicit with my invitation. Please, Niall, come to dinner, make love to me until I’m dazed and boneless, then hold me while I sleep.”

“That’s a lovely invitation.” His slow smile blossomed from a quirk at the corner of his mouth to a wide grin—an even lovelier response. “Will seven work for you?”

“Seven’s fine.” She eased herself out of his arms. “Pasta and beer okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Okay.” Time to start fleshing out her plan. “If you don’t have a specific job for me today, I’d like to work on a new project from here. I promise I won’t disturb you.”

“You can work in this noise?” He waved a hand around the workshop.

“I can work anywhere.” One of the useful skills she’d retained from a childhood of perpetual upheaval.

“What’s your project?”

“I’ve decided to hold Grandpa’s annual spring gala.” She’d intended to cancel this year, but the hairs on the back of her neck prickled with anticipation. The gala usually delivered a profit and attracted a whole host of existing and new clients. Clients who might be interested in a gifted restorer. She’d surrender her Mondays, and Niall would be paid for his work.

“What’s involved?” He followed her to the kitchen, leaning against the bench while she made tea.

“I’ll need to identify inventory from storage to shift to the shop. Choose a theme, price a few pieces competitively to attract regular customers. Grandpa did this every year. A fancy opening to clear out stock we’ve held for a year or longer. We send invites to everyone on our client list.”

“Sounds like a lot of extra work.” He brushed a hand over her hair. “You sound happy.”

“I am happy.” She stilled, absorbing the encouragement in his caress. “My team will help. The fact I’m holding it despite Grandpa’s death might bring a few more people than usual out of the woodwork.” That was her goal, to shift interest from her to Niall, to seek paying work for him, so he’d clear his debt faster. “Will you come?”

“When are you planning to hold it?”

“In a few weeks. Late afternoon, early evening. I’ll get it catered, finger food and drinks.”And I’m not asking you to do any of the work.

“I’m not—” he began, and she sensed a refusal, when his presence was essential.

“Please say you’ll come. I’d love your support.”

“Of course.” His reluctance created an itch between her shoulder blades. Telling him her plans might hex them. Promising something she couldn’t deliver would be even worse. He took the tea she handed him and went back to the restoration work she’d steamrollered him into.

Propping her computer on the table under the window, she sipped her tea. A cliché, but he was poetry in motion. Competent, focused, his body bent, stretched, squatted, reached as his muscles responded to the demands of his task. With his attention absorbed, she rechecked his website, confirming her concern—no new pieces for sale. The site was unchanged since the first time she’d looked at it. Niall was too kind for his own good—a fruit bowl for her and a cradle for his brother and sister-in-law. She admired his professional integrity. He’d redirected the florist to a friend when the woman had pushed for a higher number of the frames she wanted at a cheaper price.

But he’d lost income.

Her fear of debt stopped her brain and made her flounder like a beached whale, who knew safety was on the other side of a breakwater but couldn’t find its way there alone. Niall wasn’t so much afraid of debt as uncomfortable at the stain on his self-respect. Love leavened his actions, a commitment to honesty and excellence in whatever he did. Taking advantage of others wasn’t in his DNA.

Why had she taken so long to work that out?

Her hand crept to her throat. She’d stolen his time and his skill. Saying sorry wouldn’t cut it. Niall let his actions speak for him.

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