Page 28 of Knots About You
‘Porridge is milky beige. Mushroom is a beige that has had a dalliance with a forest. But no, I think the owner is looking for something a bit more cottage-core. Something that will appeal to tourists.’
‘Noted.’
‘Also, thank you for not laughing when I fell,’ I said.
‘I laughed internally. Thought I’d best contain it in case you walloped me.’
‘How considerate.’ I rolled my eyes as we walked along the path toward the row of cottages, me leaving a sand trail behind me.
‘It’s what I’m known for,’ he said, and the way he said it sent a flurry of excitement into me. It may be my active imagination, but it sounded like a bedroom-related promise.
The village spread itself out like a postcard. I smiled as Morag appeared and lifted a brow at Owen.
Scruff barged into her garden and ran into her cottage.
‘What do we do with the sticks?’ I asked.
‘Pop them by the gate, Alistair disperses them again when he goes out to get his paper.’ Morag looked from Owen to me, her mouth opened and closed as though she was swallowing down a million probing questions.
‘So Scruff hints for the same sticks every day?’
Morag laughed. ‘Indeed.’
‘Well, no wonder he is so insistent on us taking them all back home.’
Moving a few paces to the right, we headed for Rose Cottage.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s make the white ceilings whiter.’
Owen nearly smiled.
I moistened.
‘Ceilings,’ he said, ‘After you.’
‘After me,’ I echoed.
I pressed past him to unlock the door, feeling his stare on the back of my neck.
Now to figure out how to seduce him while painting.
twelve
OWEN
By the timeI was two coats in downstairs, the night had dipped to darkness. I’d started while Claire had changed and showered the sand off of her, before appearing like a red-headed goddess. I’d stolen a million glances at her as we painted, her doing all the skirting boards and door frames while I focused on the areas she couldn’t reach.
The afternoon had passed by in shared steak pies I’d baked and brought, terrible eighties pop on the local radio, and fits of conversation.
Claire had a speckling of white paint-freckles coating her cheeks. I’d itched all day to run my fingers over them.
‘You’ve missed a bit,’ Claire said, pointing her brush at a perfectly finished corner.
‘You’ve missed several bits.’ I pointed at her face.
She swiped at her cheek and smudged a few of the fresher freckles. ‘Better?’
‘Worse.’
