‘So, you’re saying all new pantiles?’ Will was frowning now, tapping calculations into his phone.
Julia shrugged. ‘If you want to turn this around quickly then new is the best option. Reclaimed materials take time to source.’
‘And what’s the lead time on new?’
She held in a smile. He was relentless. Even the über-serene and consummately professional Julia was beginning to look a fraction jaded.
‘I’ll have to check with Filipe.’ And then Julia’s gaze was moving, flitting between them. ‘That’s Filipe Alexandre. He’ll be your project manager. He’s very good, speaks excellent English.’ She riffled in her bag, producing two white business cards which she handed over. ‘Filipe’s details. If you have any questions about trades, materials or scheduling, he’s your guy.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll call him later, give him the green light, then I’ll touch base with you again next week, let you know when the trades are starting.’ And then suddenly she shuddered. ‘God, it’s cold in here. We should have taken this to a café or something.’
‘We can still do that.’ Will looked over, checking in, then shot Julia an eager smile. ‘What about lunch? We could all go grab a bite...’
Julia pulled a disappointed face. ‘Oh, I’d have loved that, but I’ve got another meeting, so we’ll have to call it a day.’ She frisked her hands together. ‘Unless you’ve got more to do, in which case I’ll give you the key and you can drop it off at my office later.’
Will looked over. ‘Have you got everything you need?’
‘Absolutely...’ She felt an icy shiver tangling with her spine. ‘I’m actually freezing as well.’
He smiled then looked at Julia. ‘Decision made. We’re leaving.’
Quinn opened her coat then tipped her head back, closing her eyes. ‘Oh, this is heavenly...’
He felt a smile tugging at his lips. ‘You’re easily pleased.’
Because they were nowhere yet. Just outside on the cobbled pavement, minus Julia, who’d whizzed off in her little car moments ago.
‘What’s not to be pleased about?’ She fanned her coat out wider, smiling blindly at the sky. ‘It’s gorgeous out here.’
Bang on, but not for the reason she was thinking! He shut his eyes to stop them staring at her. Staring was a new problem, along with breathing. And his pizza pangs were getting to be a problem. But what were a few more starving minutes if Quinn wanted to make like a lizard on a rock?
He inhaled, letting the warm dry air cycle through his lungs. Definitely nicer out here than inside. Of course, as Julia said, once the boards came off the windows and the roof was sorted, the whole place would feel different—lighter, airier. Even he could almost imagine it...
‘You’ve got hat hair!’
He opened his eyes.
Quinn was looking at him, holding in a smile rather badly.
Was he really so comical? He felt the air softening. He used to be, didn’t he? Around Pete anyway. Pete had brought it out in him. And he’d brought it out in Pete. Mum used to say they were like a pair of flints sparking. His heart caught. A pair reduced to one. As much use as one hand clapping. But now Quinn was looking at him the way Pete used to, hanging on the edge of a smile, and he could feel that vital spark jumping again, an irresistible light rising. So, he had hat hair? Well, he could work with that!
He bent over, raking at his hair until he could feel it standing on end, then straightened, meeting her gaze. ‘Better?’
She made a satisfying little snorting noise. ‘Erm...’
He felt his cheeks creasing, an enjoyable chuckle rumbling. ‘Too much?’
Her eyes narrowed by a playful margin. ‘Just a touch.’ And then she was smiling full beam, twisting her hands together as if she was itching to sort him out.
He would only have to drop his arms, offer up a hopeless little shrug, and those hands would involve themselves in his hair, he could tell. Smoothing him out, fingers softly teasing, but that would be...he felt his head trying to swim...also too much. Off the scale. Especially after what had happened earlier. Hard enough even before that, staying level around her, but afterwards—ever since—he’d been going full tilt trying not to remember her warm skin smell and how it had felt to hold her close, to feel the spiralling softness of her hair against his face. If she hadn’t twisted free...
He smiled to reset, dealing with his hair himself, talking on as if he hadn’t just been thinking what he’d been thinking. ‘By the way, in case you’re wondering, you don’t have hat hair...’
She laughed, winding a finger into her curls. ‘Oh, the hat hasn’t been invented yet that could stand a chance with mine!’ And then her eyes were sweeping over him, approving, softening into his. ‘You’ve got it now...’
And there his breath went again, catching.
Her head tilted. ‘You look very smart.’
Which sounded like a cue, a way to move things along so that he wasn’t dangling here at the mercy of her amber gaze, losing his breath and most of his wits.
He smiled. ‘Smart enough for an outdoor table somewhere?’
Her face split. ‘Definitely! It’s been a million years since breakfast.’
And, just like that, he was thinking of a tease, wanting to be funny for her, wanting to make her eyes glow and twinkle, which was stupid—self-defeating—because her eyes were the problem, and her smile, and the way her cheeks lifted, dimpling. Making that happen was only going to tangle him up again. But he couldn’t help it, couldn’t switch off the desire to see himself reflected in her smiling eyes.
He slid his eyebrows up. ‘Would that be a million years on this planet, or in some other universe?’
Her gaze solidified. ‘Very funny!’ And then she was starting along the street, laughing, drawing him along in her slipstream, blinding him with her light. ‘When you know me better, you’ll know that as well as getting caught up in things, I’m rather prone to hyperbole.’
‘That’s some view!’ Will was sipping his beer, gazing out over the sweep of the city.
She wanted to agree but speaking would draw his gaze back to her and then she would blush, because the view she was busy appreciating was him. His lovely profile: that fine, straight nose, that sweet, full mouth, that lovely thick brown hair lifting off his forehead in the faint breeze. He was just in his shirtsleeves now, rolled back, because slogging up to this terrace restaurant had proved too much in a coat. All through lunch, she’d had to stop her eyes from sliding to his shoulders, his chest, his arms. But now that his gaze was otherwise occupied, her eyes were running amok, taking in his contours, the sprinkle of dark hair on his thick forearms—arms that had pulled her from the brink, held her tight.
‘What did you say the square down there was called?’ He turned, putting his glass down, and then his eyes were lifting, locking onto hers.
She swallowed. ‘Rossio. Although it’s really King Pedro the Fourth Square. He’s the poor soul stuck on top of the column.’ Which maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned, because Pedro was Portuguese for Peter, wasn’t it? She felt her chest tightening. She’d never said Pete’s name to Will before, had never heard him say it either. Was he making the connection? Maybe if she just kept talking...
She picked up her glass, sipping quickly. ‘Rossio is roughly equivalent to our English word “common”, as in common land. Back in the day, it was where the executions happened.’
