6. Tess
TESS
I lay back on the bed and stare up at the cracks in the ceiling.
I was exhausted when I climbed beneath the new, clean sheets, but now I’m finally able to rest, my mind won’t switch off and allow me to sleep.
I thought the can of lager I drank would have helped, but instead it just makes me need to pee every twenty minutes.
For some reason, I’m struggling to tear my thoughts away from the big, tattooed man who runs the place downstairs. He comes across as brusque and aggressive, yet he’d drawn the pictures I found in the sketch pad.
The pad had been filled with sketch after sketch of the same girl.
All in black and white, in pencil, with the girl in different positions, some exposing more skin than the others.
The number of hours he’d have put into all those drawings must have run into hundreds, if not thousands.
The man who put that much time and detail into his drawings wasn’t the same one he presented on the outside.
Passion had gone into the pictures, and love.
Someone didn’t draw another person like that unless they were completely and utterly in love with what they saw.
Who is she, the girl in the pictures? A girlfriend?
From the positions and lack of clothing that had been in some of the images, I guess that’s probably the case.
From the hurt and defensive reaction he had to them, I also think the woman he’d so beautifully drawn twenty or thirty times over, is no longer in his life.
What happened to her? Had Art been the same person he is now before the breakup, or was the body art a reaction to them no longer being together?
Losing someone has the power to change a person, I know that better than anyone.
Has the loss of the woman in the pictures changed Art into who he is, or had being who he is caused him the loss of the woman?
I sigh and roll onto my side, sleep still evading me.
I stare toward the window, the thin curtains doing little to block out the street light from outside.
As well as brightly lit, London is noisy, too.
A constant stream of cars pass below the window, and the night is filled with the sound of alarms, sirens, and loud, drunk people walking home from the pubs, laughing or shouting at one another.
How does anyone ever get any sleep around here? Will I ever get used to it?
A sudden pang of homesickness hits me, stealing my breath.
No, I can’t think about home. Home, or thoughts about home, only mean pain.
I will call or email my friends tomorrow.
They’ll be worried about me, and I’ve already put them through enough worry for one lifetime.
I know if I switch on my phone, I’ll be flooded with messages, and I can’t face that right now.
I open my eyes to find bright light beyond the curtains.
I didn’t think I’d ever sleep, but once oblivion took hold, I slept like the dead.
I glance at my watch, which I’d left on the bedside table, and blink in surprise at the time.
Had I forgotten to change it from the Eastern time zone?
It can’t be past eleven in the morning, surely? I never sleep this late.
No, I definitely changed it. I remember doing so the moment the plane landed and we’d been taxiing down the runway.
Damn. I’m due to meet with my aunt’s solicitor in less than an hour, and I don’t even know how to get there.
I leap out of bed, quickly use the bathroom to wash up, scrub my teeth, then I dress in a white shirt and grey suit pants.
I know I’m not going for an interview or anything, and that the property is already mine, this is just to dot some ‘i’s and cross some ‘t’s, but I still want to look presentable.
Feeling harried, I rush down the stairs and, not wanting to see anyone, take the rear exit so I don’t have to walk through the shop.
Scrambling around in my purse to find my cell phone to call ahead and let the solicitor’s office know I’m running late, I slam into a big, hard body.
Strong hands catch my shoulders. “Whoa, there. You’re in a rush.”
I look up into a set of steely blue eyes and my heart does an unwelcome flip. It’s Art.
“Yes, I’m late. I have a meeting and I don’t even know where I’m going.”
“Show me?” he says, stepping closer.
I pull out a photocopied map which I’d been sent in the mail back in the States.
He leans in close so he can see it. I try not to be affected by how near he is, or the scent of his spicy aftershave wafting over me.
I study his face while he studies the map.
The full lips, the squared jaw. The shadow of stubble.
Even his neck and shoulders look strong, where I can see past the multitude of tattoos crawling across his skin.
He looks up and catches my gaze, and I quickly glance away, my cheeks heating.
“What time is your appointment?”
“In forty-five minutes.”
“You’ll never make it on time if you take the Tube, and it’ll take even longer if you get a taxi. You’ll just be sitting in traffic the whole way through central London.”
“Shit.”
“How about I give you a ride?”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ll give you a ride to your appointment.”
“How will that get me there any faster than grabbing a cab?”
He jerks his head to the side of the building. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
I really don’t have time to be messing around, but I’m going to be late anyway, so what the hell. I follow his broad back around the corner to see a motorbike sitting in the alleyway. What he meant sinks in.
“Oh, no,” I say, lifting both hands and shaking my head. “I’m not going on that thing.”
“I’m an excellent rider. You’ll be completely safe.”
“I don’t think so.”
His dark eyebrows lift. “Don’t you want to make your meeting?”
“Well, yes…” I hesitate. “I do.”
“Then let me give you a ride.”
I search for another way out of the situation. I don’t want to be rude to him, or make him angry, but the thought of being on the back of that bike, with this scary-looking guy in charge, makes my stomach churn with nerves.
“Don’t you have any clients?” I ask.
“I already finished with this morning’s, and my afternoon slot isn’t until two. We’re good.”
I grasp around for another excuse. It isn’t only that I’m terrified of riding the bike—which I’ve never done before in my life—I also know it will mean getting up close and personal with Art Fletcher.
“There’s only one helmet,” I point out.
“I’ve a spare in the shop.”
I frown slightly. “You do? You seem to have a lot of your stuff here.”
He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I eye him curiously. “Right.”
“So, are you coming on my bike, or are you gonna miss your meeting?”
Forcing myself to make the decision, I say, “Yes, okay. And thanks.”
He jerks his chin in a nod. “No problem. Wait here a sec.”
He vanishes back inside and emerges moments later carrying the helmet he mentioned. He hands it to me, and I pull it on over my head. It’s heavier than expected and my neck feels strangely wobbly.
Art climbs onto the seat first then pats the spot behind him for me to climb on. The smart suit I’m wearing isn’t designed for motorbike riding, but once I manage to get my leg over, I settle on comfortably.
I hesitate, wondering if I can hold onto the seat without risking falling off. He must sense my indecision.
“It’s okay. You can put your arms around my waist. I promise I don’t bite. Much.”
I know he’s teasing, but even so, his words send a little shiver through me.
I’m not the type of woman who rides bikes through London, with her arms around some big, tattooed stranger.
Self-consciously, I link my hands across his stomach, trying not to think about the hard muscle that presses against my palms.
Art kicks the bike to life. We start moving, and my hold tightens, forgetting my self-consciousness, more focused on self-preservation. He pulls out of the alleyway and onto the main road at the front of the shop.
I ride the bike, clinging to him for dear life.
His muscles moving beneath his t-shirt distract me, the scent of him making me heady.
The engine thrums beneath me. My heart races, my breath catching.
Art weaves the bike in and out of traffic.
We skim perilously close to the side of a big, red double-decker bus, and barely make the lights, causing me to hold on tighter.
By the time I get off, my legs are shaky and I’m lightheaded and not quite myself.
Art watches me as though he understands exactly how I feel, as though we’ve shared a drug of some kind and now inhabit our own private world.
I’m not sure I can sit opposite an old, stuffy man in a suit and act normal.
My hair must look like it’s been plastered to my scalp after being squashed in the helmet all that time.
“Go on,” Art encourages me. “You’re gonna be late. I’ll be waiting right here.”
“Oh, you don’t need to wait for me.”
“Are you going back home after?”
Home —the word rings in my ears.
“Umm, yes, I guess so.”
“Well, there’s no point in me going alone when we’re both going to the same place.”
“No, I guess not.”
I stand, staring at him, not wanting to step away from this intimidating and yet somehow fascinating guy on a bike.
“Tess,” he says.
“Yes?”
“You’re gonna be late.” He nods over my shoulder to the modern, impersonal building behind me.
“Oh, shoot. Yes, I am. Okay, thanks.”
Flustered, just as I’ve been from the moment I woke up, I turn and run into the building, leaving Art waiting on his bike.