Page 26 of Quinn, By Design

She’d been skittish when she’d arrived, rocking from foot to foot in her steel-capped boots, more appealing in work clothes than her uniform of black business suits. Not as bowed down by grief. She moved differently. Looser, more confidently, showing the decisiveness Cam had boasted about, and a weight lifted from Niall’s chest. To survive the dark, you needed moments of lightness as well as anger.

Restoration required an exact replica of the original marble slab. Preservation would allow him to cut the replacement slab to fit her gran’s jug and bowl. She’d been irritated because he’d called her on preserving rather than restoring the wash basin. He’d bet she was scrupulous in her requirements for McTavish’s. Her hesitation revealed a secret yen to combine her granda’s marble with her gran’s knickknacks.

With the sideboard, he’d assessed options and begun dismantling the piece. She’d danced around him, badgering him with questions. Logical questions about the construction of the sideboard, about the steps he intended to take, why he moved in a particular order, and what materials he was going to use. Her scent had competed with the familiar workshop odours of sawdust and linseed oil, her voice drowned out by the occasional electric tool. Half an hour ago, he’d set her up at the table with the handles, rags and some brass cleaner, and to his surprise, the task silenced her.

“How’s it going?’ He strolled to the kitchenette to wash his hands.

“Slowly.” She looked across at him. “But you expected that.”

“A lot of restoration work is slow, painstakingly slow, if you want to get it right.”

“I like the rhythm, the process.” She picked up a second brass handle, rubbing it gently with the soft cloth. Her gaze returned to her task. “I won’t finish these today.” She was patient with the manual task. Another surprise. Niall had assumed she was the classy chatelaine of a famous antiques business, oozing elegance with a rehearsed patter to convince any passer-by to part with their money while never getting her hands too dirty. He’d been in McTavish’s when she’d been absent on a buying trip. The genteel elegance suited her pearls and black suits.

“Let’s take a break. Want some lunch?”

Her head swivelled back to him, her smile tentative. “I didn’t bring food today. Didn’t know if you’d send me packing after a morning of my company.”

“I can feed you. You’re being productive.” Niall grinned. “And quiet.”

“I can’t guarantee the quiet will last.” She wrapped the handles in the cloth he’d provided and cleared them off the table. He could add neat to patient in his list of her habits, although tidiness went with her dislike of chaos. “Can I help?”

“I’ve got egg salads in the fridge, if that suits?” Niall reached for the kettle, musing on his earlier conclusion: debt was another form of chaos for her—and equally scary.

She joined him in the kitchenette, and her scent, more muted now, invaded his senses. “Better than any offering in my fridge.”

“Who cooked for you and Cam?” Niall continued his tea ritual, impishly selecting two small Toby mugs from the cupboard above the bench.

“Toby mugs? Fortea? Please, no.” She dried her hands and moved behind him to reach the fridge.

“What do you use them for?”

“As little as possible. I’m not a fan.” She carried the salads to the table, returning for knives, forks and serviettes.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re remarkably conservative in your taste?” Niall swapped a Toby mug with a traditional Japanese teacup, this one with a handle, and carried them to the table. He enjoyed teasing her. His mismatched crockery collection was a running family joke, the result of a lifelong haunting of op shops.

“Not in such a perplexed tone of voice. Mostly, they use it to imply old-fashioned or boring. I’ve never been called conservative for refusing to use a mug as a teacup when it was designed for ale. You have an unusual way with an insult.” She took the chair she’d taken for their first shared sandwich in his workshop.

“Swap places with me.”

“Why?” She put her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, her clear-eyed study flipping his stomach into a double somersault. “I sat here the other day, and you didn’t see a problem.”

“You don’t want to get set in your ways.” Niall liked distracting her, seeing her smile.

“Has anyone ever told you, you’re crazy?” She took the chair Niall offered and moved the Japanese teacup to her allotted place.

“Crazy, pig-headed.” Niall waved a hand in the air, acknowledging the hit. Crazy for thinking he could make a living from custom-made furniture when countries around the world churned out perfectly useful items at a fraction of the cost. Pig-headed because whenever push came to shove, his craft mattered more to him than money, his next meal and any girlfriend he’d ever had. His single-mindedness was why he missed important signals, like his brother’s sudden fixation with making money after their da died. “You didn’t answer my question about cooking.”

“By the time I arrived, Grandpa and Gran had a rhythm. They took turns, although they each had their specialties.” She let Niall doctor her tea. He hoarded these tiny surrenders of her ironclad independence because they showed she was relaxing around him. “Gran made the best casseroles; Grandpa had a delicate touch with pastries. They made me a third wheel.”

“What’s your speciality?” Niall guessed she’d have wanted a speciality, something she could excel at.

“From an early age, I mastered the art of a fine pasta sauce. I have more than a dozen in my repertoire.” She liked contributing, which provided more context for her care with the handles.

“I’m impressed.”

“After Gran died, we struggled to find a new rhythm.” She nursed the delicate teacup between her hands, her words coming slowly. “We did it. I’ll have to find another rhythm now.”

“Cam talked about her. His Liùsaidh.” Niall had caught her attention and brought the haunted look back to her eyes. Distressing her hadn’t been his intention.

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