I lifted my chin a fraction, ready for battle. ‘Of course,’ I said defensively, feigning offence at the suggestion that I might not have shown up, even though just thirty seconds earlier I’d been mentally planning my escape. He held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, those autumn-coloured eyes making my heart race.
‘Sorry about all this.’ Luca gestured apologetically to the group of men beavering away behind him. I spotted Terry up a step ladder in the far corner, another man I didn’t recognise holding it steady on the ground below. Ivan was on the stage, turning one way and then the other as he attempted to untangle the giant mass of fairy lights that were currently climbing their way up his legs. ‘I might have mentioned it to a few of the guys, and the next thing I knew they’d all turned up wanting to help.’ He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving a thin streak of white paint at the ends.
‘It’s fine, really. Put me to work!’
Luca’s eyes fell to my shoes with a dubious look, clearly concluding that I was not suitably dressed for an evening of DIY.
‘Ivan’s already mopped the floors, so you could make a start at setting out the chairs if you like?’
I gave him a look, kicking my shoes off to one side as I coaxed my hair up into a messy bun, the floor cool beneath my bare feet.
‘You really don’t know me at all, do you? I’ll have you know that I’m a dab hand with a paintbrush,’ I remarked, bending down and swiping a roller from an abandoned paint tray. ‘Besides, this place is in dire need of a woman’s touch.’
‘I can’t argue with you there.’ Luca laughed, strolling over to a cardboard box and returning with a once-orange, now entirelypaint-splattered, pair of overalls that looked about three sizes too big for me. ‘Can I interest you in this sexy little number, madam? I’m told they’re all the rage in Paris.’
‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ I giggled, playing along with his false grandeur by dropping into a rather wobbly courtesy.
His eyes twinkled with delight, his breath hot against my collarbone as he leaned in to whisper, ‘Don’t say I never give you anything.’
I shivered involuntarily, each consonant landing like a raindrop against my skin, his lips mere centimetres from my neck. As Luca placed a hand fleetingly on the small of my back, I felt something quieten inside of me, that constantly taut string that was always pulling me to and fro between the past and the present, wound so tight I feared it might snap, loosening a fraction under his touch. I tried not to overthink it as I watched him stroll across to his half-painted skirting boards, stealing a glance over one shoulder when he thought I wasn’t looking. As our eyes met, something passed between us. The shared understanding that something was different. I was used to Luca looking at me with a sort of loaded, condescending eyeroll, as though my very presence on this earth was of great inconvenience to him. But the way he was looking at me now, the muscle in his jaw clenching repeatedly, his lips parted, made every inch of my skin feel like it was on fire. It felt exciting. And scary. And intoxicating all at the same time.
And hot. Very, very hot.
I started on the back wall, tipping a generous amount of the palest yellow paint into a plastic tray and working my roller up and down until the soft white sponge was completely coated. It was oddly satisfying watching the chipped, tired-looking magnolia disappear beneath a cheerful coat of Fuzzy Duckling, and I focused on the steady rhythm of my roller moving up anddown, up and down. Luca was on the opposite side of the room with a dust sheet beneath him, working a paintbrush along the fiddly edges, the pink of his tongue just visible between his lips. The tension in my body rose as we slowly edged towards each other, sparking and crackling like kindling catching fire, as I orbited the room clockwise and Luca circled counter-clockwise until we eventually met along the far-right-hand wall.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ I joked lamely. Luca’s forearms were covered in a light dusting of paint, tiny flecks of pale yellow like a constellation of golden freckles against his olive skin.
‘I have to hand it to you, Thompson, it’s not easy to pull off stained, twenty-year-old overalls, but as always, you continue to surprise me.’ My cheeks flushed at the compliment. I was back to being Thompson again. But it didn’t have the same mocking undertone as before. It felt playful. Mischievous almost. Like the twinkle in Luca’s eye.
‘This thing is twenty years old?!’ I cried in outrage, glancing down at the faded jumpsuit that, despite my rolling the legs up five times, was still trailing on the floor.
‘Hey, boss, you didn’t compliment me on my outfit,’ came Terry’s voice over the creak of the ladder as his heavy boots descended one by one. I giggled as he struck a pose at the bottom, both thumbs hooked over the strap of his tool belt, the dozen or so pockets already adorning his cargo trousers apparently insufficient storage. He flung one ankle over the other as he looked moodily up at the ceiling.
‘Nor me,’ Ivan joined in, pointing one finger, John Travolta-style, up in the air before jumping a good foot off the ground to reach Terry’s high five.
Luca chuckled, unfazed by their ribbing. ‘What can I say, boys? You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’
‘You saying Jenny’s got it then, boss?’ Terry grinned, sharing anudge nudge wink winkwith Ivan. He was clearly enjoyinghimself way too much to notice the two pink spots that had appeared on Luca’s cheekbones. Or mine, for that matter.
‘I’m sayingyoudon’t,’ Luca said smartly, expertly sidestepping any hole Terry was trying to dig for him. Terry closed his eyes, one hand flying to his chest as if he’d been shot, the other clutching the side of the ladder as all six foot five of him fell dramatically to the floor. After a few seconds, he opened one eye, surveying his silent audience. He chuckled throatily, throwing me a wink before climbing back up to a standing position.
‘After watching that, I can see where Kiki gets her performance skills from,’ I whispered down to Luca, whose shoulders shook with laughter as he angled his paintbrush neatly along the edge of the skirting board. We worked in silence for a few minutes. Not the awkward kind. The kind that two people comfortable in each other’s presence are happy to pass the time in, no pressure to fill the void with pointless small talk.
‘So, when’s the big day?’ Luca asked eventually, straightening up and bending his neck this way and that.
I froze. My eyes automatically swivelled to land on my engagement ring, which had twisted itself around, only the silver band visible. I shimmied it back around with my third finger, brushing the diamond face with the pad of my thumb.
‘Your brother’s wedding?’ Luca’s delicate emphasis made my cheeks flush.
‘19thJuly.’
Luca raised a questioning eyebrow at my less than enthusiastic response.
‘I’m happy for him, for both of them. Truly. It’s just—’ I stopped myself, bending down to pour some more paint into the plastic tray.
‘You thought it would be you,’ Luca finished for me, an unapologetic shrug of the shoulders that told me he understoodexactly how I felt.
‘I’m jealous of my own brother’s happiness. God, I’m a terrible human being,’ I groaned, hiding my face shamefully in the crook of my elbow. The fabric smelt musty, the faint tang of white spirit cutting through the stale odour.
