“Don’t.” The single word was underscored by the intensity of his tone. I dared to glance up at him. “Don’t apologize.”
We stared at each other, caught between the things we’d just said and the things that we weren’t saying. The cheerful look in his eyes was replaced by something new. Something strong, undefinable.
Does he fancy me?
For a moment, I couldn’t catch my breath. I tried to hide it by inexplicably reaching for an empty teacup and grabbing the hot handle of the teapot. I’d never felt such feelings for a boy before—my only experience was with Johnny Wells.
Johnny once asked to kiss me. Our mothers had gone into the main dining room of our pub to give us some time in the kitchen. My mother beamed at me, her face practically aglow with happiness. Johnny and I made conversation—or, in reality, I talked about the latest trends in hats until he asked, “May I kiss you?”
I was startled. I’d always imagined kisses as impulsive things between lovers. My mother had certainly given me that impression. She had always said men were given to passion and that we women had to always fend them off. This polite question from Johnny, asked in the same way one might ask to have the sugar bowl passed at teatime, startled me.
My first instinct, after years of my mother lecturing me on the impropriety of the male sex, was to say no. But then I shrugged and said, “All right.”
He leaned forward, eyes squeezed closed, lips puckered, and placed a neat, clean kiss right on my mouth. Afterward, he straightened up in his chair and took a long drink from a beer I’d poured for him.
Now I was the one grabbing for a drink at the thought that Tristan might desire me. With uncertain hands, I poured myself a cup of tea and took a sip. Hot liquid scorched my tongue and I jerked the cup away from my lips, trying to act natural while the burning tea seared the inside of my mouth.
“Are you all right?” Tristan asked.
“Yes.” I gasped, struggling to remain emotionless, my face contorting against my will. “Just fine, thank you.”
“Let me help.” He took the teacup from my hand, where itdangled precariously, about to spill onto my skirts and, no doubt, give me another burn. “By the way, who else is interviewing you today?”
He spoke nonchalantly, returning us to familiar ground. I was relieved, but part of me wanted to reset, to see that burning in his eyes and to go forward instead of backing away. But perhaps that was something to be saved and returned to, later on.
I hoped so.
“Two other papers,” I said. “TheAvon-upon-Kynt Timesand theLadies’ Journal.”
“TheTimes, eh?” A wistful glimmer lit his face. “I had a job interview with them earlier this week. Didn’t go so well.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said.
He gave a blustery shrug.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll get hired there someday. I just have to keep working hard.”
I nodded, sobered. Working hard. Our goals might have been different but, to a certain degree, we had the same plan to achieve them.
“Anyway, theEaglewants to know everything about you. How would you describe your style?”
“My style?”
“Your designs,” he prompted. “Your coat was characterized as ‘classic’ but I have a feeling that isn’t really you.”
“No,” I said, cringing. The last thing I wanted was for everyone to think that I had no imagination. “I like to mix things.”
“How so?”
“I—that’s a good question.”
Whenever I thought about my style, my thoughts filled with colors, shapes, and lines in grays and blues and purples. They drifted in my mind like water, sometimes smooth and placid, other times as tumultuous as a raging ocean storm. How did one funnel such a thing, such a feeling, into words?
I had to begin somewhere.
“I love to pair hardware elements—like brass buttons, metal hooks and eyes—with softer fabrics, like chiffon and organza.” Once I started talking, the words came effortlessly to my lips. Talking about my designs was easy, almost as though I was standing next to him at the train station again, looking at the mural.
“Why?” His pencil stilled on the paper as he glanced up.
