“You?” I blurt.
“Yes, me. I’m moving in upstairs.”
The accent suddenly sinks in. American. Just like the new owner of the place.
“I thought you weren’t coming for another month yet,” I snap.
“Yeah, I know. But things changed. That’s okay, isn’t it? I was led to believe the place has been unoccupied for some time now.”
“No one lives there, but it’s full of stuff. We’ve been using it for storage for the shop.” It’s a little lie, but she never needs to know any differently.
She gives a shrug. “That’s okay. I don’t take up much space. I’m sure we can work around it.”
Anger roils in my stomach. Damned landlady. I don’t want a woman living upstairs, and this particular one looks like she could blow away in a high wind. She certainly doesn’t appear to be the type who’ll be impressed with three guys hanging out in the shop, drinking and swearing, and listening to loud music. She’ll want to get her beauty sleep, and will whine and moan, and generally make our lives a misery.
Trouble is, she has my balls in a vice. I don’t want to move, and I’ll struggle to rent somewhere else. Landlords want nice,safe businesses to take over their properties. They don’t want a bunch of tattoo artists who looked like we’ll fuck and brand their favourite daughter, and then never speak to her again.
The woman, Theresa, glances down at her suitcase and her lips twist. I find myself staring at her mouth. They really are pretty lips—no lipstick, but a sheen of a balm of some kind, well proportioned, and with a perfect cupid’s bow. I wonder what that lip balm will taste like if I crush my mouth to hers.
I realise she’s said something, and blink. “Sorry, what?”
Her head tilts to one side, another cute gesture. Damn it. I can’t let myself think of her as cute. She’s about to royally fuck up my life.
“I asked if you’d mind carrying up my bag. It’s stupidly heavy. I literally have my life packed in this case.”
I bite down on telling her to pick it up and piss off back to America. I have to be nice. I can’t allow my usual impulsive and hot-headed behaviour to screw this up.
“Err, yeah, I guess so,” I say instead, stepping forward and lifting the case. It’s heavier than I expect, even for me, and I wonder how she managed to get it all the way from the States. She must be stronger than she looks.
“You haven’t told me your name,” she says.
“I’m Art. Art Fletcher.”
“The guy I’m leasing this place to?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
I back up, pushing the door of the shop open with my elbows. I hold the door for her as she steps past me and into the shop. A waft of her perfume floats over me as she passes by—something sweet and fruity, but with a citrus tang. I step away from the door, allowing it to swing shut behind me. The other guys lift their heads from their work and clients, curious to see who the new arrival is and even more curious when they spot the woman, and me hauling the huge suitcase along behind her.
“Gonna be a bellboy now, Art?” Kane calls out to me.
Rocco laughs. “Did you get into the wrong business?”
They’re breaking my balls, and I shoot them a scowl, which only makes them laugh harder.
“This is Theresa Dawson,” I say, my voice containing a warning tone to the guys I employ. “She’s the new owner of the building.”
I at least take some pleasure in watching their faces drop.
“Ah, shit.” Rocco stands from the sketch he was doing and approaches to shake her hand. “Good to meet you.”
She smiles and returns the handshake, but her eyes look terrified.
Kane is inking someone and he lifts the tattoo needle and waves it in her direction. She gives another uncertain smile and waves back.
The only access to the upstairs flat is via the staircase at the back of the building. It has its own door at the top of the stairs, which she’ll be able to lock, but we’ve always left it open to allow us to come up and down whenever we wish. Of course, that’s out of the question now. I try to picture in my head what sort of state we left the bathroom and the small kitchenette in. Three guys using one space where we hadn’t expected a woman to be—it isn’t going to be pretty. I briefly debate telling her to wait down in the shop while I run upstairs to clean up a bit, but then think screw it. It’s her own fault for not telling me she was coming early. If I’d known that, I would have made an effort...
Perhaps.
