“I meant what I said before. I really appreciate you coming in like this.”
“Not a big deal.”
“It is to me.” Her smile was a little wobbly.
He could suddenly see all her hurt and anger and frustration, all the emotions she’d stuffed deep inside in order to do what needed to be done to get her studio back in order.
“We’ll fix it, don’t worry.”
“Okay.” Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.
Before he could stop himself, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her. She tensed for a second and he thought she would push him away. Then her arms circled his waist and her body softened and she rested her forehead on his shoulder. For a long moment they were silent. He was aware of her knees touching his and the warmth of her body and the faint fruity scent of her shampoo. He rested his cheek against her hair, wishing there was some way he could make things right for her.
After a minute she lifted her head and he let her go.
“Thanks,” she said with a small, self-conscious smile as she stepped backward.
“I want cuddle, too,” Charlie demanded, both arms raised.
Angie laughed. “Of course you do.”
She stooped to pick him up and Charlie wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed a big, wet kiss to her cheek.
Michael smiled. “I’ll go find that bin.”
It wasn’t until he was turning the corner in the corridor that it occurred to him that hug had been his first adult human contact in months.
CHAPTER FOUR
“HEY, CHARLIE, COME away from there. You don’t want to touch all that nasty stuff,” Angie said, herding him away from the pile of debris in the corner.
Charlie complied readily, trotting off to inspect the safe instead. Angie watched him distractedly. She was still getting over the surprise of Michael’s spontaneous embrace.
They had hugged before, but not often, and usually only briefly, in greeting or thanks. And, of course, after Billie’s death there had been condolence and sympathy hugs.
Today’s hug had felt different, and she couldn’t understand why.
Charlie spun the dial, fascinated. Angie thought about the moment when Michael’s arms had come around her and she’d found herself pressed against the firm, warm wall of his chest. She’d been surprised at first. But then something inside her had relaxed as she’d understood that she was in a safe place and she’d allowed herself to take comfort from him.
Then he’d shifted slightly or she had and their knees had bumped and she’d become very aware of how well-matched their bodies were—knee to knee, hip to hip, breast to chest.
The realization had been enough to make her step away then, and it made her feel uneasy now, even though he’d been gone for more than ten minutes.
Because that moment had been about sexual awareness. The woman in her noticing the man in him.
But Michael wasn’t a man. At least, he wasn’t an ordinary man. He was Billie’s husband. He might as well be Angie’s brother.
And yet there’d been that funny little moment when he’d opened the door wearing his running gear yesterday and she’d seen him with fresh eyes and registered that he was a very attractive man….
There was a loud rumbling in the corridor and Michael appeared in the doorway, a large wheelie bin in tow. She forced herself to meet his eyes, almost as though she was testing herself, and was relieved to feel nothing. He was simply Michael.
Exactly, drama queen.
“Looks like you hit pay dirt,” she said.
“Yeah.” There was a flatness to the single word.
“What’s wrong?”
“I went to the bathroom.”
She grimaced. “Yeah. I should have warned you about that. The plumbing’s not great. Might want to wash your shoes when you get home if there was any ‘water’ on the floor.”
“I checked out the ladies’, too.”
He was so stern, so disapproving, that Angie had to suppress a smile.
“Not up to the Michael Robinson standard?” It was a rhetorical question, because she knew they weren’t. Many was the time she’d simply crossed her legs and waited until she went out for lunch to avoid having to set foot in the space.
“This building is a complete shit hole, Angie.” He glanced at Charlie to see if he’d registered the four-letter word, but his son was inspecting the wheels on the bin. “Half the lights are out, the roof leaks and I bet most of the windows are rusted shut. The bathrooms are possibly the worst I’ve ever seen. I’m including the developing world in that assessment, too, by the way.”
“It’s true, the old girl ain’t what she used to be, but that’s why the rent’s so reasonable. Beggars, by which I mean artists, can’t afford to be choosers.” She shrugged philosophically.
“Even if that means being exposed to deteriorating asbestos, lead paint and electrical wiring that can’t possibly be up to code?”
“Asbestos? What asbestos?” she asked, alarmed.
Michael pointed at the ceiling. “What do you think that is?”
She tilted her head to look at the textured stucco ceiling. “Plaster?”
He shook his head slowly. Grimly.
“I don’t like the idea of you working in this building, Angie.”
She sighed heavily. “Well, that makes two of us, but I’m afraid there aren’t a lot of options in the city. I looked around a couple of years ago, but it was a dead loss.”
“Then move farther out.”
“Right, and make my clients travel to find me.”
“They’ll make the trip. You’re worth it.”
She shook her head. “I need to be central. All my suppliers are in here—my valuer, my metallurgist, my gemsetter, the jewelers’ toolmakers…”
Michael’s frown deepened. She didn’t know whether to be amused or touched by his obvious concern.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve survived eight years in this place.”
He glanced pointedly at the debris in the corner and the four-letter word sprayed on her wall. “Just.”
She knew what he was saying made sense, but she had formed an attachment to the Stradbroke over the years, decrepit bathrooms
