Now she did look up. ‘Why? Do you want to have a go?’
‘Me?’ He barked out an awkward laugh. ‘I’m not in the least bit arty.’
‘Yes, anyone can do it. It’s sticking bits of glass onto paper, basically.’
‘I’m sure there’s more to it than that. What I meant was, you don’t have to have any special equipment?’
‘Just the mermaid tears.’
‘Thewhat?’
‘Legend has it that sea glass is mermaid tears.’ If that was true, she ought to thank those sad mermaids because their tears had brought her joy.
‘Romantic,’ he said. ‘Is there anywhere in particular you find them?’
‘In the sea?’
One side of his lip quirked up. ‘You’ve not lost your sass.’
Surprised, her hand hovered over the next leaf to be stuck down. ‘I didn’t realise I had any to lose.’
‘Mind if I take a closer look?’ He pointed to her newest creation.
‘Be my guest.’
She wasn’t sure she wanted him this side of the counter, but neither did she want to be rude since, technically, he owned it. And neither did she want him to suspect that his nearness might bother her.
He unlatched the half door set in the counter and stepped through it. When he came to stand by her shoulder and peered over it, she tensed. Wood, spice, citrus… His scent invaded her, holding her hostage to a more earthy urge than the creation of a pretty picture. How was it possible to hardly know someone, yet desire them so much? That she’d been in an identical situation in Venice wasn’t lost on her, but somehow it had been different. They’d been young, on holiday, ships in the night, just enjoying the experience for what it was. But this…? This felt heavier, more real. It didn’t escape her notice that if they wanted, they could recreate Venice here on Skye. Rocco’s presence was transient. He’d be gone in a matter of days. They could enjoy a brief fling – wasn’t that the word Jinny had used? – then they’d be out of each other’s lives a second time.
Giselle bit back a derisive laugh as the thought occurred to her that maybe they could meet up again in another ten years, make a regular thing of it. Although by then, one or both of them might be married or have kids.
‘Is there a Mrs Moore?’ she blurted, without stopping to think.
Rocco took a step back. ‘There is.’
Oh. She might have guessed. He was thirty-one. It was to be expected that he’d be in a relationship. ‘How long have you been married?’ she asked, careful to sound neutral and unconcerned.
He shuffled, then issued a rumbling laugh. ‘We’re not married. Beverly – Mrs Moore – is my mother. I thought you were referring to the business.’
‘You call your motherBeverly?’
‘It sounds more professional at work than Mum. And it’s easier to call her Beverly all the time, rather than just sometimes, because I’ll only forget and slip up.’
Giselle pressed a piece of sea glass down with her little finger, holding it in place for a second. ‘Don’t tell me, you called your teacher Mum once.’ Glancing up at him over her shoulder, she saw him grinning.
‘More than once. I’ve never been able to shake the embarrassment.’
‘And do you slip up at work?’
‘Rarely. She’s more Beverly than Mum now. Occasionally, when we disagree or I’m winding her up, I’ll call her Mother, but never in front of anyone.’
To Giselle it sounded bizarre, but what did she know? She’d never worked with any of her family members.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, and she immediately regretted asking the question.
‘Just curious.’ Her shrug was off-hand, but she didn’t feel off-hand in the slightest. Then she added lamely, ‘If you did have a wife, I was wondering how she’d feel about you owning a castle, that’s all.’ It was the only explanation she was prepared to give him.
‘We’ll never know. Is it done?’ He was looking at the picture.
