Charlotte’s eyes light up. “Mini statues. Little pairs of people hugging. Sweet ones, not the sort you have to hide when the vicar comes in.”
I tentatively reach for one parcel.
She laughs. “Go on, unwrap one.”
I do, and my breath catches. Two delicate silhouettes folded into a soft embrace, clay painted in a muted stone texture that makes it look carved and ancient and modern all at once.
“Oh, Charlotte… these are beautiful.”
She beams. “I hoped you’d think so. They’ve done well at the gallery. Thought your customers might actually see them instead of just the tourists.”
I turn the statue over in my hands, imagining where it could go. “I want them somewhere people can’t miss.”
My eyes land on the mint green wall next to the entrance. Perfect.
“Here,” I say. “Absolutely here.”
Charlotte’s smile widens. “I can bring another twelve tomorrow if you want to make a feature out of them.”
“Yes. Please. They’ll look amazing.”
She leaves the box with me and heads back to her gallery. The second she’s gone, I drag out the flatpack floating shelves I bought months ago, determined to finally put them up.
Grass green shelves. Mint green wall. Warm clay statues. It’ll look gorgeous.
Or, at least, it would… if I had any DIY skills whatsoever.
Forty-five minutes later, I am dust-covered, sweaty, and muttering words my grandmother would faint over. The shelf looks… diagonal. Not in an artistic way. In a “gravity is winning”way. I test it with a glass paperweight. It rolls off immediately. I catch it by some miracle.
“I don’t think that’s straight.”
I freeze.
No. No, no, no. Not him. Not now. Not while I’m standing on a ladder looking like a DIY gremlin.
I turn slowly.
Alex is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, wearing cargo trousers and a fitted black shirt that should be outlawed.
“Oh. Hi,” I say, because apparently that is the only phrase my brain can produce under stress.
Pretend to be normal, Emma. Normal people say more than one syllable.
He walks closer, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like you could do with my services.”
Cue panic.
Cue stomach drop.
Cue sudden certainty that I should not be allowed outdoors unsupervised.
“It’s fine,” I insist brightly. Too brightly. “Perfectly fine,” I assure him whilst gripping the shelf gently.
It chooses that exact moment to crack and fall into my hands.
Of course it does.
He raises a brow. “Would you like to retract that statement?”
