‘No, it’s on me,’ I say.
He looks surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
The nerves are still pulsing inside me when I return with two mugs of builder’s brew. I don’t know why he makes me feel so edgy.
‘I should have asked if you wanted cake,’ I say, placing them on the coffee table.
‘Maybe next time.’ He looks around as I sit down on the sofa opposite him. ‘It’s nice up here.’
‘Thanks. This chill-out space has been kind of a passion project for me.’
‘How so?’
When I took over from Chas at Easter, the restaurant upstairs was still a bit lacking in atmosphere, despite the makeover Seaglass got last year. I thought it could do with some cosying up, so I brought in our comfy old dove-grey sofas from home and purchased new ones for my guests. We’d already stained the wood-panelled back wall a darker shade of coffee brown to match the downstairs panelling around the bar, so I gave the same treatment to a bookshelf and coffee table that I found at a charity shop. The staff and Ipainted the brick side walls navy blue and fixed up a bunch of randomly spaced silver shelves that we loaded with second-hand paperbacks. I also brought in some succulents in green pots for the sill of the side window and strung up festoon lighting on the walls and ceiling. They’re currently bringing a warm glow to the room.
‘I did a bit of renovating up here’ is what I tell Tom, leaving out the lengthy explanation.
‘Have you worked here long?’ he asks.
‘This is my seventh summer, although it’s my first as manager. We batten down the hatches for winter. We’ve had storms that have almost taken this old girl out.’
His eyebrows jump up.
‘I watched one of them myself from the cliffs.’ I point over my shoulder at the panoramic windows facing out to sea. ‘The swell came right in and spray from the waves hit up here.’
It’s staggering when you think about it. We’re currently three storeys up – the lower-ground floor by the boat ramp is our cellar; it has to be cleared out every autumn because it floods.
‘So this place is only open for summer?’ he asks, reaching forward to pick up his mug of tea from the coffee table.
‘From Easter to mid-October.’
‘What do you do the rest of the time?’ He leans back against the sofa, crossing his ankle over his knee again and looking so much more laidback than I feel.
‘I still manage four properties, but it’s not hectic, not like it is during the summer. I work every hour this place throws at me so I can take the winter off to sculpt.’
‘Sculpt?’ Once more, his eyebrows jump.
I nod.
‘You’re a sculptor?’
‘Yes,’ I say, smiling.
‘What do you sculpt?’
‘People, mostly.’
His golden-brown eyes rest on mine, his expression warm and admiring. Now I’m the one who feels shy. I glance at the coffee table, noticing an iPhone sitting there.
‘You charged your phone?’
‘Yeah, last night.’ He reaches forward and picks it up. The screen wakes up to reveal a moody blue-grey seascape screensaver. ‘I’ve been checking out this place’s Instagram account,’ he confesses, and I’m sure he’s trying to suppress a wider smile.
‘You saw my pictures?’ I ask with a thrill.
‘I wondered if you’d taken them.’
