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There’s a weight to her words that wasn’t there before. When I meet her gaze again, the playfulness has been replaced by something more serious, more genuine.

For a moment, I consider closing the distance between us. Taking her face in my hands and kissing her until neither of us can breathe. But I hold back.

Because the truth is, I don’t know if I could handle something casual with Cat. Once I’ve had a proper taste of her, I’m not sure I’ll be able to share. And a woman like Cat—young, vibrant, with her whole life ahead of her—isn’t looking to settle down with Bannock’s resident fuck-up.

“It’s getting late,” I say instead. “And you’ve had a busy day. Don’t want you driving home knackered.”

Disappointment flashes across her face. She studies me, then she nods, taking the hint. “Didn’t even have a chance to finish this.” She has a final swig of tea. “But you’re right, I am tired.” She stands. “Will you be at my flat tomorrow? To continue the work?”

“Aye. I’ll be there.” I walk her to the door.

She pauses on the threshold, looking up at me with those hazel eyes that see too much. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“See you tomorrow.”

I watch her walk to her car, fighting the urge to call her back. She drives off, but the energy between us lingers in the air, crackling and restless.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CAT

As I unlock my front door, the distinctive thump of heavy bass greets me, along with the sharp tang of fresh paint. I dump my bag of marking in the hall then open the living room door, only to stop short.

Wow, what a transformation! The walls are covered in fresh white emulsion, making the space feel bigger and brighter.

Robbie has his back to me, his old jeans and vest dotted with flecks of white. Apparently, he’s not heard me over his music yet, so I take the opportunity to admire him. There’s something mesmerising about the way he moves, each stroke of the roller in sync with the pounding heavy metal blaring from his little speaker. And honestly, if there’s a more perfect sight than Robbie MacDonald’s arse in worn jeans, I’ve yet to see it.

He must sense my presence because he turns. His eyes flick over my work outfit—fitted pinstripe trousers and a grey blouse—before meeting mine. “Afternoon, Cat.”

And there it is, that energy crackling between us, the same electricity I felt yesterday in his kitchen when I basically told him I was developing feelings.

Just as I’m getting lost in that electric pull, Robbie leans over, turns down the speaker, then nods towards the freshly painted walls. “What do you think?”

I walk further in and give him what I hope is a casual smile, even though my pulse is anything but calm. “I love it! You’ve done a brilliant job. It looks amazing in here.”

“Amazing might be pushing it, but it’s getting there.” With the toe of an old trainer, he nudges the worn and threadbare carpet. “Wait till I rip this thing up and buff the original floors. Then you’ll really think it looks good.”

I give the room another once-over, this time taking an even closer look at Robbie’s handiwork. The walls, now smooth from his plastering and gleaming with fresh paint, are barely recognisable.

Robbie grabs the hem of his vest and uses it to wipe a smear of emulsion from his forearm, unwittingly flashing me a tantalising glimpse of his abs. “I’d like to finish this room before I call it a day, but there’s still a fair bit left of the second coat to do. Do you mind if I stay on a while? Shouldn’t be more than an hour or two.”

“Of course,” I say, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Can I help? Four hands are better than two, right?”

Robbie arches an eyebrow but then gives an easy shrug. “Suit yourself, but—” His eyes flick down to my blouse, lingering just a heartbeat too long before he glances away. “You might want to throw on something you don’t mind ruining.”

“Give me two minutes.”

In my bedroom I change quickly into a pair of old grey joggers and a faded T-shirt that’s seen better days, then twist my hair up into a messy bun. When I return to the living room, Robbie has a second paint tray filled, with a spare roller beside it.

“You ever painted a room before?”

“Honestly? No,” I admit, a tad embarrassed. Any time something needed done at the hotel, Da or one of my brothers handled it. If I so much as picked up a paintbrush, they’d shoo me away like an annoying wee fly.

“Right. Well, there’s a bit of a technique to it,” Robbie says, without judgement. He takes the roller, dips it into the tray, then rolls it back and forth on the ridged part until the paint is evenly coated. “Don’t overload it. You want it covered, not dripping.”

He steps up to the wall. “Start in the middle and work out like this.” He makes a large W shape with smooth, practised strokes. “Then go back over it to fill in the gaps and even it out. It stops streaks and gives you good coverage.”

He hands me the roller, his expression encouraging. “Your turn.”