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Authors: Evelyn Lyes
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inside. The foyer with two shoe-cabinets lining the wall and an upholstered bench between them was lit and the kitchen door open.
Kris could see a tall man by the counter, making a sandwich. “Hi, George.” She kicked her boots off her feet and slid into a pair of slippers, before she started to peel off the warm cocoon of her clothes.
“Hi,” the brunet greeted her back. “Do you want a sandwich?”
“No, I have already eaten.” She hung the coat and the scarf on the hooks above the bench, while she put the gloves and the cap into the basket on the shoe cabinet.
“Hey.” George strolled out of the kitchen, taking big bites of his sandwich. “The toilet’s leaking again,” he mumbled between his chewing.
It was the probably a limescale problem again, which meant she would have to take the toilet tank down and clean it. It had become a regular occurrence in the last half-year. “I’ll fix it.”
“You should just buy a new one.”
“I will.” Sooner or later, which in her case meant later. A new toilet tank would cost at least a hundred, which she wasn’t willing to spare right now. She glanced into the small kitchen where dirty dishes were piled in the sink. “Don’t forget to clean up afterwards,” she said to George, then strode into the hallway with a wardrobe and three doors; the one at the end led to her room, her safe haven. She went into her room, lowered her bag onto the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed and sat on the blue bedspread. She leaned back on small pillows that lined the bed in a U, giving it a couch feel. Her eyes landed on a black paperback laying on her night-stand; with her gaze she traced the golden embossed letters. She had already read the Good Omens , but when she wanted to return it to Ashton, he had said that she could keep it. She had, and now the book was on her night-stand, and every time it came in her line of vision, it reminded her of him. She pulled her legs against her chest, wrapped her arms around them and leaned her chin on her knees. She closed her eyes.
Ashton’s face appeared before her, with a soft, yearning expression in his dark eyes as he looked down at her. Oh, Kris, what are we going to do?
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”
Chapter 8
Ashton stepped closer to the canvas before him, his hand lifting and his knuckles caressing the image of the girl’s face that was painted with short strokes of the brush. It was Friday, which meant that after today, he was not going to see her for three days, since she said that she wanted a free weekend and had something to do on Monday. Three days. It sounded like forever.
A knock on the door.
He tossed a sheet over the easel and turned to face the visitor. “Come in.”
The door opened and an older lady in a long white coat entered.
“Ann,” Ashton greeted Kalen’s grandmother, with whom he co-owned the gallery; she was his main supporter and cheerleader. If not for her and her enthusiasm for his art, he doubted that his work would have sold as well as it did.
“Ash.” She set the clutch bag on the counter and turned her back to him.
“You’re early.” With three steps he was behind her and he took the coat from her. He laid it over the armchair’s back.
“I came with Ian,” Ann said, as if that explained everything. Her gaze slid around the room and landed on the easel. “You’re working on something new?”
“Yes. Ian, as in Kalen’s cousin?”
“Yes, as in, my good-for-nothing grandson. He’s in a weird mood today, behaving like a child on a sugar high. He’s downstairs, flirting with Ally and Claudia.” She shook her head and strolled to the easel. “And yet, despite his silly behaviour, he has been chosen for a businessman of the year by a magazine.”
Ashton didn’t try to stop her, it would have been futile. He had planned to stash the picture in the storeroom before her visit, but he had wasted too much time staring at the painting.
Kris could see a tall man by the counter, making a sandwich. “Hi, George.” She kicked her boots off her feet and slid into a pair of slippers, before she started to peel off the warm cocoon of her clothes.
“Hi,” the brunet greeted her back. “Do you want a sandwich?”
“No, I have already eaten.” She hung the coat and the scarf on the hooks above the bench, while she put the gloves and the cap into the basket on the shoe cabinet.
“Hey.” George strolled out of the kitchen, taking big bites of his sandwich. “The toilet’s leaking again,” he mumbled between his chewing.
It was the probably a limescale problem again, which meant she would have to take the toilet tank down and clean it. It had become a regular occurrence in the last half-year. “I’ll fix it.”
“You should just buy a new one.”
“I will.” Sooner or later, which in her case meant later. A new toilet tank would cost at least a hundred, which she wasn’t willing to spare right now. She glanced into the small kitchen where dirty dishes were piled in the sink. “Don’t forget to clean up afterwards,” she said to George, then strode into the hallway with a wardrobe and three doors; the one at the end led to her room, her safe haven. She went into her room, lowered her bag onto the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed and sat on the blue bedspread. She leaned back on small pillows that lined the bed in a U, giving it a couch feel. Her eyes landed on a black paperback laying on her night-stand; with her gaze she traced the golden embossed letters. She had already read the Good Omens , but when she wanted to return it to Ashton, he had said that she could keep it. She had, and now the book was on her night-stand, and every time it came in her line of vision, it reminded her of him. She pulled her legs against her chest, wrapped her arms around them and leaned her chin on her knees. She closed her eyes.
Ashton’s face appeared before her, with a soft, yearning expression in his dark eyes as he looked down at her. Oh, Kris, what are we going to do?
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”
Chapter 8
Ashton stepped closer to the canvas before him, his hand lifting and his knuckles caressing the image of the girl’s face that was painted with short strokes of the brush. It was Friday, which meant that after today, he was not going to see her for three days, since she said that she wanted a free weekend and had something to do on Monday. Three days. It sounded like forever.
A knock on the door.
He tossed a sheet over the easel and turned to face the visitor. “Come in.”
The door opened and an older lady in a long white coat entered.
“Ann,” Ashton greeted Kalen’s grandmother, with whom he co-owned the gallery; she was his main supporter and cheerleader. If not for her and her enthusiasm for his art, he doubted that his work would have sold as well as it did.
“Ash.” She set the clutch bag on the counter and turned her back to him.
“You’re early.” With three steps he was behind her and he took the coat from her. He laid it over the armchair’s back.
“I came with Ian,” Ann said, as if that explained everything. Her gaze slid around the room and landed on the easel. “You’re working on something new?”
“Yes. Ian, as in Kalen’s cousin?”
“Yes, as in, my good-for-nothing grandson. He’s in a weird mood today, behaving like a child on a sugar high. He’s downstairs, flirting with Ally and Claudia.” She shook her head and strolled to the easel. “And yet, despite his silly behaviour, he has been chosen for a businessman of the year by a magazine.”
Ashton didn’t try to stop her, it would have been futile. He had planned to stash the picture in the storeroom before her visit, but he had wasted too much time staring at the painting.
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