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I copy him as best I can, but after half a minute, he shakes his head. “Not quite.” He steps in behind me, placing his big hand over mine, and suddenly I’m cocooned in his heat, that spicy, masculine Robbie smell curling around me.
“Like this,” he says, guiding the motion, firm but gentle. The roller glides across the wall like magic.
“Got it?” His breath tickles my ear.
“I think so,” I manage, even though my mind is far more focused on the feel of his body than painting techniques.
He steps back and I immediately miss his warmth. “Good. You keep working on this bit, and I’ll finish up over here.” He moves over to another wall.
I’d much rather work side by side, but maybe this is safer. Less chance of getting distracted by those tattooed arms of his flexing with every paint stroke.
For a few minutes, we work in companionable quiet, the steady thrum of rock music and the swoosh of our rollers filling the space. But after a while, I decide this is the perfect opportunity to learn a bit more about Robbie.
“So, did you always know you wanted to do this sort of hands-on stuff?”
“Suppose I just kind of fell into it. Wasn’t much of an academic at school, but I liked the practical classes, especially woodwork.”
“Right, but how’d you go from that to being good at, like, everything?”
“I wouldn’t say I can do everything.”
“Says the man who completely renovated his own home.”
Robbie rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, and for a second, he seems almost bashful. He’s clearly not used to compliments.
“Aye, well, I did a few apprenticeships after school—never really stuck with one long enough to call it a proper trade, mind.” He shrugs. “But I probably picked up most of my skills at the resort. There’s always something breaking there. Leaky taps, temperamental heating systems, fancy light fixtures going on the blink . . . in maintenance, you learn quick or drown in work orders.”
I’m tempted to ask if there’s any part of him that misses his role at the resort, but I don’t want to drag him into heavy chat. Instead I say, “Your love of woodwork obviously stayed with you after school. Those shelves you built for your living room are gorgeous.”
“Och, that’s just me fiddling about in my free time.” Once again, he’s playing things down.
“Well, if society ever breaks down and we’re flung into a post-apocalyptic world, you’ll be sorted with your survival skills. Meanwhile, my contribution will be—what? Reciting sonnets by the campfire?”
He snorts. “I suppose someone will need to educate the roaming hordes. You could give them lessons in literature, spread civilisation one Shakespearean reference at a time.” He points his roller at me, mock serious. “Never forget, McIntyre. The pen is mightier than the sword.”
I grin at him. “Was that Robbie MacDonald giving me an actual compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
AC/DC takes over the conversation, filling the room with “Thunderstruck”. Robbie moves closer to me and tops up both trays. We load up our rollers with fresh paint and push on.
It strikes me how different our interactions have been recently. Days ago, all I saw was Bannock’s bad boy—a thrill to chase, a conquest to make. Now I see a man who’s been misjudged his whole life. Someone more thoughtful, talented, and vulnerable than his reputation suggests.
And I care about that man.
“You’re quiet,” Robbie observes, breaking into my thoughts. “For a change.”
“Just thinking.”
“Care to share?”
I’m thinking about how yesterday I told Robbie I liked him, and instead of kissing me, he said it was late and time for me to go. And I’m thinking that, thanks to the way I acted around him at first, I may have blown any chance of something romantic happening between us.
But instead of saying what’s in my head, I go with, “Oh, I was just thinking about the case. About Samantha and her mystery man. Any guesses who it could be?”
Robbie pauses. “Aye, I have an idea. But if it’s who I think it is, that’s a real kick in the balls.”
“Oh?” I pause too. “Who do you think it is?”
