Echoes of Scotland Street (On Dublin Street 5)

I blanched. “Did I say that out loud?”

Cole nodded, shaking with amusement.

Joss, Hannah, and Liv burst into laughter and even Jo’s scowl cleared as her lips twitched. I was embarrassed, but I could take the embarrassment if it meant Jo would stop prying into my situation with Cole.

*   *   *

To my relief, over the next few weeks, Cole never brought up “our situation.” I refused to call it a relationship even though very quickly I got lost in a blissful bubble with him. His attentiveness, his consideration, his cockiness and sweetness . . . it never wavered. It appeared that that was just who he was, and I had to admit it was nice.

Okay, so it was more than nice.

Cole didn’t hide his affection for me, although he still maintained a distant professionalism in front of customers, and he didn’t hide that he thought we were definitely going somewhere serious and that I’d eventually come to trust him. His optimism was kind of charming.

As was his good humor and his patience and . . . and, and, and!

I really wished I could find some kind of fault with him. But as we spent those weeks on dates at the movies, out to dinner, drinks with friends, quiet drinks alone, hanging out at his flat, and having the hottest sex of my life, I couldn’t find anything more annoying about him other than the fact that he constantly flicked the channel on the television. And sure, that was really annoying, but it was just that one thing.

A thing I could deal with because . . .

I was happy.

And with the happiness came the guilt.

Logan was in prison while I shacked up with a gorgeous tattoo artist.

No wonder my family still hadn’t bothered to get in touch with me. I was happily living my life while my brother suffered for having tried to protect me. My sister hadn’t texted me since that last text weeks ago when she asked me to confirm I was alive.

And so for the last few days the worry over what my family would think if they found out about Cole had overtaken my contentment. It didn’t matter if Cole wasn’t really a bad boy at all. He looked like one, and that was all that would matter to my family.

I knew Cole could sense I was in a weird place, but thankfully he put it down to the fact that he was staying at my flat for the first time. I hadn’t invited him to stay with me, because secretly I liked the idea that I could leave Cole’s whenever I wanted. Not that I ever did, but the control was there. If Cole stayed with me . . . well, it was just much harder to kick someone out than it was to leave. But a few days ago Cole had insisted on staying the night. We’d argued. He’d won. Now he thought I was pissed off when in actuality I was neck deep in self-recrimination.

While I cooked dinner in the kitchen, Cole was in the sitting room watching a comedy show. He was perfectly at ease here, whereas I felt like it was our first night together all over again.

“Shortcake, have you seen my phone?” he called out.

“Try the bedroom.”

A few minutes later I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye. I glanced over my shoulder to find him standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a piece of canvas, eyes on me. He looked confused.

My gaze flew back to the canvas.

My . . . art.

The pulse in my neck began to throb. “What are you doing?” I croaked.

Cole held up the cityscape of Edinburgh. “Is this yours? Did you do this?”

I felt sick.

Concern emanated from him as he walked toward me. “Shannon?”

I nodded, my eyes glued to the painting.

“Shannon, this is amazing.” His voice was soft, low, amazed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Amazing? My eyes flew up to his face. “You like it?”

Cole gave a huff of laughter. “Are you kidding me? It’s brilliant.”

He liked it? He liked my painting. “Are you sure?” I squeaked.

“Yes,” he insisted. “As are the three others you have hidden under your bed.” He placed the painting carefully on the kitchen table and then wrapped his arms around my waist, drawing me into him. “Why didn’t you tell me you paint? Why is it a secret?”

I was still in shock that he liked my work.

“Shannon?”

Trembling, I released myself from his hold to return to stirring my sauce. “It’s . . .”

I didn’t even know how to begin to explain to him.

Cole’s chest pressed against my back as he leaned past me to turn the hob off. “Dinner can wait.” He gently took my hand in his and led me to the bedroom. While I stood in the doorway he got down on his knees and pulled out all of my hidden artwork. He put the pile of sketch pads on the bed. “May I?”

Heart racing again, I nodded.

Cole began to flick through my work. After a few minutes he sat back on the bed and stared up at me. I didn’t know what his expression meant. “I feel like I don’t know you,” he said softly, touching a sketch of my brother, Logan. “This is clearly a big part of you . . .”

It was only then I realized how stiff I was holding myself, my muscles coiled tight with tension. I released my hands from the fists I had them clenched in and tentatively made my way over to the bed. I brushed my fingers over the sketch of Logan. “He was the only one that ever encouraged my artwork. After Granddad passed and then Gran . . . I only had Logan.”

“This is your brother?”

I nodded. “I used to love sketching people. I’m more into semiabstract landscapes now.” I looked over at the acrylic paintings Cole had leaned against my wall. “I’d never painted until I moved here.”