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“Um,” she said. She bit her lip. “Did you want to come in for a little while? Have a cup of tea or something?”
Guys drank tea, right? Men other than Earl Grey and Prince Charles?
Mick had been embarrassingly quiet for several long seconds.
Awkward.
“Or beer,” she added hastily, and his lips twitched.
“Tea would be great,” he said at last. “Black.”
“Black,” she repeated, relieved. “Right.”
He followed her up the path, almost colliding with her back when she stopped several feet short of the front door. Large hands came out to steady her as she spun on the balls of her feet and faced him.
“’Tea’ is not a euphemism for sex,” she blurted out, about four times too loudly.
Mick made a small choking sound and released her like she’d turned on an electrical current.
“In case you were thinking that,” she went on, feeling the heat flame in her cheeks. She was fairly sure he hadn’t been thinking that, judging by the whacked-by-large-mallet expression. Although he probably was now. “Because I’ve seen movies. And when people invite other people in for coffee, they’re usually referring to something else. Which I am not. All I’m offering is tea.”
I think he gets it, Sophy. I think every neighbour in a five kilometre radius is now fully informed on that point.
Mick, to his credit, was doing a reasonable job of swallowing back the laughter.
“Duly noted,” he said with heavy solemnity, and she glared at him and managed a reluctant smile.
“I just like to make these things clear from the outset. There’s no point raising false expectations.”
“I appreciate that.” He waited patiently while she unlocked the front door, surveying the perimeter of the yard in a thorough but almost absent manner that was probably instinctual to him. “Just tea?” he double-checked thoughtfully as she turned on the lights.
“Well, I may be able to run to a chocolate biscuit. I found them at the supermarket. Wheat-free, fat-free and taste-free.”
“All I wanted to know.”
As she busied herself in the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil and searching for a suitably manly mug, he pushed his hands into his pockets and wandered over to the coffee table, casually eyeing her course materials strewn over the surface. When she emerged from behind the counter with a cup in each hand – hearts and floral patterns for her; Snoopy for him – and a plate of pseudo-biscuits balancing precariously on her wrist, he was reading the second page of her current essay.
“Hey,” she protested, and made a grab for the papers.
Mick easily fended her off, lifting his cup of tea from her grasp with his free hand.
“Thanks,” he said. “And ssh. I’m reading.”
“Well, stop reading,” she responded snappily, sitting down beside him. “That’s off-limits to anyone but my lecturer.”
“It’s interesting,” he said, although he deigned to return the pages to her. “I’ve heard of Keith Heatherly, obviously,” he said, naming the famous New Zealand modernist painter, “but I wasn’t aware that his wife was an artist as well.”
“Alicia Kemp,” Sophy confirmed, nodding. “She’s actually one of my favourite artists, but she’s almost completely unknown. She painted a lot in the 1940s and then basically gave it up to raise her family. I’m arguing that she was right there with many of the early proponents for local modernity. I’ve managed to track down some of her works in regional museums, but apparently a private banker in Auckland has the majority of her surviving paintings and his collection is totally private and inaccessible. Anyway,” she shook her head, smiling. “Sorry. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. Class dismissed.”
“I like listening to you talk about art. You’re doing what you love. Can’t underrate that.” Despite the clear sincerity of the compliment, he looked tired. There were fresh grooves etched at the corners of his mouth and shadows beneath his eyes. Guilt panged as she observed him with concern.
“Has it been a really long day?” she asked sympathetically. “And I dragged you out of bed.”
“A crisis in the London office dragged me out of bed,” he returned easily. “Followed by a hysterical guest at the hotel and Sean with a spider in his room.”
“A spider?” Sophy repeated, blinking.
“Hates them.”
