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And I know she’s wanting to talk me out of those things.
Well, one extraordinary thing in particular.
Leaning over the table, she flips open the first book, studying its pages. Most women take ages to make up their minds. Not our Freya. She’s decisive like me.
She runs her fingers over the smooth paper. Tapping a gilded slip of wallpaper, she says, “I like the gold.”
“Gold it is,” I say.
She moves further down the long table, stroking swatches of thick fabric. Lazily, she flips a book page, settling on a deep red pattern. “Let’s go with the damask for the curtains.”
“I’ll have them ordered today.”
She eyes me with curiosity. “What if I set you up on a blind date with one of my gorgeous, single co-workers? Anika from Russia? Ellie Mae from America?”
“Lawyers don’t do it for me. I don’t need one more woman in my life to argue with. You’re plenty. And I dinnae need speed dating. Rotating chats with a string of city women who think the world revolves around their iPhone.”
“Aww… am I that bad?” she teases, straightening her black blazer's lapels. “I’ve turned you off all strong, independent women, have I?”
“All but you, Freya,” I say. “And you can keep your suggestions to yourself. I’m a man who knows my own mind.”
“Meaning?” She casually flips through the last book of upholstery fabric swatches.
“I know what I want.”
“As do I.” She taps a black lacquered fingernail against a lush brown leather. “This. For the dining table chairs.” Giving the leather one final stroke, she glances back up at me, our eyes locking. “We Burnes are nothing if not decisive.”
“And stubborn,” I say.
“Aye. That they are.”
Crossing her arms over her slim frame, she leans her ass against the edge of the table. Tossing that glorious mane over her shoulder, she narrows her gaze, her voice dropping. She’s no longer in a teasing mood.
“Sure I can’t sway you?” she asks, already knowing the answer. “Can’t tempt you away from your plan?”
“‘Tis a sound plan,” I say.
“The one where you pluck a dainty little flower from the hills of the tiny island we once called home?”
“I still call it home,” I say, eyeing my favorite part of the room.
Heavy oak frames the bay of windows overlooking the sea, its depths looking more navy than teal today. I stare over the waters that connect this city to our quiet island.
“A man can have more than one home.”
“This is the only home I want. And if I do say so myself, we’ve done a damn fine job bringing life back into this magnificent estate.” She returns to the entrance of the room where I stand, eyeing one of the ornate wood doors. “These are going to need another coat of shellac.”
“Aye,” I agree, eyeing the dull, bare patches of wood that didn’t absorb the lacquer.
“Let’s ask them to use a different varnish, too. Something a bit darker. The doors should contrast with the walls.”
She’s right. Still, I remind her. “They’ll have to sand them back down to remove what’s there now.”
“Aye.” She nods. “But we want it done right.”
I agree. “Done.”
She shakes her head and returns to the discussion we were having before the doors. “Glasgow is my home. Ever since the first day I came here to the School of Law, I knew I could never return to that quiet island life.”
