Art spent the day struggling to concentrate on his work, finding his gaze constantly drawn to the ceiling and any movement going on up there.

When he’d told the others how they were going to be spending their evening, he’d been met with laughter and back slapping.

Kane snorted. “She’s only just got here and Art’s already under the thumb!”

Rocco joined in the ribbing. “You going to give her a foot rub when we’re done?”

“She is fit though,” Kane said. “I wouldn’t say no.”

For some reason, Kane’s words caused a rush of jealousy to surge up inside Art. With his long blond hair and flirty attitude, Kane was popular with the women who visited the shop. He didn’t want Kane to hit on Theresa while they were all up there, sorting out the flat and drinking her beer and eating the pizza she’d bought. She didn’t seem like the type of woman who would fall for Kane’s obvious come-on tactics, but he didn’t want to take that risk either. Art didn’t need any more complications, and having one of his staff get involved with his landlady would only end in a mess.

Yet he found himself anticipating being in her company again. He was certainly no domesticated god, but he could help her sort the place out, even though he was only in it for the free beer and pizza.

The hours passed and the three of them shut up shop and then prepared to head upstairs. Rocco and Kane were still ribbing him about being at her beck and call, but neither of them had refused to help with the clean up and headed home either.

She must have heard them coming up the stairs—which was hardly surprising considering the noise they were making—as she opened the front door of the flat before they’d reached it. She smiled sweetly as they approached, with Art leading the way. He didn’t return the smile, and his scowl deepened when she held out something rubbery and yellow to him. The smile didn’t flinch from her face.

“I believe they’re called Marigolds,” she said.

He snatched the rubber gloves out of her grip.

Kane snickered behind him. “Do we hand in our balls as a deposit?”

The expression on her face didn’t falter. “Only if you have a pair to leave.”

Despite his irritation, Art bit back his smile at her retort.

“You can go without them if you want,” she continued, “but we’re going to be using some industrial strength cleaning stuff for this place. If you like to bleach your skin off, go for it.”

“Fine,” Kane grumbled, taking a pair of the rubber gloves from her. “I don’t want to bleach my fucking tats off.”

Rocco just grinned and accepted his without a grumble.

Looking around, Art saw she’d already made a start on the place.

“I didn’t want to touch anything that looked like it belonged to the shop.”

There were a few chairs, some filing cabinets, and older folders of tattoo designs. Boxes containing inks from when they’d changed suppliers a few years ago. Some broken machines he’d thrown up here instead of trying to dispose of. Art wished he’d had the opportunity to empty the place out before she’d arrived. He should have done it as soon as he’d received the letter, but he’d truly believed he’d had more time. Circumstances had meant he’d been unable to. He hoped she hadn’t come across anything he wouldn’t want her to see.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said, trying to figure out where he was going to store all this stuff in the shop. He’d probably have to get rid of it.

The other two had already got stuck in, picking up rubbish and shoving it into black bags. Rocco turned on some music with his phone, the sound coming through the speakers, and they helped themselves to the cans of lager Theresa had provided as promised. He tried not to watch her as she worked, the way her jeans moulded to her hips and backside as she bent over to pick something up. She must have sensed him watching, as she turned her head and caught his eye. He forced himself to hold her gaze. She didn’t intimidate him—no woman intimidated him. But then why did his heart rate step up when she looked at him.

Her lips tweaked in a smile, her long dark lashes flicking down over her eyes.

Art’s scowl deepened and he looked away.

Someone rang the bell.

“Pizza!” she declared, and vanished down the stairs, only to reappear a few minutes later balancing a stack of boxes on top of one another. The pile was so high, it was impossible to see her around it, and Art found himself smiling at the sight. He quickly snapped off the expression before she saw.

Rocco and Kane whooped at the sight of the food, and before long they were all chowing down on slices of meat feast and double pepperoni pizza. The girl had done good.

He hadn’t noticed she’d slipped away. He finished what he’d been eating, took another swig from his drink, and got up to see what she was up to. The couple of hours with the four of them working on the place had already made a massive difference.

He walked into the bedroom to find her standing beside the window, flicking through an A2 sized pad of sketching paper. He stopped short, frowning. Was she an artist, too? Was that why she’d wanted to live above the studio, because she appreciated good art? He took a step closer, something still not sitting right with him. As she flipped the page, it dawned on him that the paper was his—a sketch pad he’d not wanted to look at for the past ten years.

“Hey!” he snarled, storming across the room and snatching the item out of her hands. “You shouldn’t be looking at that.”

She didn’t seem frightened by his aggression. “Is it yours? Those drawings are beautiful. Who is she?”

“None of your fucking business.”

She held up her hands. “You’re right, it isn’t. The pad slid out onto the floor and it was open. I couldn’t help but see them. You’re really talented though.”

“Yeah, I know I am. I’m an artist for a living, remember?”

“You’re a tattoo artist,” she said.

“What the fuck do you think tattoo artists create if they’re not artists? The clue is in the name.” His voice came out sharper than he’d intended, and she shrank back.

“Sorry.” She glanced away. “Of course, you’re completely right. I’ve just never had any experience with tattoos.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “You don’t have any tattoos? Not even one, like the lower back or foot one all girls seem to get.”

Slowly, she shook her head. “Nope, none. It’s never been my thing.”

“And yet here you are living above a tattoo studio.”

She gave a tight smile. “Yeah, go figure.”

“Why?” The beer had loosened his tongue. Where normally he’d have just left it, and not bothered getting into a conversation with some chick he didn’t even like, he found himself wanting to know.

She lifted her dark eyes to his. “What?”

“Why have you come all the way from America to live in this dump? Why didn’t you just put the place on the market and take the cash?”

She shrugged. “It was the right time for me to make a change.”

“You could have made a damned big change with the amount of money this place would have brought in.”

Her face grew pinched, and he suddenly noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes. “Money wasn’t enough,” she said. “I had to get away, and this place kind of landed in my lap. I didn’t have time to start putting a property on the market. I had to get away.”

He felt himself soften at her words. He wondered what had made her up and leave everything to come to a strange city alone, to live in this shithole, with the three of them working beneath her.

“Sorry. I didn’t realise it was a touchy subject.”

Her gaze flicked to the sketch pad he was still holding. “Just like I didn’t realise that was a touchy subject either.”

He pressed his lips together. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s not touchy—at least it shouldn’t be. It was a long time ago.”

She nodded. “I understand. Time isn’t always a healer, huh? Sometimes it only makes the pain worse.”

They stood, staring at each other.

“Theresa,” he started.

“Tess,” she said, interrupting him and giving a little lop-sided shrug. “Everyone calls me Tess... or at least, they did.”

“Tess,” he repeated. “I just wanted to say sorry for the way—”

Rocco and Kane bowled into the bedroom, their big, tattooed, now fairly drunk selves barrelling into the middle of their conversation.

“Hey, boss,” Rocco said. “I think we’re pretty much done.”

Art turned to face his employee. “Yeah, all right, Rocco. You can get going.”

Rocco laughed. “I wasn’t talking to you, Art. I was addressing the lady.”

Tess pressed a smile between her lips. “No problem, Rocco. Thanks for your help. You, too, Kane.”

Kane nodded. “You coming, Art?”

Art turned back to her. “You sure we’ve done enough?”

“Yes thanks. The apartment is looking a million times better.” She raised her voice, aiming it at the men already heading out the door. “Just remember to take the empty cans and pizza boxes with you.”

Rocco was already halfway out the flat, and called back to her, “Will do!”

The moment Art had shared with Theresa had thrown him. There had been some kind of connection he hadn’t felt in a long time. He looked at her, standing beside the bedroom window, the light from the streetlamp filtering through the old net curtain. She appeared small, but brave and determined as well.

“You sure you’re all right?” he asked. It felt weird leaving her here alone.

“I’m a big girl, Art,” she said. “I can look after myself.”

He was tempted to point out that she wasn’t so big, but decided against it. It seemed they could go from everything being okay, to being at each other’s throats in nought to sixty.

She lifted her fine, dark eyebrows at him. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”

He tried not to let her words sting as he turned and left.

Truth was, he didn’t have a home to go to.

He wasn’t supposed to have been staying at the flat—that hadn’t been part of the lease he’d signed, but the old lady had never visited the place, or made any attempt to rent it out separately, and the keys had been on the same bunch as the master key he’d been given for the shop. He’d poured everything into getting his business up and running, and he paid a decent salary to Rocco and Kane. The work he did pro-bono meant he was losing hours from his own salary, but he didn’t care. As long as he had what he needed—a roof over his head, food in his stomach, and to be his own boss in the shop—he didn’t want for anything more. Material possessions had never been important to him, and while others he’d been at school with had gone on to earn crazy money doing the London finance thing, he’d joined another tattoo studio as an apprentice, learning his craft. So when the flat share he’d been previously in had fallen through, he’d just stayed at the shop. He hadn’t told the rest of the guys. In their eyes, nothing had changed and they hadn’t noticed the couple of extra bags lying around. He’d lost money on the previous place, and hadn’t had enough stashed away to get himself started somewhere new. He’d told himself it was temporary and that he’d move out again as soon as somewhere else came up, but that had never happened. That had been six months ago now. When he’d received the letter saying the new owner of the property would be residing upstairs, he’d known he was going to have to move out, but he’d thought he had at least another month or so. He certainly hadn’t expected her to show up a few days later and start throwing out his stuff. Perhaps he should have just owned up to the fact he’d been living there, but his pride had prevented him.

So now he had a new landlady, not only here, but sleeping in his bed.