“He would have hated it.”
She smiled, struck by how weird it was that the stranger getting her a drink knew her dad so well. “How did you…”
The painting hanging over the dining table stopped her in her tracks. She moved closer to study the canvas. A tiny ship bobbed at the base of an enormous cliff, indigo waves surging around it, gushing veils of pearly foam. She wasn’t as artistically talented as the rest of her family, but she knew this was a beauty. The brushwork was flawless and the colours…you could practically feel the churning pressure of the sea, the frailty of the boat as it teetered on the verge of capsize.
“Who did this?”
No answer. She turned to see Noah pulling the cork from the pinot bottle, caution etched across his handsome-ugly face.
“It’s yours! You paint?”
Noah poured a huge quantity of pinot into a single wine glass. “Want ice?”
“That quince tree in the hall, that’s yours too, isn’t it? Are they all yours? They’re amazing! Who taught you? Why doesn’t anyone else know you paint?”
Noah brought the glass over. He gestured for her to sit below the painting and she did. He sat across from her and she noticed his cheeks were ruddy. Was he embarrassed? God, maybe he was. She accepted the wine and took a panic swallow. It was good, crisp and applish. “Thanks. And sorry for asking a million questions, but your work isbeautiful.”
The red on Noah’s cheeks darkened. “Thanks.”
“How long have you been painting?”
He shrugged. “Couple years?”
“Did my dad teach you?”
Noah smiled. “Nah. He bought me my first set of brushes, though.”
Again, she wasn’t surprised. If there was one thing her dad liked more than tea and renovations, it was helping people find what they were good at. She glanced at the seascape. “I knew you’re a great tattooist, but these should be in galleries. You should be famous.”
Noah shook his head. “I don’t want to sell them.”
“Why not? Do you only want to paint for the love of it or something?”
A pained expression crossed his face. “It’s…complicated.”
More complicated than being a bikie’s son?she thought, but didn’t say anything.
He had to be referring to his family history. The thought of asking him about his father, the bail jumper, sent prickles down her spine. Nervous, she took another sip of her wine. It occurred to her that Noah hadpinotin his house. “Do you drink white?”
“No.”
“Then why do you have it?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “For you. I figured you’d be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous!”
Noah raised a brow.
“Okay, so maybe I’m a little nervous. Can you blame me?”
“Nope. That’s what the wine’s for.”
“Thanks,” she said and took a pointed sip. She was barely half a glass in but she already felt a little drunk on nerves and revelations. She squinted at her wine. “We should discuss things. I have a list of questions, you know. Thirty-four of them.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. About bikers and money and tattooing and lots of things.”