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“Which you have zero interest in.”

“Not true.”

“How long have you worked in design?”

“More than a decade.”

“And you’ve suddenly got a yen to manage property when you could probably have joined your father straight from school.”

His jaw set mulishly. “Leave it alone, Beatriz.”

Bea put her hand on his forearm, registering a muscle jumping beneath her fingers. “Whatever’s happening, this isn’t the answer. Anna showed me the doona cover.”

The design had showcased skill and humour, but also his perceptiveness in understanding what would delight Hunter and Anna. The fabric had invited Bea to crawl naked beneath the covers and wrap herself in its soft sumptuousness.

“Anna’s a blabbermouth.” He broke from her hold to continue down the hall. “What else did she tell you?”

Bea counted to ten before following him. She did this all the time. Mediated between warring parties. She wasn’t usually one of them. “Anna showed me one of her most treasured wedding gifts. What are you worried she told me? That you’re researching stuff you hate, or that you secretly design textiles? And if you weren’t behaving like an idiot, you’d know Hunter wouldn’t share your secrets with her. I credit him with more imagination when it comes to pillow talk.”

“I’m sorry.” He dumped the box on the desk.

“To me, to Hunter or to Anna?”

“Pax.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t do conflict.”

“That’s it? Fight over? You haven’t shouted at me yet.”

“Would you like a cup of that ginger tea?”

He had no idea how appealing he looked, annoyed at himself for losing his temper, more annoyed for badmouthing Anna, and capable of hauling it all in and being civil. Not blaming others for his temper tantrum. As tantrums went, it barely rated. If only Jackson Smithers had been within earshot, he might pick up a few hints on how to be a functioning adult.

“Despite it being before noon, a hot chocolate is in order. It’s been a challenging morning.”

“Did you know Hunter called it a liquid chocolate bar the first time he met Anna?

“And Anna described his coffee as inky evil,” she replied.

“Wonder what they’re doing?”

“Probably not squabbling about a few books,” she muttered.

Although, Casildo Hariri had dropped some of his unflappable calm to reveal he was human and got pissed off at life sometimes. He just didn’t spray abuse at everyone within reach. She knew that—on a professional level—but seeing him in action in an apartment they shared made it real.

“I’ll get my hot chocolate. What about you?”

“I’ll have an orange juice. Please.”

She turned to go.

“I really am sorry. I go cross-eyed reading some of this stuff.”

“Property development isn’t your dream, Casildo. Art and design are your strengths. Witness your current job and your wedding present. Hard to be a genius at textile design and calculate how to turn a profit from bricks and mortar.” She patted his arm a second time, this time adding a stroke to the pat, fighting the temptation to hug him.

In the space of twenty-four hours she’d learned he put Maha’s happiness above his comfort and loved his father enough to take courses in a subject he hated, maybe to join a business that would keep the light out of his eyes. There’d been hints of this man in the Casildo she’d met over the years.

She added an extra half-spoon of hot chocolate mix to her mug, before zapping it in the microwave. Then she poured Casildo’s juice, while reflecting that he’d been the first person to comfort her after her failed promotion. He’d shared her sense of injustice, solid reassurance that she wasn’t imagining things. She placed the drinks on the table, and called him. “Juice in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.” A minute later he pulled out the chair opposite hers.