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“Ten common mistakes in property development and how to avoid them?” she said. She must be physic.“I wanted to bin it.”

“That was just one chapter.”

“A favourite?”

“If I’m honest—”

“Please, be honest.” She batted her eyelashes at him, and Cas surrendered.

“It opened at that page because I’ve abandoned it at that point so many times, I’ve warped the spine.”

“So, what are the top no-nos for buying property?”

“You tell me,” Cas said, wondering if she’d do any better than he had.

She tilted her head to one side. “Buying on a flood plain?”

“Got that one.” And, clearly, he’d been right if Beatriz saw it as an issue.

“Buying a building riddled with white ants when the bank wants an instant return, or buying a property without checking the person actually owns it and is entitled to sell.”

“Not bad. Apparently, it has to do with picking the wrong location, paying too high a price, or not checking council restrictions limiting you to eight floors when you need a fourteen-story building to double the investment.”

“Having seen Hunter operate, I can’t believe Hunter or your dad see increasing their bank balances as the only objective.”

“You’re good with numbers.”

Beatriz was also exceptional at kissing, as he’d recently discovered, at asking questions, and about pointing out the gap—chasm ... endless void? between textile design and managing property.

“I’m not auditioning for a job as your accountant,” she said, pushing herself out of her favourite spot on the sofa.

I already know she has a favourite spot and like seeing her curled up there.

She headed for the kitchen, and he followed.

I should tell her property investment isn’t my goal.

But until he had the money in his hand, his plan was a fantasy, and he was superstitious enough to think voicing his dream would jinx him. He’d told Mo at university, but they’d planned to be partners, until Mo’s father needed Mo more. He’d told Monique, but that had been a combustible mix of lust, and ego, and an attempt to explain his flagging interest. Monique’s reaction was to kneecap him with her announcement they were expecting a baby.

“And you’re brilliant at textile design.” She kept saying that, and he always felt lighter for hearing it.

“Okay. I like textiles and fabrics.”

She turned to him, the milk carton held against her chest.

“And design,” he agreed.

“Let me guess, next step black satin sheets?” She was teasing him.

“I prefer to sleep on organic cotton or French linen sheets.” He reached into the cupboard for cups. “French linen is really flax, and it isn’t always sourced in France. I like natural dyes, so tend towards earth colours.”

“You don’t wear synthetic fibres,” she stated, slipping a pod into the coffee machine for him.

“How do you know that?”

“We’re sharing a flat. I see your laundry.”

“But you missed the sheets?” He raised an eyebrow.