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She pulled her kaftan over her head and changed into jeans and a cardigan set. Work casual, rather than her lounge-about-around home clothes. Then she tugged on the socks and short boots she’d arrived in. Camouflage, but necessary camouflage for a conversation she had to win.

When she emerged from Anna’s old bedroom, Casildo was in an armchair. His hair was tied back with some kind of leather thong, long enough to trail around the side of his neck.

Bea had told herself looking was allowable, lust was forbidden, especially since he’d never looked at, said, or touched her in any way remotely unprofessional. Friendly? Yes. Sleazy? No. Interested? Once upon a time she’d wished.

Right now he looked—chastened? Cautious?

Good.

He’d disturbed her peace. She’d been enjoying her new-found freedom, enjoying having a whole sofa to herself, rather than finding it full of sisters who’d become demanding witches while her back was turned, blaming her for losing a promotion she deserved.

Cas had cleaned up the mess and placed a fresh cup of hot chocolate on the table in front of the sofa where Bea had been sitting. Her irritation faded. “Thanks for cleaning up.”

“My fault you had the spill.”

He did that. Did menial tasks when other males insisted on their consequence. Yet, Casildo controlled final approval for artwork at the marketing company where he worked. Apparently, he had an “eye” for matching the mood to the product, for exquisite balance between colour and movement, for creating excitement.

How on earth do I convince him to go away?

“Can’t you move into your parents’ house?” Her first salvo.

“No.”

He also had a reputation for easy-going politeness, no back-stabbing or messy office politics. Patient and endlessly reasonable, until you crossed a line. Or so she’d heard.

“From all accounts you love your family.”

“Did Anna tell you that too?”

“In five years, Casildo, you’ve mentioned them fondly on various occasions.”

A man who cared for his parents might understand Bea’s sacrifices for hers, and by all accounts, Casildo cared for his parents. Unlike the last guy she’d semi-seriously dated. He’d ghosted her pretty darn fast after her father’s accident.

“Okay. I respect and love them, but if I lived with them someone would die.”

“Cramp your social life, would they?”

“I’m cramping Maha’s social life by occupying her flat. She’s got a bloke.”

“Anna’s boss, Antonio?”

“You probably knew before me,” he growled, looking at the ceiling, before he seemed to reach a conclusion. “I moved back home for a specific reason. The situation has changed. Enough, so I’m superfluous at home, but I need a bit more time to organise a rental.”

“I know what you earn.” Bea blurted out the words, then scrambled to reclaim the upper hand. “After all, we work in the same industry.”

Although, he hadn’t actually said money was the issue with a rental.

I’m projecting because I can’t begin to imagine that luxury.Not for two years, at least.

But questions ricocheted in her head. Back when she’d first met Casildo, someone had whispered that he came from wealth and mentioned an apartment in the residential part of the central business district, although he’d moved back home by the time Anna met Hunter. Anna had been vague about why—something about his father needing help.

Bea was intimate with the fear you breathed when a beloved parent was ill. Illness could bleed a family’s bank accounts dry.

Casildo had moved home to help; she’d never left.

“Bully for you. I’ve got a rough idea what you earn, and you’re sitting here telling me you want free rent enough to fight me for it,” he said with a scowl, clearly unhappy he’d told her as much as he had.

To be fair, finding a decent rental at short notice in Sydney was like entering a bull ring unprotected. Bodies littered the arena.