Can't Stop the Feeling: Romantic Comedy (Sinclair Sisters Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  The smell of sizzling bacon made her mouth water. Donna wasn’t a very good vegetarian. It turned out she had a hard time saying no to meat as well as people.

  Grace came over and placed a perfectly cooked, vegetable-filled omelette in front of Donna, with three strips of crispy bacon on the side. Donna couldn’t wait to get at it and nabbed a piece before the plate hit the table. It had the perfect crunch and tasted like a salty piece of heaven.

  “Manners,” cook reprimanded, but there was a sparkle in her eye.

  “Yum,” Donna said around a mouthful of food. “I’m so glad you came to work here, Grace. We needed you.”

  “You wouldn’t have starved to death.”

  “We might have. Neither of us can cook and the mansion’s on the no-delivery list for takeaways.”

  “That boy needs to start behaving himself,” Grace said on a sigh.

  “I’m no’ a boy,” Duncan said from the doorway.

  Donna gasped at the sight of him and choked on her bacon. Her eyes streamed as the cook clapped her on the back. When she was done coughing up a lung, she reached for the glass of water Grace had placed in front of her.

  “You’re a boy to me,” Grace told him, making him frown.

  “Then I’m the boy who pays your wages.”

  Grace just rolled her eyes and went back to the stove. This was another reason Donna had been keen to hire Grace as their cook—she knew the woman wouldn’t let their boss intimidate her.

  Duncan slid into the bench seat facing her. “Morning,” he said with a knowing smile.

  He sat there, perfectly relaxed, as though he did this every morning and it was nothing new, when in fact, it was the first morning in her entire time at the mansion that he’d turned up for breakfast.

  “What are you doing here?” she said when she could talk again without coughing.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I live here.”

  Great, she had to deal with an early morning smart arse. “You never come into the kitchen for breakfast.”

  He reached over the table and nabbed one of her strips of bacon. Donna scowled at him as she lifted her fork. “Do that again, and I will maim you.”

  “All this time and I never knew you weren’t a morning person.” His eyes sparkled with amusement and Donna almost choked again, this time on nothing. It was the first time she’d seen him amused, and it softened his features, turning his brooding sexuality into an irresistible rugged magnetism.

  She tore her eyes from him and looked away, but not before she spotted cook eyeing them with speculation. Her cheeks began to heat, and she had to fight the urge to run.

  “Can I have more bacon, Grace?” she said instead.

  “I could use some coffee,” Duncan added.

  Donna frowned at him. “I’m sure Grace wouldn’t mind making you up a tray. You can take it upstairs and eat in your office. Like you usually do.”

  His lips twitched. “I’m fine here.”

  “I’m not,” she muttered.

  She prodded at her food, which had lost its appeal, now that she had company. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat before reaching for her tea and trying to hide behind the mug.

  Grace placed a coffee mug in front of Duncan. “I’ll make you an omelette.”

  “I’d rather have a full breakfast. Heavy on the meat if you don’t mind.” He reached for his coffee.

  “I do mind,” Grace said. “If you want a plate of fried food for breakfast, you’d better head on out to the pub. You’re getting an omelette.”

  Duncan heaved a sigh and turned to Donna. “Remind me why you hired her?”

  “She’s the best cook in Kintyre, and I was starving to death.”

  “Is that right?” Duncan sipped his coffee, but his eyes were on Donna, studying her like she was a math problem he needed to solve.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to eat.”

  He seemed mesmerised by her hair. She self-consciously ran a hand through it as she tried to remember if she’d been awake enough to brush it before she came downstairs. When he continued to stare, she decided she’d had enough of his weird behaviour.

  She slammed down her fork and glared at him. “Do I have something on my face? Is my hair tangled? Is my shirt buttoned up wrong?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Then why are you staring at me like you’ve never seen me before this morning?”

  ***

  Duncan had come to realise that there was no getting away from his need to paint Donna. The only way to get rid of the images in his head was to paint them out. And for that, he required her help. He’d intended to work up to his request. To ease into it. To gently and politely ask her for a favour. Instead, the words rushed out of his mouth and landed on the table between them in a tactless heap.

  “I want to paint you.”

  There was silence. Nothing moved. He wasn’t even sure the women were still breathing. He may as well have dropped a bomb right into the middle of the kitchen.

  “W-what?” Donna whispered.

  There was no going back now. He felt his palms become clammy and his heart race. It would be his first painting since Fiona got sick. His first step towards a new life without her. Bile bit at his throat, and a wave of uncertainty hit him. Could he do it?

  And then he noticed the stark vulnerability in Donna’s eyes. He couldn’t back out now. Not for either of their sakes.

  He placed his empty coffee mug in front of him. “I want to paint you. I want you to pose for me.”

  Grace gasped, but Duncan didn’t take his eyes from Donna. She was stunned and confused, trying to work things out, and knowing her, she would come to the wrong conclusion and run. He had to make things clear for both of them.

  He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the table. “I realise this is a weird request when you work for me. I don’t want you to feel obligated to say yes.” Cook barked out a laugh, and he shot her a look. She didn’t need to tell him that Donna had problems saying no, he’d benefited from it more than once. “Is breakfast coming?” he asked Grace.

  She cast a worried glance at Donna before turning. “I’ll get it sorted.”

  He focused his attention on his housekeeper. Her hair was down today, and the soft morning light brought out the deep strands of red. Her hair fascinated him. It wasn’t wavy, but wasn’t straight either, and so thick a man could get lost in it. He could fill a canvas just with her hair alone. A bizarre abstract study. He cocked his head as he considered it. Maybe another time.

  First, he wanted to paint her sitting in one of the picture windows, with the early morning light washing softly over her. Oh, aye, he could use the sunbeams to break up the canvas. It would be as though you were looking at her through the light. Excitement washed over him. It was like coming home. As though he’d put on a pair of perfect, worn-in jeans that felt like butter to the touch.

  Suddenly, his anxieties fled. Fiona had known he was an artist when she married him. She’d understand his need to work even though she was gone, of that he was certain. And that certainty flowed through his body, calming his over-active heart and steadying his nerves. He was an artist. And he wanted to paint. Right now. Without delay. He’d lost interest in eating. All he wanted to do was get to the studio he hadn’t set foot in for two long years.

  But first, he had to get his model onto the same page. She was still staring at him as though he’d grown two heads overnight.

  “You want to paint…me?” she said, her eyes on his, searching for something, he wasn’t sure what.

  All he could do was give her the truth. “Yes.”

  And then she asked the question he’d been dreading. “Why?”

  He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know why it had to be her, exactly. It was a combination of the colours that made up her skin tone—the peaches and pinks that blended perfectly—and the soft curves that made up her form. The way the light hit her, changing the colours and luminosity o
f her skin and hair, was fascinating to watch. She was a walking Pre-Raphaelite painting, and he had to capture it for himself, in a way he knew only he could.

  “Why, Duncan, why paint me?”

  There was no explaining to her how the sum of her drew him to her. That he wanted to get that essence on canvas. It sounded stupid, even to him. There was something elusive about Donna that he wanted—no, needed—to try to capture in paint. But he couldn’t say any of that. How could he explain something he couldn’t even understand himself? So, he told her the first thing that came to mind.

  “Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t. I need a subject if I’m going to paint again.” It was a minuscule part of the whole reason, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were the wrong ones.

  For a second, she looked like she’d been slapped, and then her face cleared and a plastic smile appeared. “I’m flattered, but I have a lot to do today.” She pushed away her half-eaten food and stood. “But you should definitely get back into painting. A talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted. If you need anything for your studio, let me know and I’ll order it in for you. The art shop in Glasgow does overnight delivery now.” She turned to Grace. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  With that, she walked from the room.

  A plate thudded down on the table in front of him. He looked up into the glaring eyes of his cook.

  “You are a bloody idiot,” she snapped at him.

  “Is that any way to talk to your boss?”

  “It is when he’s being clueless and cruel.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Men.” She shook her head as she untied her apron, then after dumping it on the counter, she followed Donna out of the room.

  Leaving him alone in the huge kitchen. He eyed his food. She’d made him an egg white omelette, filled with spinach. He was obviously being punished. He reached over the table and nabbed the last piece of bacon from Donna’s plate. While he chewed, he tried to figure out what he’d said that was so bad.

  Maybe he should have explained that he’d been thinking about painting more often over the past few weeks and felt it was time to try again, and that she was the perfect subject. But then she would demand to know why she was the perfect subject. Women always wanted to know the why of things. And men never had an answer for them. All he knew was he’d spent the past few nights lying in bed, planning paintings in his head.

  And each one of them was of Donna.

  Chapter 8

  Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t. I need a subject if I’m going to paint again.

  Donna strode down the corridor towards her office, her head held high and her shoulders back, but his words still rang in her ears.

  Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t.

  A sharp pain hit her in the vicinity of her heart. Of course. What more could there be to it? If Fiona were here, he wouldn’t want to paint anyone else. She’d been his go-to model. Not that he was a portrait artist, he just liked to use figures in his canvases to tell the stories in his head. And Fiona had been the perfect muse. Anyone else would be a poor substitute.

  Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t.

  He didn’t want to paint her in particular, he just wanted someone—anyone—to stand in for Fiona while he attempted to see if he could paint without her. It made sense. Perfect sense in fact. And she was pleased for him, thrilled that he was even thinking about painting again. It was wonderful. It was exactly what she’d wanted for him.

  She blinked hard, wiped her cheeks and took a deep breath. She needed to focus on her job and not on Duncan’s sudden desire to paint again. He’d hired her to take care of the mansion, and that’s what she planned to do. The first thing she needed to do was check up on the contractors, to make sure they were on schedule with the carriage house. And there were emails to send. A new batch in her fake conversation with the Fine Arts dean at Glasgow School of Art. They were ironing out the details of Duncan’s lecture. The lecture he knew nothing about and she had no idea how to get him there to give it.

  She pushed open the door to her office, and her eyes went to the painting Duncan had given her when he’d found her admiring it. It was one he’d done early in his career, and showed a winter scene with an isolated house surrounded by snow-covered hills. A woman walked in front of the house, her head down as though deep in thought. But you only really saw snippets of the scene, because the surface of the canvas was criss-crossed with lines that made you feel like you were glimpsing the scene through a forest. It reminded her of hand-sewn quilts she’d seen during a school trip to the museum. The colours had been pale—washed out almost—but the feeling evoked by the quilts had been magical. Duncan’s work was like that. He wasn’t only one of the greatest painters of his generation—he was also a storyteller. His images pulled you into the narrative until you felt like you were part of them, and in the midst of all those swirling brush strokes, you felt like you were touching beauty.

  Her chest tightened, and it became hard to breathe. He had such an incredible talent. A gift. He’d find a better subject than her.

  Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t.

  She blinked several times as she reached for her handbag. Where had she left that copy of The Hobbit she’d been drawing in? She wanted to take it with her, just in case she found a minute to lose herself in it. She checked under her desk.

  “He didn’t mean it, you know,” Grace said from the doorway.

  Donna forced a bright smile. “Mean what? Isn’t it fantastic that he wants to paint again? I honestly thought this day would never come. You should pose for him. It’s a great honour.”

  Grace stepped into the room and suddenly it felt far too small. “He didn’t mean what he said. He’s just a man. And a daft one at that.”

  Because you’re here and Fiona isn’t.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she lied as she kept the smile on her face. “You haven’t seen a copy of The Hobbit lying around have you?”

  The cook heaved a sigh. “No. No, I haven’t. You should think about taking him up on his offer to paint you though. It would be a good way to keep him busy while the Women’s Institute is here.”

  Donna froze. “I forgot all about them.”

  “Aye,” was all Grace said.

  A wave of dizziness overcame her, and she had to sit down. “Maybe you could offer to pose instead.”

  “He doesn’t want me.”

  “He doesn’t care what he paints. A person, a bowl of fruit, a tree—it’s all the same to him.”

  Grace pursed her lips. “Seems he isn’t the only daft one around here. I need to deal with the institute’s caterer. I don’t have time to pose for an instant photo never mind a painting.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “I suggest you clear your busy schedule and sit for the idiot unless you can think of another way to keep him occupied while you scheme behind his back.” She turned towards the door. “And for goodness’ sake, stop listening to what he says and watch what he does. He’s a man. He’s genetically programmed to put his foot in his mouth every time he opens it.”

  With a huff, she left Donna alone to try to figure out another way to keep Duncan occupied for the day. Any other way. Unfortunately, none came to mind.

  ***

  Duncan’s studio was on the ground floor at the north-eastern corner of the house, overlooking the garden and the driveway. He wasn’t sure what it had originally been used for, most likely as a music room. It was one of the many rooms the original Georgian owners had used for entertaining, and the irony of him owning a building that was designed for socialising wasn’t lost on him.

  The room had escaped Fiona’s restoration. And for this, he was grateful. A studio was an artist’s blank canvas, a place to rest his eye and let his imagination reign. Something that couldn’t be achieved with burgundy walls or red flocked wallpaper.

  No, his studio had white walls, a bare wooden floor, a double sink in the corner, and
uncovered windows. And that was it. The rest of the space held an assortment of tables, trolleys, drying racks, easels, and shelves housing paints. The only seating was a high stool he used when he was tired of standing at his easel, and a sofa he sat on to think.

  At least, that was what his studio had looked like the last time he’d set foot inside it.

  As he reached the end of the corridor and stood in front of the door, his hands began to sweat. This time, he was going inside. He wasn’t going to pace the corridor and chicken out. This was it. As he reached for the handle, he remembered the last time he’d been in the room, and he stilled.

  “Are you comfortable there? No’ too cold?” he asked Fiona as she reclined on the sofa in the corner of the room where the windows met, and the light bathed her in a soft white glow.

  “I’m fine.” She adjusted the blanket he’d tucked around her. “I have my scrapbook and I plan to keep busy making notes for the renovation slash restoration.”

  His throat tightened at the sight of her gentle smile. They both knew she wouldn’t be around to see the finished mansion.

  “Plus,” she said, “if I get fed up with this, I can always watch you work.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I would feel so much better if you’d paint without your shirt on. In fact”—her eyes danced, and for a moment, he lost sight of the black circles beneath them—“why don’t you paint in the nude? I’m sure that would help a lot.”

  “You do, do you?” He tossed the rag he’d been using to wipe his brush at her head. “No nude painting. Anyone walking up the drive can see right in here. And I won’t be responsible for giving the housekeeper a heart attack.”

  “Spoil sport.”

  She rested her head on the arm of the sofa and watched as he applied the finishing touches to a moonlight scene, with a lone figure standing by the water.

  “We would have had wonderful children,” she said on a sigh.

  Duncan cleared his throat before answering. “Aye, we would have.”