Under His Skin. Nicola Marsh

       CHAPTER ONE

      LOGAN SHOULDERED OPEN the heavy glass door to the trendy café in inner Melbourne and froze.

      He didn’t belong in this artsy-fartsy place.

      Hipsters with wispy beards, rimmed glasses and tight clothes jostled for position alongside whip-smart professionals in designer suits, studying their mobile phones with the usual self-absorption. Garish art reminiscent of a kindergartener’s finger-painting dotted the walls, while muted jazz added to the cacophony of the baristas’ raised voices shouting out names for take-out double decaf soy lattes and spicy chais with extra cream.

      His skin prickled with discomfort as he pushed up his rolled shirt sleeves and stepped inside. The comforting aromas of coffee, cinnamon and toasted sandwiches did little to ease his wariness as he scanned the packed tables.

      He couldn’t see her.

      It didn’t surprise him that Hope McWilliams would be late. She’d sounded hoity-toity on the phone and it had nothing to do with her posh British accent. An annoying mix of aloof and condescending, she’d insisted he be the one to quote the renovations to her music studio and not one of his subordinates. He could’ve blown her off. He should’ve. But his foreman had injured his back last week, meaning Logan needed to stick around town for another month before Rick was back on deck.

      It pissed him off, being confined to this city when he’d rather be on the road. He’d built his construction company into one of the best in Australia and he’d done it by travelling the length and breadth of the country, ensuring his clients were happy with his sub-contractors. He trusted his team but he’d learned through sheer hard work and determination that being the boss didn’t entail delegation; he needed to take full responsibility for every job too.

      A woman standing in the far corner of the café caught his attention; more precisely, her exaggerated arm-wave, making her look like a seaman waving in a fighter jet on a carrier. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed she must be beckoning him and he strode towards her through the ridiculously tiny tables. The closer he got, the more he could see: tall, slim, blonde, pretty. But it was the goofy kaftan thingy she wore that captured his attention most: pale pink, covered in music notes. Bizarre.

      He stopped short of her table and stuck out his hand. ‘Logan Holmes.’

      ‘Hope McWilliams.’ She shook his hand tentatively, as if she didn’t want to get dirty.

      That irked. It had been a few years since he’d been on the tools alongside his workers and he hated how narrow-minded people labelled men who worked with their hands as ignorant, grubby tradies. They took one look at steel-capped boots, shorts and a fluorescent work vest and immediately thought ‘Neanderthal’.

      He didn’t like her supercilious stare either so he responded with a smirk. ‘Taking the music theme to extremes, huh?’

      Her tight smile slipped as she sat and gestured at the seat opposite, a stupid, tiny wrought-iron thing that barely held his weight. ‘I’m a music teacher. It pays to advertise.’

      Okay, so the ice princess had a sense of humour. He liked that. He could work with that.

      ‘From your email and our discussion on the phone, you’re looking to expand your current space into a custom-built recording studio?’

      One imperious eyebrow rose, instantly adding to her air of superiority. ‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’

      ‘I’m here to give you a quote.’

      ‘We could have a coffee first?’

      This time when she smiled, he almost reeled back. When she relaxed, her heart-shaped face transformed from severe to breath-taking. He’d tried not to notice her beauty when he’d first seen her, because that was another assumption some people made: that all tradesmen were lecherous creeps who wolf-whistled at any woman walking past a work site. So he’d practised showing no reaction other than politeness with women from the time he’d first picked up a hammer as an eager eighteen-year-old apprentice.

      But with Hope staring at him with those wide green-grey eyes and her full lips parted in a genuine smile, his famed poker face slipped and he couldn’t help but gawk.

      ‘Coffee to go would be great.’ He stood, eager to get away from the disarming blonde. ‘I’ll get it.’

      He’d taken a step before belatedly realising he hadn’t asked her what she wanted. ‘What would you like?’

      ‘A soy chai decaf, regular.’

      Figured. He hated fancy fake coffee blends almost as much as pretentious cafés like this.

      ‘I’ll meet you out the front,’ she said, reaching for her wallet on the table.

      ‘This one’s on me.’ He held up his hand and walked away before she could argue.

      His flaky father might not have given him much growing up but he’d instilled in him old-fashioned values about how to treat a woman, such as paying for meals or beverages, being respectful and active listening. Pity his old man hadn’t practised what he preached