Nina glanced at the digital clock on her microwave, the red numbers bleeding into her vision like a countdown to an execution. Her stomach twisted. "Erm, Julian? I'm sorry to interrupt the professional brooding, but we don't have time for a full-scale renovation. We have less than forty minutes," she said, hearing the edge of panic in her own voice. "I'll be late… humiliatingly late, before you even get your brushes out."
Julian didn't look offended. Instead, he offered a slow, cat-like smirk that reached his ice-blue eyes, the kind of expression that suggested he'd heard this concern a thousand times before. "Who said we were doing this here, beautiful? This lighting is tragic, and your air conditioning is an insult to my complexion."
Nina blinked, her hands frozen on her silk skirts. The fabric crumpled beneath her nervous fingers. "Then where?"
