Thanks for the idea, Lady Clark-Weasley of Books :)

I always loved the art shop in the market square (not that I could ever afford to buy anything from it) It was a posh little shop, with quaint oil paintings of little woodland cottages and such displayed in the window. I entered the shop and was at once filled with a homey feeling, like a reader gets when entering a library (or so I imagine. For me, books were only good to plug a leak or prop up a wobbly easel)

I wandered over to where the oil paint was displayed. Rows and rows of tubes lined the wall. It was a painter's heaven; there was every possible colour imaginable. I picked up a tube of paint (cadmium gold), examining it carefully. £6.00. I could buy six squashed tubes of paint for that price. But I couldn't help admiring the fat tube of paint, bulging at the corners, never been squeezed before. I rarely had the privilege of using such fine quality paint.

Carefully, I unscrewed the lid, glancing around to make sure the shop owner wasn't watching. He always looked at me in a condescending manner, making me feel self conscious and guilty with my fraying pink poncho and dirty dreadlocks. He was too involved with another customer. I squeezed the tube, placing a small dollop on my index finger and rubbing the thick, sticky paint between my fingers. My skin was immediately dyed a brilliant gold. I brought my fingers up to my nose and inhaled the pungent odor of the paint.

"Has a pleasant odor, doesn't it? Sort of a nature smell…"

The voice startled me. I quickly turned on my heel to see who had spoken.

It was a handsome young man, dressed in a posh suit and tie. I felt my cheek flush and suddenly I wished I hadn't decided to come into the art shop at all.

He chuckled, his smile warm and captivating. He picked up a tube (hooker's green) and unscrewed the lid to take a sniff. I involuntarily smiled.

Bravely, I spoke. "Not everyone likes the smell. Must be an artist thing."

And suddenly I realised that this posh man was probably not an artist. I could not imagine him ever getting paint on his hands. I was about to apologise for my quick assumptions when he spoke instead.

"I suppose you're right. It must be like a baker and a fresh batch of cookies."

"But everyone likes the smell of cookies," I contradicted instinctively. What was getting into me? Usually I was just mellow, go with the flow, ditzy Eve. Never had I even dared to speak to a man so gorgeous, let along argue with him!

He only laughed, that smile creeping its way back onto his face. "What's your name?"

"Eve," I answered shyly.

"Beautiful name. I'm Bill. Bill Casson," he said, extending his hand.

The Bill Casson, successful artist. I had seen pieces of his work before.

I reached out to shake his hand, realising too late that I had given him the hand with the paint smeared all over it.

I thought for sure he'd be furious (some of it had managed to get onto his suit), but he didn't seem to mind.

"Need a new one anyway…."

He picked four tubes of oil paint (I longed just to buy one) and added them to his pile (three large mounted canvases and a handful of hog bristle brushes). He then proceeded to the check out.

Slowly, I inched my way out the door. Once outside, I couldn't make myself leave. I watched Bill Casson pay, joking with the grouchy owner (I had never once seen him smile until now).

"I was afraid you'd left, Eve," Bill Casson said as he left the shop. He sounded genuine.

I only blushed.

He came close to me, so that he was only a few inches away. I was momentarily paralyzed.

"It was quite nice meeting you, Eve," he said (I could feel his breath on my face.) "I should very much like to see you again."

I nodded dumbly as he vanished down the street, leaving me with a sheet of paper with his phone number and a tube of cadmium gold paint.