Falling For The Single Dad

Made biscuits? She would have smelt it. Probably just poetic licence. ‘In a minute,’ she said, eyeing the reservoir and wondering if it would be enough. ‘Take the blanket down and I’ll be down soon.’

Although not that soon. She filled a bottle, then washed out the machine, put the parts into fresh sterilising solution and right on cue, Kizzy started to cry.

The acid test, she thought, and, scooping the baby up, she offered her the teat, squeezing a little milk out so she knew it wasn’t formula, but Kizzy wasn’t fooled and she spat the teat out.

Great.

Emily didn’t know what she was doing. If only she hadn’t started this. Well, it was time it stopped. Harry could feed her. Maybe that would work better.

She took Kizzy down, handed her and the bottle over and gave him a crooked smile. ‘Yours, I think,’ she said, and, scooping Freddie up, she hugged him and kissed his sticky, chocolaty little face. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she said, and he snuggled into her and wiped chocolate all over her front.

She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Harry and Kizzy would manage to get the milk down her neck and she could take a back seat.

‘Is that my tea?’ she asked, and Beth nodded.

‘It’s not very hot.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ she said firmly, and, turning her back on Harry and the baby, she sipped her tea, nibbled a biscuit—not home made, she noticed—and tuned out the sound of Kizzy fussing.

And then, miraculously, there was peace.

The screaming stopped, there was a suckling noise from behind her, and she felt her shoulders drop about a foot.

Finally.

‘Thank you.’

She looked up and smiled at Harry. He was hesitating in the doorway, his eyes studying the gadget, and he shifted awkwardly, jerking his head towards the pump.

‘So how does it work?’

Strangely shy suddenly, she showed him the instructions, showed him the bra which held the breast shields in place while the pump was working, and how the milk was collected, and his brows clumped together in a frown.

‘I had no idea it was so complicated,’ he said. ‘Hell, Em, I’m sorry. It’s a real drag having to do all that.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said, all too conscious of the fact that he’d never asked her to start this.

‘But it’s going to take so much time—all the sterilising and stuff, never mind the time linked up to the pump.’

‘Well, that’s OK. You’ll have plenty of opportunity in between milking times to hose down the parlour,’ she said with a grin, and his face dropped.

‘Me? You want me to wash it out and sterilise it and stuff?’

‘Well, why not? She’s your baby. I’m just the dairy cow—and, no, you can’t call me Daisy,’ she added, and his mouth quirked in a smile.

‘Sorry. I didn’t think. Of course I’ll do it. Just one thing?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Can I call you Buttercup?’

He ducked out of reach, laughing, and she stood up and grabbed a cushion and lobbed it at him just as he turned the corner into the hall.

It bounced off the wall, and she heard the sound of his retreating chuckle, then the noise of the kettle boiling. Two minutes later he was back with a cup of tea for her.

‘Kids are all settled. Anything I can do for you?’

A massage, to take the kinks out of her neck from falling asleep in the chair this morning after she’d fed Kizzy?

She shook her head. ‘No. I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look fine, you look tense,’ he said, and, turning her round in her swivel chair, he put his big, gentle hands on her shoulders and squeezed. ‘Tight as a bowstring,’ he said, tutting, and worked the muscles carefully.

Bliss. It was absolute bliss. The only thing that could be better would be if they were lying down, and then when he’d massaged her shoulders, he’d run his hands down her back, over her bottom, her legs, then back up, really slowly, teasing, slipping his finger under the elastic of her knickers and running it round, just enough to torment her. Then he’d roll her on her back and start again, kneading—

‘Are you OK?’

Oh, lord, had she really groaned aloud?

‘I’m fine. Sorry, bit tight there,’ she flannelled, wondering if she’d get away with it. He paused a moment longer, then his fingers started working again and she let her breath go in a long, silent sigh.

‘Better?’

Was she imagining it, or was his voice a little husky? No. Don’t be silly, she told herself. You’re imagining it.

‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, and wondered if her voice was a little off kilter or if she was just imagining that, too. But then she turned to smile her thanks, and met his unguarded eyes.

Need.

That was what she saw. Need, and hunger, and reluctance. Well, she knew all about that. All of them, in fact. Just at the moment reluctance was way down her list, but it was still there, smothered by the need and hunger and the unrequited ache that had been there for what seemed like half her lifetime.

Was half her lifetime.

Oh, hell.

She turned back to the desk. ‘I’d better drink my tea,’ she said, a touch unsteadily. ‘It’ll be cold. Thanks for the massage—I’ll be able to put in another couple of hours at the drawing board now.’

She felt him hesitate, then with a murmured, ‘See you later, then,’ he went out and closed the door softly behind him.

She sagged against the desk and closed her eyes. Why? Why on earth had he had to come back and torment her like this? And why was it all so incredibly complicated?

She straightened up, pulled the file towards her and sorted through the pages, considering the next project she had to do for Nick. She couldn’t afford to think about Harry now. She had work to do, to earn her living. And Harry Kavenagh was just a distraction she could do without.

He shouldn’t have touched her.

Just the feel of her shoulders, tense under his hands at first, then gradually relaxing, and that little moan—hell, he’d nearly lost it.

Bit tight? Rubbish. She’d been utterly floppy and she’d only tensed up again after she’d made that needy little noise.

And her eyes, when she’d turned—wary, longing—he had no idea how he’d got out of there. If she hadn’t turned away when she had, God knows what would have happened.

He snorted. Well, of course she’d realised that. That was why she’d turned back to her desk, because she’d realised that if she kept looking at him like that, he would have lost it.

Might still.

He growled with frustration and checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He’d fed Kizzy at seven-thirty. With any luck he’d got another hour, at least. He tapped on the study door and opened it a crack.

‘Are you OK if I go for a walk? Kizzy should be all right for a bit.’

‘Sure,’ she said, her voice a little strained. ‘Take your mobile.’

‘Done,’ he said, and went out into the blissful evening. It was gorgeous—a light breeze to take away the heat of the day, the sun low in the sky, creeping down to the horizon. He walked to the clifftop and sat watching the sun brush the sky with colour. It was the wrong way round for a sunset, of course, facing east as it did, but sunrise would be glorious.

If he was up one night, woken by Kizzy, he might bring her here and let her see the dawn.

He glanced at his watch, surprised at how dark it had become, and realised he’d been longer than he’d meant to be. Still, his phone hadn’t rung, so Kizzy hadn’t woken.

Unless Em just hadn’t phoned him.

He jogged back and arrived just as she began to whimper.

‘Milk’s in the microwave,’ Em told him, meeting him in the hall.

‘Thanks.’ He ran up and lifted the baby into his arms, and she snuggled into him, her little mouth working, feeling the material of his T-shirt and growing impatient.

‘Sorry, baby. Do I smell wrong? Never mind. Come on, let’s go and find some milk for you.’

Em was waiting for him, handing him the bottle and going back into the study and shutting the door. Just as well. A little space would do them both good at the moment.

He fed the baby, persevering through her fussing until she took the bottle in the end and settled down to suck, then he bathed and changed her and put her to bed.

Ten. Just in time for the news, he thought, and watched it in silence on the edge of his seat, saw friends of his reporting from places he knew well, read between the lines, guessed the things they weren’t telling or had been ordered not to report.

Did they miss him? Were they all having to work extra shifts, or were there things not being given coverage because he wasn’t there? Maybe some youngster was getting his first chance. Or hers. There were plenty of women now out there working in the field, covering stories every bit as dangerous as the ones he covered.

He laughed softly to himself and shook his head. The most dangerous thing he had to do at the moment was dodge one of Kizzy’s special nappies.

Or Emily. Keeping out of her way, keeping the simmering need between them under control because frankly things were complicated enough without that. And then she stuck her head round the door.

‘I’m off to bed now. The breast pump’s in the sink—it needs washing up and putting in the sterilising solution. There are four bottles in the fridge—should see her through. ’ Night.’

‘Good night,’ he said automatically, and switched off the television. They’d got onto the local news, and he didn’t need to know about the local protests about a meat-rendering plant and the woman who’d had her dog stolen.

So he went into the kitchen and picked up the breast pump. Warm. It was still warm, the bits that went over her nipples still holding her body heat, the reservoir warm from the milk.

And he had to wash it, knowing where it had been, aching to have touched her as closely as these bits of plastic.

Dear God, he was losing it. It was just an ordinary, everyday thing, and he was turning it into something huge.

Because it was.

He didn’t know anybody else who would have done it for Kizzy, and it brought a lump to his throat. He didn’t want to be there in the kitchen. He wanted to be upstairs with Em, cradling her in his arms, holding her close to his heart, listening as her breathing slowed into sleep, but he didn’t have the right.

He didn’t have any rights.

He washed it up, put it in the solution, checked the bottles and went upstairs to bed.

Kizzy slept right through to four, and when she woke she snuggled down into his arms and fell asleep again, so he went down to the kitchen, warmed the bottle and went back up, laid her carefully down on the bed and pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, wrapped her in her fleecy blanket and went down, took the bottle and headed for the cliff.

‘We should just make the sunrise,’ he told her, and as they turned the corner, he saw the first tiny rim of gold creep over the horizon.

‘Look, Kizzy,’ he said, holding her up, and she opened her eyes and stared up at him and smiled.

She smiled at him! Her first smile!

He sat down on the damp grass, cradled her close and lifted the bottle to her mouth, and she took it without a murmur, while he sat there and watched the new day dawn and marvelled at her smile.

‘Harry?’

He turned in the bedroom doorway, his face perturbed. ‘Em—I’m sorry, did I disturb you?’

‘Not really. I heard the door go. I was worried. Is everything OK?’

He nodded, his face somehow lit from within. ‘She smiled at me,’ he said in wonder. ‘I took her out to watch the dawn and she smiled at me.’

Oh, she remembered that so well—the first time Beth and Freddie had smiled at her. Such a wonderful gift. Of course, Kizzy was very young, so it might have been wind, but she wasn’t going to spoil his moment. And she’d been staring more and more intently, so it could easily have been a proper smile.

‘That’s lovely,’ she said softly, and reached out her finger to stroke it down the baby’s downy cheek. ‘Did she take the feed?’

He nodded, and she felt a strange mixture of emotions. Relief, of course, but also—regret? Really?

‘I’m just going to change her and put her down. Do you want me to make you a cup of tea, as you’re up?’

She nodded. ‘That would be nice. In fact, why don’t I make it while you do the baby?’ she offered, and he smiled gratefully and went into the bedroom to change her.

Emily went downstairs, put the kettle on and made the tea, and she was just at the foot of the stairs when he came out of the baby’s room and pulled the door to.

‘Ah, cheers,’ he murmured, and ran lightly down, smiling at her.

‘So where did you go?’ she asked, curious about his sudden urge for the dawn.

‘The cliff top. I took the bottle and fed her while I watched the sun come up. It was gorgeous. Beautiful. You would have loved it.’

She would have. Sitting on the cliff top with him, leaning against him and watching for that first sliver of gold—they’d done that on the morning of his grandmother’s funeral, and then that night, in the summerhouse, he’d kissed her as he’d never kissed her before, with a wildness and desperation that had nearly pushed them over the edge.

Did he remember? Yes, of course he did. He’d mentioned it already, when he’d talked about the creaking garden gate; she’d said they’d been kids, and he’d said not the last time. So clearly he remembered it.

She handed him his tea and curled up on the chair—safest, really, considering how vulnerable she was to him—and he sat in the corner of the sofa opposite and drank his tea and watched her as the sun slowly pushed back the night and the shadows receded.

‘I ought to go back to bed and catch a few more minutes—Freddie’ll be up soon,’ she said, putting down her mug and standing up, and with a fleeting smile she turned on her heel and left him while she still had the determination to do it.

She was out for the count. Not surprising, really, considering how much sleep she’d lost over the last couple of nights, but as he was up anyway with Kizzy, it was no hardship to give Freddie a hug and change his nappy—quite a different proposition to Kizzy’s!—and take him downstairs for his juice.

Two babies, he thought, and had to stifle a slightly hysterical laugh. Him, the greatest bachelor of all time, changing nappies at six-thirty in the morning?

His mother would be stunned.

He realised with something akin to astonishment that he hadn’t told them yet—not about Carmen, not about his marriage, and certainly not about Kizzy.

Perhaps he should. Give them an opportunity to gloat. They’d probably earned it, he’d given them a hard enough time when he’d been growing up.

And whose fault was that? an inner voice asked. Yours, for being bored and understimulated by parents that didn’t bother, or theirs, for neglecting your basic need for human interaction?

Well, he was getting plenty of human interaction now, both at work and at home—and there was that word again.

‘San’ castle,’ Freddie demanded.

‘How about breakfast first?’ he suggested evenly. ‘Want some eggy bread? Or toast and honey?’

‘Eggy b’ed.’

‘OK. I tell you what, you drink your juice and watch the telly with me, and I’ll give Kizzy her milk, and then we’ll have eggy bread. OK?’

‘’K,’ Freddie said round the spout of the feeder cup, and snuggled up under his arm and watched him feed the baby.

He looked exhausted.

He was dozing on the sofa, Kizzy sleeping in the crook of his arm, Freddie next to him watching baby-telly in the crook of his other arm, and Emily felt a wave of emotion that she didn’t want to examine too closely for fear of what she’d find.

‘Hi, baby,’ she said softly, and Freddie lifted his head and gave her his gorgeous beaming smile and held out his arms. She scooped him up, hugged him close and sat down on the chair with him without a word, so as to not disturb Harry. She didn’t like leaving Kizzy there like that, in case he rolled over or moved and dropped her, but the first sign of movement and she’d be there.

Plus, of course, it gave her the perfect excuse to study him as he slept.

He was rumpled and tousled and gorgeous, she thought, his jaw dark with stubble, his lashes dark crescents against his cheeks. His nose had been broken at some time, leaving a little bump in the middle, and there was a faint scar slicing through the stubble—from a knife blade? Could be. It wouldn’t surprise her, the places he ended up and the trouble he seemed to find.

What was that saying? Don’t borrow trouble, it’ll find you soon enough—or something like that? It certainly found Harry—or he found it. As a child he’d been a dare-devil, and as an adult—well, she couldn’t bear to think about the things he’d done in the course of his career as a TV world affairs correspondent.

Still, it was over now. She was sure he’d still travel the world, but once he’d worked his notice, hopefully his life should be a whole lot safer.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d find that life in Yoxburgh wasn’t so bad after all…

CHAPTER SIX

‘IT’S looking really good.’

‘Mmm.’ Harry swivelled round, studying the newly painted sitting room, then glanced down the hall. ‘The kitchen’s still awful.’

‘Well, give them time. I tell you what, if you had the cabinet doors painted while they’re in there, it would give it a new lease of life. Just until you decide what you’re doing,’ she added.

She was fishing, but he didn’t rise. ‘I’ll talk to them,’ he said, and disappeared upstairs to where the boss was working, leaving her there with Freddie in her arms and Beth at her side, wrinkling her little button nose at the smell of paint.

Emily was standing by the French doors, keeping an eye on Kizzy outside in the baby-carrier, and she glanced up at the garden, looking at it properly for the first time in ages. As she studied it Harry appeared at her shoulder and made a thoughtful noise.

‘Awful, isn’t it? It’s gone to rack and ruin over the last ten years. My grandparents would be gutted. It just needs tidying when I’ve got time,’ he said, but she laughed.

‘I don’t think so. Most of the shrubs are too leggy to recover, and it’s a high-maintenance garden, anyway. Tenants won’t want that, and I don’t suppose you do, either.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Something simple? Some gravel, some paving, some serious pruning and thinning of the shrubbery and some more inventive planting—I’d have to look at it.’

‘Would you? I’ll pay you to design it for me.’

She turned and frowned at him. ‘I wouldn’t dream of charging you!’ she said, insulted, but he just arched a brow.

‘Do you charge Nick?’

‘Well—yes, but it’s business.’

‘Yes. And so’s this. Put it like this, if you won’t let me pay you, I’ll get someone else in—one of the garden centre chains. Most of them have a design department. And you’ll have to look at it over the fence and it will annoy the hell out of you.’

‘But I’ll need someone to look after the children.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Only if you let me pay you.’ Hah. She had him.

Or not. ‘But I still owe you babysitting time,’ he pointed out archly, ‘and, come to think of it, a massage.’

‘You gave me that the other night.’

‘Not a proper one. I only did your shoulders.’

And that had been bad enough. The thought of taking her clothes off and lying down on a towel while he massaged her whole body with those incredible hands was enough to make her hyperventilate. She turned back to the garden.

‘Fair cop,’ she said, her voice a little uneven. ‘OK. Instead of the massage, you can look after the kids and I’ll do you a design. If you like it, you can pay me. If you don’t, then there’s no charge.’

‘Is that how you normally work?’

‘Yes,’ she lied.

He grunted, and she guessed he didn’t believe her, but it was tough. She wasn’t taking money off him if he didn’t agree with her design, and she wouldn’t take much off him anyway. And she’d oversee it for nothing and pretend it was part of the service. Maybe even do some of the work. And maybe he could do some, too. They could do it together, working side by side while the children played in the soil and ran around getting grubby.

Just like a family.

The sudden ache in her chest took her by surprise, and she sucked in her breath and turned back to him with an overbright smile. ‘Deal?’

‘Deal,’ he said, but before he could say any more or lay down any conditions of his own, her mobile phone rang.

‘Hey, Georgie!’ she said with relief. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine—fancy the beach? We’re going down with the kids and taking a picnic. Want me to do enough for you, too?’

‘You don’t want to do that! I can make something for me and the kids.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting Harry?’ Georgie said, and she shot him a look, wondering if he’d heard. Probably.

‘Fancy going to the beach with the kids?’ she asked him, hoping he’d say no, but he grinned and nodded.

‘Love to. I haven’t been to an English beach for years. Bucket–and-spade time, eh, Freddie?’

Freddie was jiggling on her hip and squealing, Beth was bouncing on the spot and nearly tugging her arm out of its socket, and Harry looked almost as enthusiastic.

‘I think that’s a yes,’ she said to Georgie, giving up the unequal struggle, because, in fact, she couldn’t think of anything she’d like more than going to the beach with Harry and the children.

And if it was just another example of them playing happy families, well, maybe he’d find it was so much fun he wanted to do it again and again and again…

‘Freddie, no!’

He was being crushed to death! He was lying flat on his back, buried up to his neck in sand, and Freddie was bouncing on his chest and laughing. Beside him Nick was similarly buried, with Dickon sitting on him and giggling helplessly, and he turned his head and caught Nick’s eye.

‘Enough?’ Nick mouthed, and he nodded.

‘OK. One, two, three!’ Nick yelled, and they both erupted out of the sand, grabbing the giggling children and dumping them in the dents they’d made.

‘Look! I can still see you!’ Beth said, pointing at his impression in the sand, Freddie sitting in the middle of it—giggling hysterically.

‘’Gain!’ he yelled.

‘You’ve got to catch me first,’ Harry said, and headed for the sea, Nick at his side and the children in hot pursuit. As his feet hit the water he stopped dead and gasped. ‘Hell, it’s freezing!’

‘Not quite Sharm-el-Sheikh, I’m afraid!’ Nick replied with a grin. ‘We can always go back to the house for a proper swim if you want.’

‘You’ve got a pool?’

He nodded. ‘And a hot tub. I love my hot tub. I’ve got one in London at the apartment, and I couldn’t bear the thought of not having it, so we built one here.’

They strolled along the fringe of surf, the children giggling and chasing each other round and round in the shallow water and splashing each other, while Georgie sat under a big hat and fanned herself and Em sat with her, the baby at her side under a little parasol she’d found in the loft.

They could have been just two normal families, he thought, but of the four of them only Em was really a parent, although of course time would soon change that for Nick and Georgie, with the birth of their own baby in just a very few weeks.

He glanced up the beach at Em. How would he feel if she was pregnant with his child?

Terrifed, if he had any sense.

But apparently not, because the thought didn’t seem terrifying at all, it seemed ridiculously appealing—although that was probably because it was never going to happen. One, because he didn’t just go round getting women pregnant and, two, because there was no way he was getting that close to Emily.

And if that left him feeling just a little hollow inside, it was tough. Coming back had caused enough havoc. And he needed to be able to leave again, needed to be free—and he knew, just knew, that if he and Em ended up having an affair, free was the last thing he’d be.