Читать книгу Baby's On The Way!: Bound by a Baby Bump / Expecting the Prince's Baby / The Pregnant Witness - Rebecca Winters - Страница 13

CHAPTER SEVEN

LEO SAT LISTENING to the kettle coming to the boil, wondering whether he should wake Rachel. After a long walk down the beach yesterday afternoon, and a portion of fish and chips for dinner, she’d crashed almost as soon as they’d arrived back at the house. And had been asleep more than twelve hours. He wondered whether she’d been working too hard. Weren’t pregnant women meant to take things easy? Perhaps she’d been overdoing it. Should he say something?

But what right did he have to even ask her that? Did the fact that she was carrying his child give him a right to question what she was doing? He shook his head. There were still so many things they hadn’t discussed. But discussing meant deciding. And deciding meant getting it in writing, laminating and deviating only on the point of death.

He made a coffee and decided to leave her. She’d wake when she was ready. And maybe he could subtly ask her later whether she thought she should be taking things easier. He really needed to know more about pregnancy, about babies. He’d never given any thought to starting a family; it had always seemed a distant, uncertain thing. And he’d never imagined he’d be facing it with someone he barely knew. Perhaps he could ask his mum these questions. He’d have to tell her. And his dad, too.

He gave a shudder as he acknowledged what he’d been trying to ignore since he’d first found out about the baby. He’d have to see his family. His brother. He’d avoided him for years, had barely seen him since he’d left school. He knew that he was hurting his parents, that they despaired of ever seeing their family all together again. But what else could he do—sit down to a happy family dinner with him? The man who had made his life miserable—who had led the school bullies. So miserable that when he’d left school, escaped them, he’d sworn that he’d never again find himself in a situation he didn’t like without an escape route. Which was why the news that Rachel was pregnant had terrified him. Because if there was any situation more impossible to escape than this one, he didn’t want to know about it.

She would want to make a start on that plan this morning. Even when she’d been falling-over tired last night she’d mentioned wanting to do it. It was only the interruption of an enormous yawn that had made her listen to him and finally take herself off to bed—and a promise that they could talk about it today.

He only knew one thing for certain—no child of his would be subjected to the experience he’d had. He wanted a better life for him, or her.

What were the other headings in Rachel’s magnum opus? Finance? She obviously knew—or thought she knew—that he was well off. After all, he’d made the generous donation she’d not so subtly hinted at the night of the fundraiser. But that was family money, not his. He’d always been happy to send his trust-fund proceeds the way of those who really needed them—but had never used it for himself.

He’d seen the damage done when people inherited money without responsibility. Stick a load of those with an inflated sense of self-worth together, with insufficient supervision, and you had a recipe for disaster—and emotional torture in his case. If Rachel thought that she’d found herself a meal ticket she would be sadly disappointed. But he didn’t really think that was what she was interested in.

Creaking floorboards upstairs told him that she was awake. He gave a start, half pleased at the thought of seeing her, half dreading the discussion he knew would inevitably come. Remembering the hour she’d spent in the bathroom the night he’d stayed at her flat, he expected a little more grace before he had to face her, but then he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

For half a second, he wondered if he’d be treated to the sight of her in some sort of skimpy nightwear. The sight of her perfectly prim jeans and soft sweater reminded him she’d come here prepared for a business meeting. At least she wasn’t clutching her tablet. In fact, he couldn’t even see her phone on her. Though looking for it gave him a brilliant excuse for thoroughly checking out the pockets of her jeans.

‘Morning,’ he said, standing up from the table. Once he was on his feet, he wasn’t sure why he had done it, except that it seemed impossible not to react to her, not to want to get close. ‘Can I get you anything?’

He bit his tongue to stop the flood of questions filling his mouth. She had more colour in her cheeks than she had the previous afternoon, but he was still worried. As he reached her side, he rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked, looking for any sign that she wasn’t completely recovered from yesterday. An overwhelming need to protect her swept over him, and the hand on her shoulder slipped to her waist, pulling her closer. Once her body was near enough that he felt her magnetic pull, all thoughts of protecting her flew out of his mind, and were replaced with something hotter, more urgent. He pulled the arm around her waist tight, and dipped his head. His eyes were already closing as his body remembered the feel of hers, as his lips tingled with remembered sensation.

And then he was cold, his body left bereft as Rachel turned and pulled away until his arms were empty.

‘I’ll make the coffee,’ she said, the shake in her voice at least showing that she wasn’t completely immune to him. ‘And I could murder some carbs. What is there for breakfast?’

He pulled his brain back to the real world, the one where they weren’t a lust-filled couple shacked up together for a fun weekend. To the world where an ill-thought-through night had led to a baby, a lifetime of commitment, and he was momentarily glad that her self-control had outwitted his libido. ‘Toast? Cereal?’ He tried to keep his voice level, to take her cue and pretend that his clumsy attempt at a kiss hadn’t happened. But he couldn’t forget it, couldn’t forget how it felt to be fractions of a second from bliss, and then left cold and wanting her.

She nodded, her body stiff, her smile a little forced. He threw bread into the toaster, dug around in the cupboard and put together a carb-loaded platter: muffins, crumpets, toast and cereal, anything to keep mind and body busy and away from her. They feasted on the breads, slathered in honey and jam, and conversation eventually started to flow between them almost as smooth.

He remembered the challenge he’d set himself that night. The way the sound of her laugh had so entranced him he was determined to make it happen again and again. The effect hadn’t worn off. Every smile and chuckle became a challenge to make it grow. He felt himself relax as she slouched a little more in her chair, as her words flowed easy and her smiles grew. Every chime of her laughter swelled a light in his chest, something primal and basic, something he couldn’t control, or make himself want to.

As they finished up with breakfast, he was tempted to hold his breath, to hold on to these moments of happiness, because something told him that this was borrowed contentment. That it wasn’t real. Maybe this was in her plan all along, softening him up before she started. No need to spook him by hitting him with talk about the plan the minute she was up. Instead she lulled him into a false sense of security, waiting until he entered a food coma until she made her move. With the prospect of having to make some sort of plan on the horizon, he couldn’t see what was real and what was his fear manifesting as paranoia.

She was fidgeting as they cleared the table, clearly getting more and more uncomfortable. There was tension in her shoulders and a tightness in her muscles that he didn’t like. And he knew the only thing that would get rid of it. She was still flailing after he’d ripped up her plan. Writing a new one would ease her worries, make her feel safe.

Of course he’d discovered one other way of finding the relaxed, happy, free Rachel. And he knew which of the two—drawing up a schedule for the rest of his life, or a long, languorous morning of lovemaking—he would prefer.

But he also knew which of the two Rachel needed today. So he swallowed the very tempting suggestion and did what he hoped was the right thing. ‘I think we should take a look at this plan.’ He ran his hands through his hair and left them at the back of his head. He supposed he was hoping for ‘oh, we don’t have to do that now,’ or, ‘maybe we could leave it for a bit’. Though of course what he actually got was a sigh of relief, a smile and darting glances at the stairs. ‘Grab whatever you need,’ he said, suddenly feeling distant and uncomfortable around her, with her need for control—and his fear of it—sitting between them like a threat. ‘I’ll make some more coffee.’

She hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Do you have any decaf?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’

He leaned back against the kitchen counter as she went upstairs. Decaf? Another pregnancy thing, he assumed. Just one more part of this whole situation he was completely clueless about. Every good feeling he’d had when they’d shared breakfast had abandoned him, and even the house seemed darker and colder this side of the meal. Rachel re-emerged from the stairs a few moments later, clutching her bound-up papers, a notebook and her tablet.

‘Old-fashioned or new-fangled?’ she asked as she sat neatly at the table and set everything out in front of her. Death by fire or water? What did it matter?

But the smile had returned to her lips, her arms hung loosely at her sides, and she had lost the drawn, haunted look that told of a frightened woman.

‘You choose.’ He tried to keep the weighty, quavery feeling fluttering in his belly out of his voice. ‘You’re the expert here.’ He hoped it didn’t sound snarky. He didn’t mean it to. Didn’t mean to blame her for how uncomfortable he was. It didn’t make sense to be angry at her for the situation they found themselves in. It wasn’t her fault they were pregnant. It wasn’t her fault that the way she wanted to live her life was the opposite of his. They just had to find a way to make this work for both of them. All of them.

‘Old-fashioned, then.’ She opened the notebook out to a blank double spread and reached for her pen. He could tell she was itching to write her headings across the top of the page but seemed to be waiting for his okay to do so. ‘So...where do you want to start?’

He took a deep breath. She’d obviously spent a lot of time thinking about this. And to be honest her plan was probably as good as anything that they could come up with together. As he’d said—she was the expert here. But if he didn’t have his say now, then when would he? Would he find himself in ten years’ time on a path that she had chosen, and that he had never had any idea of where it was going? If he didn’t rein this in, if she couldn’t learn to live a little less rigidly, he’d find himself stifled and trapped. And if she couldn’t start compromising now, then he couldn’t see how this was ever going to work.

‘Perhaps we could start with the next few weeks,’ he said eventually, thinking that even he could manage with planning that far out, if he had to. ‘And anything that needs a specific date. Appointments, travel plans, that sort of thing.’

Rachel nodded and he could tell from the small smile on her face she already knew exactly how she expected the next few weeks to pan out. She probably had appointments lined up, time blocked out, and knew exactly where he should be and at what time. But she said none of this and instead waited for him to make a suggestion. At least she seemed willing to try as hard as he was to make this work.

‘Do you have any doctor’s appointments scheduled? I’m not really sure how this works but I’d like to be there if that’s what you want.’

‘I’ve an appointment with my GP in a few days. Probably won’t be much to tell at that stage, from what I’ve read. But generally they want to schedule the first scan at some point around twelve weeks.’

‘Twelve weeks?’ He raised a brow in question.

‘The twelfth week of the pregnancy. Not twelve weeks from now. Or, in fact, twelve weeks from when we...’ He smiled a little at her embarrassment. ‘The counting is weird,’ she continued, a light blush colouring her cheeks. ‘Right now I think I’m about nine weeks pregnant, even though it’s not that long since we... They count from the first day of your last...’

‘Are you going to finish a sentence today?’ He laughed at the sudden appearance of this bashfulness. ‘Or is there always going to be so much guesswork?’

‘I’m sorry. It seems stupid to be embarrassed talking about any of this when you’re the one, well, we’re the ones... Sorry.’

She laughed, too, and Leo relaxed into his chair as the tension in the air palpably lightened. What was it about her laugh that reached his spine and his heart?

‘I’m doing it again, aren’t I?’ He nodded. ‘They count from the first day of your last period, which means today is week nine of the pregnancy even though it’s not been that long since we...met. Which means they’ll want to schedule the scan for around three weeks’ time.’

‘I’d like to be there.’

‘Me, too.’ They both smiled, and he breathed a sigh of relief, glad that they’d found this common ground at last. Maybe they could do this. Maybe they could find a compromise to make them both happy. And if they did that, what next? What more could there be between them when they weren’t both terrified of what the other craved?

Rachel drew a column on the piece of paper and wrote the heading Appointments at the top; then clicked through the screen of her phone with one hand and wrote the date in the column with the other. She glanced up at him. ‘Do you want to make a note of the date?’

Or maybe they couldn’t. ‘What date? You haven’t got an appointment yet.’

‘No, but I’m sure they’ll make it that week. You could...’

‘Rachel, this is one of those times when you’re going to have to let me make a decision for myself. I’m perfectly capable of keeping in my head the fact that I will have to make some time approximately three weeks from now to attend the scan. It’s not something I’m likely to forget. Just because I’m not doing it your way doesn’t mean I’m doing something wrong.’

She concentrated hard on the page; going over and over one word with her pen until he feared the paper would dissolve. But she didn’t argue with him. The best he could hope for, for now, he supposed.

‘Okay, so that’s the appointments sorted for now. What next?’

‘I want to have the baby in London.’

‘Makes sense, considering you live there.’

‘So you’ll have to make arrangements to be up there, if you want to be around when it happens.’ He nodded, able to see the logic in that. He waited, wondering whether she’d want him to make some more definite plans, but she seemed happy—or at least reluctantly willing—to leave it at that for now. Though he did notice the way her pen ripped through the paper slightly as she wrote the next word.

‘Fine.’

‘Seems to me like we can’t really decide anything to do with dates until you’ve seen a doctor, though,’ Leo said. ‘So how about we leave that for now and move on to another part of the plan? What else is on your list that needs deciding now?’

When she didn’t reply, he looked up from where his eyes had been following her pen scoring into the paper, to find her sitting with her mouth open and a hesitant look on her face. ‘What?’

‘You’re right. We don’t need to decide everything now.’ She started to close the notebook, but Leo reached out and laid a hand across the page, trying not to notice the way that his skin tingled when it accidentally brushed against hers.

‘Something’s worrying you. Why don’t you tell me what it is?’ He tried to catch her eye, but she seemed determined not to meet his gaze. An alarm bell, deep in his belly, started ringing. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s not a problem. It’s just—ʼ she took a deep breath and spat the words out ‘—I had all this worked out with scenarios, and different options and choices, and now that I’m sitting here at your kitchen table it feels weird.’

‘What? Now that I’m a real person and not just an item in your schedule? Now that I get a say?’

She nodded. ‘I am sorry. For turning up with it all finished and ready to present to you. I didn’t mean to cut you out, to tell you this is the way it has to be. I just had to see for myself how I was going to make this work. And the only way to do that was to work it all out and write it down. I can see how it must have looked, as if I was dictating the whole of the rest of your life to you. But I didn’t mean it that way.’

Her honesty eased that little knot of tension from his stomach, and he couldn’t tell her how grateful he was for this acknowledgement that maybe she didn’t have it all worked out after all. Funnily, her apology for creating the schedule in the first place made him want to help her with a replacement more than ever; he wanted to do whatever it took to make this work for them, even if it felt like seeing Exit signs being ripped down in front of him. Because what was an escape to him now? Sure, he could run. He could get far away from Rachel, throw money at the situation to keep the lawyers happy and have nothing to do with this woman and her child ever again. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

And just like that his relaxed feeling was gone. He sat a little straighter in his chair, the tension in his neck and shoulders not allowing him to lounge. There was no escape now. Nothing for it but to plough on, into whatever it was his life held for him. He couldn’t escape the facts: he was going to be a father. This woman, her plans and her notebooks, would be in his life for ever.

But not every part of his life. Rachel’s presence had become an accepted fact between that Italian lunch and her turning up here. But just because he had her in his life, didn’t mean he couldn’t keep parts of it for himself. Keep part of himself safe. So she would be the mother of his child. He couldn’t change that. But that was all she would be. He would stop these daydreams and night-time fantasies about that night. Forget the feel and taste of her lips and skin. He wouldn’t fall into a relationship with her just because she was carrying his child.

‘Let’s just get this over with,’ he said, forcing out the words. ‘We have to talk about it some time, and we’re both here now. What else did you have written down before?’

‘Well...there was one part of the plan I had trouble with,’ she admitted. ‘Without knowing your financial position it was difficult to be accurate, so I came up with a number of different scenarios.’

‘You should know, I’m not as well off as you might think.’ He wasn’t sure why he just threw the words out like that. Best defence perhaps, hoping to scare her off. Instead, he could see from her scowl that he’d offended her. He cursed under his breath. How could they misstep at every turn?

‘And how would you know what I think about your financial position?’

‘Well, we met at a fundraiser where the tickets cost two hundred quid a plate. It would be reasonable on your part to assume that I was loaded. I’m not,’ he added, watching her carefully to see her reaction. She didn’t even look surprised, never mind disappointed.

‘If you remember, I thought you were crashing. So the price of the ticket is neither here nor there.’

She was impossible to second-guess this morning, Leo realised. But nothing he’d seen so far screamed gold-digger. He was cautious of money, and those who wanted it. And he had every reason to be. He’d grown up surrounded by it, rich and miserable. When he’d turned twenty-one, and for the first time could decide for himself how much of the family money he wanted to use, he’d decided the answer was ‘none of it’.

He’d been selling his artwork since school, and when he’d left had set up a website and taken a few commissions, still trying to decide what he wanted to do with his life. When the paperwork had come through authorising his access to his trust fund, he’d decided once and for all that he didn’t want a penny of it for himself. So he’d set up donations to charities, funded a few local projects he was interested in, and left the remainder in the bank, waiting until he could decide the best place to send it.

He’d saved almost every penny he’d earned, and as the commissions for his work increased, so did the nest egg he was building up. He’d wanted to buy a home, somewhere completely his, where he could feel safe. All he could afford was this wreck, a shell of a place when they’d exchanged the contracts, but it was his, and he loved it. He worked the renovations around his commissions, and the time that he spent in his studio, so progress had been slow, but he had relished every minute of the work.

His art had gained a reputation now, and it had been a long time since he’d had to worry where that month’s mortgage payment would come from. And he could certainly support a child.

But he wouldn’t see his son or daughter grow up with the sense of entitlement—to money, to people, to anything they wanted—that he’d seen from the boys at school.

‘I’m not loaded, and I can’t give you a specific figure right now,’ he said eventually. ‘I pretty much just turn everything over to my accountant and let him worry about it. But I’ll do my bit, I can promise you that.’

* * *

Rachel reached down and pulled off her flip-flops; she threaded her fingers through the straps as she walked along the beach, swinging her arms and enjoying the feel of the sand between her toes. Well, Leo didn’t seem to be in any hurry for her to see whatever he wanted to show her, she thought, as they ambled down across the sand. The tide was out, and the beach stretched before her, flat and vast. A dark stripe of seaweed bisected the view, and as they grew closer she detected its smell—raw, salty, and not entirely pleasant. She couldn’t help but notice that Leo seemed to be getting more interested the closer they got. His eyes scanned the beach.

‘Looking for something?’

‘For anything,’ he corrected, though Rachel wasn’t any the wiser for this clarification.

‘Looking for anything.’ She spoke seriously and nodded as if this made perfect sense to her.

‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

Leo grabbed her hand and towed her the last few yards across the sand, dragging her, as far as she could tell, to the largest pile of stinking seaweed.

‘Ah, now I understand,’ she lied, looking down and laughing, still completely clueless about what they were doing here. She could hardly be expected to play detective when her hand was trapped in his. When her every nerve ending and neuron seemed intent on those few square inches of skin where their bodies were joined. ‘You love the seaweed. You think a city girl like me will be impressed by its...pungency?’

He laughed. ‘Exactly. I brought you all the way down to the coast to enjoy the finest seaweed this country has to offer. No, don’t be daft.’ He threw her another smile, and gestured to the stinking pile with their joined hands. ‘Let’s get stuck in.’ Abruptly, he dropped her hand and to his knees, before picking up a huge handful of the slimy green fronds and throwing it to one side.

She let out a bark of laughter, unable to hide her amusement at this grown man’s pleasure at rooting through rubbish. ‘And what exactly are we looking for?’ She crossed her legs and dropped beside him, gingerly picking through the nearest weeds.

‘Whatever the sea has sent us.’

She sat with the idea for a moment, trying to see if she could leave that statement as it was. If she could accept it. Nope.

‘You’re sure you’re not looking for something in particular.’

‘I’m sure. I’ve found all sorts down here. You never know what will turn up.’ He looked up and his gaze met hers. When he saw that she still didn’t understand, he rocked back on his heels. ‘If it helps you to have a bit more of a plan, look out for driftwood. Something big, rubbed smooth by the sea.’

She frowned a little. His answer had taken her by surprise, and she didn’t like the feeling. ‘What do you want it for?’

‘To make something beautiful. Something for the house, or something to sell. I’ve found all sorts out here,’ he went on—he must have seen she wasn’t yet convinced. ‘Jewellery, pottery, beautiful rocks and shells. Just have a dig around.’

Sitting on the sand, she couldn’t do more than pick through the pile directly in front of her, so she clambered up onto her knees, getting used to the feel of the weeds slipping through her fingers. She snuck a glance at Leo from the corner of her eye, still trying to see where this exercise was leading. As if there was some part of him that was a complete mystery to her. He was wandering along the line of debris, kicking it with his toes at times. Unable to see anything but weeds and the odd carrier bag, she decided to catch him up.

‘Any luck?’ he asked as she reached him.

‘Not—’ She started to speak but then a glint of something on the sand caught her eye. She dropped to a squat on her heels like a toddler and carefully pulled the glass out from under the detritus. As she cleaned it off, an antique bottle emerged in her hand. She stared at it, taken aback by the appearance of this beautiful object. Leo came to stand behind her and peered at the bottle over her shoulder.

‘Very nice.’ He reached out to take it. ‘May I?’

She handed it over and he turned it in his hands, brushing off a little more sand and scrutinising the lettering.

‘It’s been in the water a long time, I think,’ she said, just making out the figures ‘1909’ on one side. She took it back from Leo and tested its weight in her hands. ‘No message, though.’ She peered into the neck, wondering if it had once carried a slip of paper.

Energised by her find, hitting gold her first time beachcombing, she started walking again, stopping often to pull aside some stone or vegetation, offering up shells and rocks for Leo’s admiration.

Before long, she had pockets full of pretty shells, and her bottle tucked safely under her arm. She could feel the waves and the sand working their magic on her and Leo, as an easy chemistry and camaraderie grew between them. ‘Do you find a lot of stuff out here?’

‘Enough to keep me in hot meals and building materials.’ She raised an eyebrow in question, too relaxed to be frustrated by his cryptic answer. But then she’d been so...abrasive, that first time they’d met, she couldn’t blame him for being reticent about telling her about his life.

‘You know, you never really explained what you do. I know I wasn’t helping, being snippy about a trust fund and everything. I realise I got it wrong, then.’

He halted suddenly, evidently taken by surprise. When he started walking, there was something a little stiffer about his stride. ‘Not entirely wrong.’

‘But you said—’

‘I said I’m not loaded. What I didn’t tell you is that it’s out of choice.’

Her brows drew together in confusion, and she glanced at Leo, encouraging him to continue.

He sighed before starting to speak again. ‘My family has plenty of money. Pots of it, in fact. Too much. And I do have a trust fund.’ Not something that would normally cause such distress, she thought. ‘But I haven’t spent a penny of it for years.’

‘Why not?’ It was none of her business, but she could tell this was something big, for Leo. Perhaps the tip of an emotional iceberg, something he didn’t often talk about. And she wanted to know him.

‘It’s hard to explain. I want you to understand. I want you to know why I find it hard for you to pull out that plan... I’m not making life hard for the sake of it. It’s all connected.’

Her heart ached at the note of vulnerability in his voice, the pain that he was clearly hiding. And it soared a little, too, at the fact that he was sharing this with her. Opening up to her. But Leo’s shoulders had fallen forward, and a haunted look had crept over his face. She reached for his hand, refusing to acknowledge what that contact might signify, but needing him to know that she was there to support him. ‘I want to understand, Leo. Tell me anything you want.’

* * *

‘The money,’ Leo said. It seemed as good a place as any to start. He led them both away from the water, to the very edge of the beach, with the cliff creating a natural shelter around them. He sat on the warm sand, and pulled gently on Rachel’s hand until she was sitting beside him. ‘I grew up with people who had it—lots of it. Far too much. It didn’t make them happy, and it didn’t make them good. And there were people who thought I needed it, desperately...’ He paused but she didn’t say anything, just waited for him to continue. ‘I went to a very good school—and it was hell.’

He gripped her hand, and she squeezed it back. The warmth and comfort of her touch flowed from her skin to his—he couldn’t have let go of her at that moment if he’d had to. He wanted to pull her close, to bury his face in her hair and his body in hers. Forget everything about his past; ignore everything about their future. He wanted her lips on his, wanted to hear her chuckle with pleasure and sigh with satisfaction.

But he also wanted her to understand him. Wanted her to see why any hint of feeling trapped scared him so much. He needed her to know why he would never allow himself to be trapped in a relationship he couldn’t get out of. And he knew he had to tell her everything.

‘For some reason the other boys saw me as an easy—and early—target. To start with it was whispers about money. People accusing me of stealing from the other boys. Suggesting that money had gone missing from pockets and dorms. I tried to ignore it, thinking it would pass. And then they started talking about my mum. Insinuating that my “greed” ran in the family, that she was a shameless gold-digger who’d ensnared my dad for his money.

‘She’s from a different background from my dad, her family wasn’t well off and his is loaded, and she married him when he was a widow with a three-year-old. That seemed to be all the evidence the boys needed.

‘I couldn’t ignore these whispers. I started to fight back, to defend my mum and myself, and it escalated. The older boys were determined to show me that answering back would get me nowhere. It turned violent, and nasty. I hadn’t told anyone what was going on, but after a beating that left me bruised and heaving, I knew that I had to do something. My older brother—half-brother—was at school with me.’

‘Did he help?’

Leo steeled himself to answer, but found his throat was thick, and his eyes stung. Even after all this time, he still couldn’t think about what had happened without being close to tears.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Rachel said gently. ‘I’m sure it must have been terrible, but it was a long time ago. You left that place—’

‘Yes, and I will never go back.’

‘Of course not, Leo. You’re a grown man. No one can make you go back to school.’

He snatched his hand back, frustrated that after explaining the parts of his past that still caused the occasional nightmare, she could brush it off with ‘you don’t have to go back to school’.

‘But I had to go back then.’ The words burst out of him, just short of a roar. He’d had to go back time after time, year after year. Stuck in that place every day with the boys who hated him. Who thought up new and different ways to torture him.

‘Couldn’t you have left?’

‘You think I didn’t want that? Even when I eventually told my father what was going on he didn’t take it seriously. The bullies closed ranks when my parents spoke to the school. Told the headmaster that the bruises were from rugby. Or that I’d started a fight. They were so convincing. All the teachers fell for it. Sometimes even I found myself wondering if I was imagining it all. If I was going mad.

‘I was trapped. Every morning I’d wake up in that dorm, and knew how my torture would pan out for the day. Taunts in the bathroom during break. Starving at lunch, too scared to risk the dinner hall. A few kicks in the changing rooms after games, somewhere it wouldn’t show when I was dressed. And at night, I was locked in with them.

‘The days the school knew where I would be and when, they would know, too. And ever since—I’ve needed a way out. The thought of being trapped—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘It terrifies me, Rachel.’

‘You think I trapped you?’ Her voice was flat and sad, more disappointed than angry.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it? Whether you did or not, it doesn’t change the fact that—’

‘That you want to escape and you can’t.’

He rubbed his head in his hands, fighting against the fear to find the logic in his argument. ‘I don’t even know if I want to escape. What I would want if I wasn’t...’

‘Stuck.’

He nodded. ‘You probably think I’m a complete jerk for telling you all this.’ He felt like one. For admitting all the reasons he was terrified of what their lives were going to become.

She shook her head, though her expression was grim. ‘I don’t. I’m glad you told me how you feel. You can’t help thinking the way that you do. I just wish it were...different.’

He reached past her to pluck a small piece of driftwood from the sand. The light played on it as he turned it over, and he kept his eyes focused on that, rather than meeting Rachel’s gaze.

‘How did you cope—at school?’

He looked across at her now, surprised she wanted to know more after what he’d just told her.

‘I spent a lot of time at the beach.’

‘Surfing? Swimming?’

‘Some of the time. I was lucky in a way— the school was only a couple of miles from the coast, so I was able to spend a lot of time there. When I had to be on campus, I escaped to the art studio.’ She looked at him in surprise. For some reason, he enjoyed that, throwing off her preconceptions of him. He was even able to crack a smile at her gaping expression.

‘The art studio?’

‘Yes—I’m an artist, didn’t I mention that?’

‘An artist.’ She said the word as if it were something alien, obviously not believing him. He nodded, still playing with the driftwood as he took in her dropped jaw, her hands indignantly planted in the sand either side of her. ‘You’re an artist.’

A laugh escaped him, surprising him as much as her. ‘I’m sure I mentioned it before.’

‘And I’m certain that you didn’t. What sort of artist?’ She still hadn’t wiped the incredulity from her face and he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed that she found the idea of his occupation, vocation—whatever you wanted to call it—so laughable.

‘A successful one, thankfully. That’s what I wanted to show you this afternoon—my studio’s down here rather than up on the cliff.’

‘Right.’ She drew the syllable out, as she examined his face, looking for hints of his artistic temperament perhaps. ‘And the beachcombing, where does that fit into this?’

He breathed a sigh of relief that they were back on safer conversational ground. That she’d listened to his painful story, offered support, but moved on when he needed to. And his work he could talk about for hours. ‘It’s one of my favourite ways to find inspiration for my work and materials for the house. I’ve incorporated a lot of driftwood in the build. It’s an ecologically sound way of working.’

‘But doesn’t it leave you at the mercy of the tides, or the water gods, or whatever force it is that throws up driftwood onto beaches? Wouldn’t it just be easy to order the whole lot at once? I’m sure that there are suppliers with good green credentials.’

‘I could do, I suppose, but I’m happy just taking opportunities as they arise. You never know what you’re going to find. Like the floorboards for the living room. They just turned up in a reclamation yard. I could have bought brand-new timber last week and would have missed out on all that gorgeous character.’

‘Yes, but you would have had a floor for a week by now.’

He threw her a grin and nudged her with his shoulder. ‘What is it, princess? Upset that the place wasn’t perfect for you?’

‘Oh, don’t give me “princess”. I just think that while your way of doing things sounds lovely, in theory, when you have no real responsibilities, sometimes practical matters have to take a higher priority. Like a roof that doesn’t leak. And a floor beyond the front door.’ Not in the mood to joke about the house, then, he surmised.

‘Well, then, I count myself lucky that you don’t get a say in how I renovate my house.’

He stared her down, daring her to argue with him, so that he could remind her again that he would not be tied down by her. She might be carrying his baby, but that didn’t mean that she could come down here and start telling him how to live his life, any more than he would dream of going up to London and telling her how to live hers.

She didn’t take the bait. Instead she stood and started brushing sand from her jeans, and then walked back to the cliff path. He watched her for a few moments; then jogged to catch her up.

‘Wait, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. If you still want to, I’d like to show you the studio.’

She paused and glanced up at the house. Then looked back at him and softened. ‘I’d like to see it. I can’t believe I didn’t know you’re an artist. You didn’t finish telling me how that happened.’

He started down the twisting path that led along the bottom of the cliff to his studio and workshop, wondering whether he could talk about his introduction to the world of art without reliving more of the pain he’d suffered at that time. He’d try, for her, for them.

‘I told you I used to hide out in the art studio... None of the other boys seemed too keen to follow me there. Perhaps something to do with the belligerent old teacher who rarely left the room, Mr Henderson. I found it peaceful—it had these huge windows that let in the light, and you could see the sea in the distance. I’d spend lunchtimes hiding out in there and playing around with whatever materials the professor had in that week. One week, when I arrived, this huge hunk of driftwood was sitting on one of the tables. When I walked in the room, Mr Henderson looked at me, then at the wood, and then walked into the store room and left me there with it. Does that sound weird?’

She raised her eyebrow slightly. He’d take that as a yes.

‘Okay, so it sounds kind of weird. I’ll warn you, it might get weirder. I just wanted to touch the wood. It was as if I could see, no, feel, something beneath the surface. So I got some tools and started carving. It was as if the wood came to life under my fingers, and I found something beneath the surface that no one else could see until I revealed it.’

‘You’re right. Weird.’

He laughed.

‘In a good way,’ Rachel clarified, bumping Leo with her hip as they walked along. ‘Weird, but cool. And there’s a market for this? Secrets lurking in driftwood.’

‘I know, it surprised me, too.’ Leo smiled, thrilling at the energy Rachel’s smile and teasing could create in him. ‘But there is. A bigger one than I’d imagined, actually. Enough for me to put down a deposit on a shell of a house and to keep me in tarpaulin until I stumble upon some roof tiles. Anyway, we’re here,’ he declared as they rounded a corner and the studio came into view.

* * *

She ran a hand along the workbench, and enjoyed the sensation of the wood—warm, dry and gritty on the soft pads of her fingers. It was like meeting Leo afresh, seeing this room, and for the first time she was aware of how much she’d underestimated him. One glance at his beach-ready hair and surfers’ tan and she’d written him off as a beach-bum trust-fund kid.

But this room showed her how wrong she’d been. It wasn’t just the evidence of how much work had gone into the place—hours to fit out the studio: floor-to-ceiling window panels, cupboards and work surfaces. It was the art itself, each piece like a little peephole into Leo’s character. Almost every surface carried pieces in various states of completion. The centre of the room was dominated by an enormous piece of wood. It must have been three feet across, and was nearly as tall as she was. And it seemed to be moving. It wasn’t, she saw as she moved closer. It was just light playing over the wave-like carvings that made it seem that way. Constantly changing; constantly keeping her guessing. As she took another step closer she realised that it wasn’t just one piece of wood, it was many, woven and flowing together. She wanted to glance across at Leo, to tell him she thought it was beautiful—more than that, it was astonishing—but she couldn’t drag her eyes away. At last she reached out, wanting to feel the waves and light beneath her fingers, but Leo gently grabbed her wrist and stopped her.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just—’

‘Normally I’d say touch away. But I treated the wood this morning. So, what do you think?’

She finally managed to pull her eyes away from the piece and flicked her gaze up to his face. He looked a little anxious, she realised, as he waited for her verdict on his work.

‘Leo, it’s beautiful. I had no idea.’

‘Ah, well, you know, I only come down here when the waves are rubbish.’

He was still standing close, his fingers still wrapped around her palm, and she pushed him lightly with her other hand. ‘If I remember rightly, you told me you “sort of” had a job. I’m sorry, but this isn’t sort of anything. You are an artist.’

He nodded. ‘Like I said back on the beach. This is worth the scavenging, then?’

She nodded, her gaze fixed back on the waves, trying to see what it was that made the solid wood seem to shift before her eyes. Leo finally nudged her with his hip—‘Earth to Rachel. I’m glad you like it. Really, I am.’

Suddenly she was aware how close he’d stepped to stop her touching the sculpture. How his hand still gripped hers, although it must be minutes—longer—since she’d dropped it away from the driftwood.

Though she’d felt hypnotised by the piece, it slowly filtered through to her that it and Leo couldn’t be separated. The beauty of his work was part of who he was. And something about that made her feel as if she didn’t know him at all. Didn’t understand him. As if she no longer understood the situation they found themselves in.

She turned her face up to his, and tried to see the Leo she thought she knew in the features of this talented, passionate artist. She thought back to how quickly she’d written him off as spoiled and undisciplined when he’d told her he “sort of” had a job, and could have kicked herself for that lazy assumption. If she’d taken the time and care to actually ask him more about himself, she wouldn’t be so blindsided now.

She’d turned her body when she looked up at him, and could almost feel the attraction pulling them together. He seemed taller—much taller—when she was in her flats, and from here she had a perfect view of his broad chest and shoulders, courtesy, no doubt, of hours in the water. Leo seemed to be studying her as closely as she was him, though she wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t the one who’d just had his entire perception of their circumstances change—again. But the intensity of his gaze was intoxicating, and she found that once her eyes met his she couldn’t look away.

‘I’m sorry—’ Rachel hoped that speaking out loud might break the dangerous connection. Help her to re-establish some sort of calm. But Leo laid a gentle finger on her lips.

‘You don’t need to apologise.’ The finger was replaced by a thumb, which rubbed across her lower lip, bringing sensation and longing with it. She felt her flesh swelling beneath his touch, ready for his kiss, begging for it. And Leo was reading the message loud and clear. He dipped his head, and Rachel let out a little sigh, remembering all too clearly exactly what one of Leo’s kisses promised. As she breathed in, and got two lungfuls of his salty, sea-tanged scent, she was tempted—God, so tempted—to forget the last point she’d made in her plan. The one she’d set in red, bold and underlined: NO SEX.

Leo’s lips brushed against hers and she turned her head, so his kiss grazed across the corner of her lips and her cheek. She stifled a groan, half kicking herself for writing that into the plan, and half impressed with herself for making a decision when she was thinking more clearly than she was right now. Because she strongly suspected if she hadn’t had a plan to follow in that moment, she would have been in serious danger of repeating past mistakes.

She took a deliberate step away from him, still not quite able to trust her commitment to her plan. Leo raised an eyebrow in question when she finally lifted her face to meet his gaze.

‘I’m sorry. I should have been clearer before now.’ Rachel took another step away and leant back against one of Leo’s workbenches to steady herself. ‘I enjoy your company, and I’m glad we’re getting to know one another. I hope that we can be friends. But that’s all that’s on the table—friendship.’

Leo’s hands dug into his pockets and he watched her from under heavy brows. ‘You enjoy my company?’ She could sense embarrassment washing over her features at the slow, deliberate way he spoke the words, conjuring memories of every pleasurable moment of their first and only night together.

His voice was low and gravelly as he spoke again. ‘I would have thought a decision as important as that would have been in your plan.’

She opened her mouth to tell him that if he’d made it to the last page, he would have seen, would have known that it was. But he obviously read her expression too well and finally lost his serious look, bursting into an unexpected laugh.

‘You did! You wrote “no sex” into the plan. You astound me, Rachel, honestly.’ Except he looked more amused than astounded, what with the laughing and everything.

‘It’s important to know where we stand,’ she told him, a little offended, if she was honest, that he could laugh so soon after their aborted kiss.

‘Well, consider me well informed.’

Shouldn’t he be a bit more...disappointed? Rachel thought as Leo walked over to the other side of the studio and started sorting through a stack of driftwood and bric-a-brac in one corner. It didn’t make sense, the hollow, sinking feeling in her belly. Because a purely platonic relationship was exactly what she’d wanted. But Leo’s easy acceptance of her rejection was as good as a rejection in itself.

‘Here they are. I knew there were a couple in here.’ From the pile he pulled two glass bottles, similar to the one she’d just plucked from the beach. ‘They look nice together, don’t you think? Perhaps for the windowsill in your room?’

He lined them up on the bench, but she was more interested in why he’d been so keen to walk away from that kiss. He was the one who’d started it, wasn’t he?

‘So you’re happy to just be friends. You’re not interested in anything more.’ She tried to keep the words casual. To show only the friendly interest her head told her was reasonable, and not the roiling discomfort her heart demanded. ‘Because I think if there’s anything we need to talk about, we should do it now.’

The smile actually dropped from his face, and he looked a little worried, she realised.

‘“More” is an interesting concept.’

Interesting? Of all the words she would use to describe what happened when they went for ‘more’, interesting would not be high on her list.

‘If “more” is another night like that one back at your place, then I’m all for “more”. As much “more” as is on offer.’

She actually felt her cheeks warm again—she’d not blushed like this since she was a girl.

‘But I suspect that for you, “more” is something, well...more than that. If we can’t do one without the other, then you’re right. Friends is best.’

And again with the sinking disappointment. So he wouldn’t mind more sex, but he didn’t want a relationship with her. Well, then, they were in perfect agreement.

‘Back to the house?’ she asked, faking a jollity she didn’t feel. ‘My train’s in an hour, so I probably need to make a move.’

‘Of course. Don’t forget your bottles.’ She scooped up the antique glass and with a last look at the sculpture in the centre of room, she swept out.

‘What’s the hurry?’ Leo jogged up the path behind her, lagging behind because he’d had to lock up the studio.

‘Oh, I didn’t realise I was.’ A lie, of course. Because much as she knew that she couldn’t allow herself to want a relationship with Leo, as much as the thought of being involved with someone who was happy to live with no roof till the right tiles came along filled her with dread, she still wanted a little time and space to lick her wounds. Just because she’d decided not to want him didn’t mean she didn’t want him to want her—however ridiculous that might be.

As they turned the corner and the house came into view, the sight of it made her feel better and worse at the same time.

‘So the roof,’ she said, as Leo overtook her along the path and held out a hand to help her over a small crop of rocks. ‘Is there a...?’

‘A plan?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

Not exactly what she wanted to hear. No, she didn’t technically get a say in how he wanted to renovate his home. But if she were to come back here—and they were having a baby, how could she not?—it would be nice if the place was watertight. And there would be a baby before next summer. She was reassessing the way she made decisions, the way she relied on her plans, but was it unreasonable to expect that there might be a roof to sleep under?

‘Don’t worry, Rachel. The roof should be done any time now. I can absolutely promise it’ll be finished by the next time you visit. The floor, too.’

She laughed, though still wasn’t convinced. ‘Sounds like luxury. So...I’ll see you in London in a couple of weeks, for the scan? Do you want me to book you a hotel? I don’t have a guest room. But you’re welcome to my couch.’

‘Don’t worry; I’ll sort somewhere to stay.’

‘Are you sure? Because I—’

‘I don’t need you to organise anything. Relax. I’ll take care of it. Do you want a lift to the station?’

‘Oh, no need. I’ve already arranged a cab.’

He gave her a smile she wasn’t sure how to interpret. ‘Of course you have.’