“Good on you,” she praised. Awkwardly, she glanced at his mother, who was beaming at the two of them. Orna had her chin propped on her hands, gazing between her and Liam.
“Liam, why don’t you give me the keys? Orna and I will wait by the car. Let Abigail close up.”
Acquiescing, he handed over the keys and with exaggerated winks and goodbyes, the two women left. Abigail carried on clearing down the tables. “I’d like to be home before half eight,” she said. “I’m listening, but I do need this done.”
He leaned over and took the cloth and table spray from her hands. “Hold on a moment.”
His palms were warm and rough around her wrists. It made her freeze. Er...hello? Did she miss a conversation where this was all right? He gently tugged her in front of him, looking her directly in the eyes.
“I’m sorry about Leila’s behaviour. And I do appreciate you being decent, rather than taking her to the police station. It’s what I would have done. I’m sorry for snapping at you. It was uncalled for.”
She carefully pulled her wrists from his grasp and returned to cleaning down the tables. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing was broken.” The sigh that came from him forced her to look up. There was some truth in her mother’s words. The man was lonely. “Do you want to talk?”
“To a professional?” he asked ruefully.
She lifted one shoulder. “To me. I feel like you need to talk to someone who isn’t related to you or your vicar.”
He wavered, rubbing a palm over his beard. “Are you sure?”
No. “I’ve offered, so I’d hope so.”
Bowing his head, he stared at his shoes for a moment. “I’ll drop Leila with my mother. Shall I meet you somewhere in half an hour?”
“Just come back here,” she suggested. “Get a cab, come here. We’ll get on the wine I can’t serve until my licence kicks in. Get a cab home.”
He grinned. “You said the magic word. Wine. My mum was right about you. I’ll see you in half an hour.”
His mother was what? He disappeared, leaving her speechless, holding the cloth and cleaning spray like a doofus. Crap, did she have makeup in her bag? Hurriedly finishing the cleanup, she closed the café and rummaged through her bag to find a bit of blusher and lip-gloss. A little powder toned down the shine on her nose, but nothing was going to rescue the tired T-shirt printed with Books Are Friends or her torn jeans. She brushed a hand over her cropped hair—the cut that made her mother cry for two weeks straight. It did provide endless compliments as to how it emphasised her jawline and the shape of her eyes and drew attention to her mouth. Still, she looked boyish. Hell, Liam had more hair on his head than she did. What was she doing? Why was she getting overexcited about a grieving man?
Just as she thought about how to tell him to keep his widowed arse at home, he strolled back into the café.
“You should lock that,” he said, pulling one of her mismatched chairs from the table and sitting down. “Where’s this wine you promised?”
“Aren’t we bossy?”
“We,” he pointed his thumbs to his chest, “are in need of alcohol. A lot of.”
She bolted the front door, picked up a bottle of Pinot and a corkscrew. “You open that. I’m getting some food.”
He perked up. “Food? What do you have?”
“Goat cheese tarts to start and chicken parmigiano.”
His mouth parted for a moment before he burst out, “Jesus Christ, you fucking angel.”
“Calm down.” She laughed. “Just open the wine and I’ll bring it out.”
In five minutes, she brought out the warm tarts with onion marmalade. The smile in Liam’s eyes was enough to make her feel weak and all too aware of her femininity. “Before you say, this was all made fresh this morning. I just put it in the oven to reheat.”
“This is such a luxury, I can’t tell you.” His praise was all in his groan of appreciation after his first mouthful. “I’m a cheese monster.”
“Good for you,” she teased, taking a sip of wine. “Don’t you cook?”
“I have to. But I’ve been cutting corners recently. Trying to feed a twelve-year-old who thinks you’re Satan out to ruin her life means food needs to be done in fifteen minutes or less. I used to bake.”
Abigail choked on her tart. “You used to what?”
“Bake,” he said, barely pausing in between forkfuls of tart and salad leaves. “Bread, cakes, quiches. We’d do it together.”
Abigail tried not to tense, but the sensation invaded her shoulders. The image of his demon child and his perfect wife all laughing and giggling, throwing flour at each other, did not sit well in her stomach. “Why don’t you? Any more?”
“No incentive.”
“Come on. Having fresh bread is always an incentive.”
“Nice idea,” he murmured, flicking his eyes up from the plate to rest on her. “What’s happening with your licence?”
Normally, people only ever stared that intently at her to request service or more chocolate cake. “Refused for some unknown reason. Probably because Mrs. Dalbury-Scott’s husband is the local councillor. He deals with licences and she’s called The Library a ghetto.”
The woman had an issue with Abigail ever since she offered a breakfast and tea menu for local schoolchildren at a very reduced price. It was to help out struggling parents who had to rush to get their children to school and themselves to work. More so, it ensured those children ate well before and after a long school day. Apparently, Abigail was simply encouraging riffraff into the area and alcohol would increase the number of ASBOs the council would have to give out. Abigail wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Dalbury-Scott to imperiously command her husband to refuse the licence without thinking. Only to be petty and completely fuck up Abigail’s revenue.
Liam’s brows rose. “Does she know half the kids from her daughter’s fancy school are here every day?”
“Like yours?” she countered.
“Without the egging. I’m sorry about that... You don’t want to listen to me complaining about my child.”
Not really, but if he carried on talking she’d try to ignore what he was saying and instead focus on his voice—deep and smooth and as rich as the wine they were enjoying. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”
He stabbed at the last rocket leaf on his plate. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Leila used to be the sweetest little thing in the world. She used to have a lisp. Once she nearly set the kitchen on fire because she was trying to make me breakfast. She said I worked too hard. I can still see the smile on her face when she rode her bike for the first time. It went straight to my heart and I think about that smile every day. She used to let me braid her hair. I learned to do French braids so I could plait her hair. Like Liber-fucking-race. And she said she’d love me forever. I’m not Daddy anymore. I’m just the bastard who is intent on playing Maleficent to her Sleeping Beauty. And I can’t blame her.”
Abigail hid behind her glass of wine, half wondering if her eyebrows were in the middle of her scalp. “Hmm.”
“Part of it is hormones. The other part is that her mother’s dead and that’s my fault. I caused the accident. I made her get in that car and drive away. Without Leila. Again. She left us both and I did it all. There’s no one else to take the blame but me. And I’m sure my wife’s parents have no incentive to change her mind.”
What alternate universe is this? What’s going on? “I thought... You and your wife...” It was like discovering a favourite celebrity couple were breaking up. With all the lies and the fake perfection being horrifically exposed.
“Picture perfect?” he finished ruefully, tilting his wineglass. “Far from. There were a lot of things she’d done that I could accept. I left it as it was because of Leila. In fact, it was a relief when Sarah left. She couldn’t bear to have me even a little happy, so she staked me in the heart with her last words. The last words she ever said to me. Leila’s not yours.”
Abigail slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh
my God.”
Liam looked up to the ceiling, exhaling heavily. “You don’t know what that means to tell someone else. Just to be able to let it out.”
The hell was she supposed to say to that? How could she even respond? “Have you... done anything about it?”
He drained his glass and topped his up before adding more to her own. “As in a DNA test? I don’t know how I can subtly stick a cotton swab inside my child’s almost-teenage mouth and excuse it as a game.” Shaking his head, he drank more of the wine. She glanced at his hands, at last noticing that they were almost bare. The only jewellery he wore was a worn signet ring on his little finger bearing the initials L.A.M.
If she died, the least she’d expect is for her husband to wear his wedding ring until he met with his maker too. Then again, if she’d caused doubts about the paternity of a child, she couldn’t be too upset if her remains were cremated and scattered over a dump.
Poor man. Not only to have his perfect marriage crumble, but for him to doubt his child was even his? At this age? How appalling. “Are you scared she was telling the truth?”
He didn’t look at her. His wineglass held more interest for him. “Terrified. I’ll admit that I’m ready to ship Leila to Norway until she calms down. It almost means she won’t be around in case one of Sarah’s ‘friends’ decides to turn up and ask for us all to start swabbing.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to know?”
“For who?” he asked softly. “She’s thirteen in a few months. I’m the only father she’s ever known. The only parent she’s got left. How would I tell her? She’s a pain in the arse at the moment, but... she’s my pain in the arse.”
“I think you’re kidding yourself. What happens when she finds out?”
“No one else knows.”
She wasn’t convinced. Maybe telling him that she struggled to find similarities to him in Leila’s facial features wouldn’t help. “What happens when she tells you she hates you and she wishes you weren’t her father?”
“Been there...” He shrugged. “Didn’t even occur to me to contradict her. I was too busy resisting the urge to beat some sense into her to scream anything back.” He twisted his mouth in amusement. “What? I’m not supposed to say that, am I?”
“No,” she said slowly.
“Ah, well. It’s too late for you to call Social Services. What’s happening with this chicken?”
Yeah, he was certifiable. Beautiful, damaged and certifiable. A change of subject was probably best. “I’ll get another bottle and bring out the chicken.”
“This is good stuff,” he murmured, holding up the ruby red glass. “Let me talk to the Dalbury-Scotts. Or I’ll buy it off you.”
Abigail edged the bottle away from him. “Maybe not.”
“Oi. This is the first drink I’ve had since my wife’s funeral. Don’t interfere, woman.”
Did he just ‘woman’ her? “Definitely no more for you.”
She stuck her finger inside the bottle neck and took it with her to the kitchen. As soon as the doors closed, she drained the remainder from the bottle herself. Dutch courage. She’d need it to go back out there, sit opposite that man and not want to put her arms around him and tell him it would all be fine. Everything would work out. Leila would realise how lucky she was and stop being a brat. Abigail had. At fifteen. Sixteen. Somewhere around that age and with two parents.
Grief. People and their issues. That man and his issues. After cooking fresh pasta with olive oil and chilli flakes, she topped the spaghetti with the chicken and extra parmesan. No, she’d need more wine. Definitely, if she had to listen to more shocks about Mr. Perfect’s utterly imperfect life.
Chapter Three
It wasn’t the wine. Maybe it was the wine. It was the wine and Abigail’s facial expressions. She was probably terrible at poker, as he could read every single emotion on her face. From the lift of one of her perfectly arched eyebrows to the downturn of her mouth every time he mentioned Sarah, she was an open book. She tried to keep the wine away from him, but as he’d told her, he hadn’t had a drink in almost two years. He’d been afraid if he started to drink, he’d never stop, and then what would happen to his little demon spawn? Alleged demon spawn. But this? A full-bodied glass of smooth red? This, he deserved. What a blessing to be in the company of someone who didn’t remind him of his paternal failings!
She returned to the table with two steaming plates of food. No wonder the place was full every night. It smelled incredible. As he dug in and she set another bottle of red on their table, he said lightly, “Your mother thinks you’re trying out lesbianism.”
Abigail choked on her food. “What?”
Maybe he should wait for her to finish eating and drinking before saying anything. He was only edging her toward a trip to A&E. “Lesbianism. The clothes, the haircut... I like short hair on women.”
“Less competition for you in the bathroom,” she chimed instantly. It made him laugh.
“I know my hair’s too long. I’m trying out my Conan the Barbarian stage. Your hair suits you,” he admitted. It was very Sigourney Weaver in Aliens 3. Amber Rose without the blonde dye. Startlingly feminine for such a masculine cut.
“My mother shouldn’t worry so much. I have no intention on spending my private time scissoring with a butch lesbian.”
His body reacted with unruly enthusiasm at her words. If anything ever made him doubt his sexuality in the future, he would conjure the image of Abigail with another female, giving him that same look now as she writhed against the other woman’s form. His imagination wasn’t dead. Who knew?
She eyed him carefully and he grappled to control his blushes. Could she tell what he was thinking? “Is this where you ask me why I’m single?”
“Only if you want me to. I’ve bared my soul, you can even out the bench.”
“I suppose.” She shrugged. “My ex is a personal trainer. He went off to New Zealand for a job, expected me to drop everything and go with him and I said no.”
“Why?”
“Why would I? My family’s here. My home is here. I’d just bought this place.” She breathed out, swirling her wine in the glass. “What he was asking wasn’t fair. Ten years ago I’d have jumped at the chance.”
“Were you together that long?”
“Close enough. Sure he’s happy. Some mutual friends posted some pictures of him on Facebook surrounded by girls in bikinis. Didn’t take him long. I would have thought he’d mourn a bit. Sorry. You don’t want to hear this.”
He wasn’t particularly enamoured with the idea of Abigail hanging off the steroid-engorged arm of some meathead. She seemed too good for that. “Not really. Feel free to carry on with the lesbian talk, though.”
“Shut up.” She grinned.
He sat back and watched her underneath his lashes. “I’m thinking you had some experiences in university. Girl experiences that never left you.”
Her laughter warmed him more than the wine in his belly. “You’re twisted.”
“The idea’s in my head now.” And how it was in his head. “This was delicious.”
She shook her head, her face bemused. “Is your expression about dessert?”
“Mostly. It’s like I’m your butch life partner.”
“You need help.”
“Definitely. You’ll do for now.” The words, once left, were all too true. Abigail got to her feet and cleared away the plates.
“I’ve got some Eton Mess left if you fancy?”
It sounded heavenly. Strawberries, cream and meringues. “Eton Mess? I haven’t had that since school days.”
Abigail collected the plates. “I’ll bring some Sauternes.”
“I’m good with the Pinot. Bring over another if you like.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a bottle and a half you’ve had.”
Couldn’t be. “I’ve had a few glasses.”
“I’m not your mother.” She shrugged, taking the plates away. Good thing she wasn’t. He hardly nee
ded an Oedipal complex on top of everything else. Guilt twisted in his stomach, and he pulled out his mobile to see if his mother was coping with Leila. A text message read: Your child has a worse mouth than you. I hope you’re enjoying yourself while I suffer.
Why yes, he was enjoying himself. He watched Abigail reach up to a shelf for the Sauternes dessert wine, exposing the small of her back where her worn T-shirt lifted. For all her scruffy, baggy clothing, he could see how shapely she was. How beautifully curved. Mother meddling aside, Abigail Yeboah was pretty damn fine.
“Here,” she said, handing over their third bottle of Pinot and unscrewing the Sauternes for herself. He uncorked the wine as she disappeared again to bring the bowls of Eton Mess. “Checking on Leila?”
“She’s causing trouble. And the world still turns.” He nodded upstairs. “What have you done there?”
“Bookshelves, comfy chairs, condoms in the secret compartment...”
Excuse me? “Rewind a minute. What?”
She gave him a look. “I may not be able to serve alcohol, but there are always people who find being in between so many books irresistibly sexy and try to stain my carpeting. I figure at the very least I save myself on dodgy stains.”
The logic of her scheme was astounding. “How do you know they’ve been used?”
“Durr. I counted them. Every time I go to the GP I get free ones. Suppose someone should get use out of them.”
“Now I have to see.” He got up before she could tell him not to and took the stairs two at a time in a leap. Now he saw where The Library got its name. The back half of the space was covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. Worn and inviting chairs were scattered around with small coffee tables covered with magazines. Delving toward the back, he noted beanbags and folded blankets in between the shelves. He hoped those were laundered on the regular as well.
“Liam! Get down here now.”
He yelled down the stairs, “Tell me where the compartment is!”
“You’re not going to use it, so why do you need to know?”
Sweet Child of Mine Page 2
