Holding Back

by Helen Pollard

  When she'd finished her supper and her head was beginning to droop again, Jack rose from his desk and strolled back over.

  "Come on, sleepyhead. Bed for you."

  Abby's eyes would hardly stay open. She was aware he towered over her; that his jumper was thick and warm as she brushed against it when she stood; that he led her up to the room where her bags waited for her. When had he brought those in? Maybe while the soup was heating. She had no idea and didn't care. When he closed the door behind her, all she unpacked was her toothbrush and nightwear. Once her teeth were done, she simply stepped out of her clothes, leaving them on the floor where they landed, pulled on her pyjamas, climbed into the comfortable bed and immediately fell asleep.

  ****

  Jack was up early the next morning. He hadn't slept well, and felt even worse when he opened his bedroom curtains to see the thick blanket of snow muffling the world outside. He shook his head. Typical British weather. It had been mild and rainy over the entire Christmas period when a little snow would have complemented the festive season. Now it was nearly March and spring was just around the corner, here they were in a winter wonderland, knee-deep in snow. It seemed last night's unsolvable problems would have to remain so for a while yet.

  When a long, hot shower failed to revive him, he headed downstairs to make coffee and sat nursing it at the kitchen table while he gathered his thoughts together.

  What he'd expected was an old dear to replace his previous old dear, Mrs Macintosh. What he'd got was Abby, and he was still getting over the shock that she was at least thirty years younger than he'd expected.

  When Mrs Macintosh had reluctantly let him down at such short notice, he was already caught up in planning his new novel and couldn't face a delay. In a panic, he'd phoned his editor in London and explained the problem. Ted was sympathetic but had nobody to spare — certainly no-one he could send up north for several weeks. He suggested a temping agency, but Jack had baulked at the idea. It wasn't as though he could have just anybody coming to stay in his house and work on his manuscript with him. But Ted had persuaded him that the agency he used in London from time to time was excellent and only dealt with elite positions.

  "Leave it to me," he'd said. And since Jack had a deadline, he'd done just that.

  When Ted phoned back, it was to tell him his trusted London agency had apologetically explained that with the weather so bad in the north, they weren't willing to send anyone such a long way. Instead, they had contacted their northern branch — equally fastidious in their selection process — and their manager, Casey Summers, would be in touch with Jack shortly.

  Miss Summers had duly spoken to him, reassuring him with her sympathy and professional efficiency. He explained all about Mrs Macintosh — how he needed someone with just the same qualities — and she thoroughly recommended Abby. She'd known her for years, she told him. Jack assumed that meant Abby would be middle-aged or beyond, but now he realised all it meant was that they must have known each other since pre-school or something.

  Maybe he hadn't been concentrating; he had a habit of drifting when he was starting on a new book. Now, he was regretting not finding out more, or at least thinking it through more carefully. It simply hadn't occurred to him that another person would be much different from Mrs Macintosh — only a change of name and face.

  Then Abby had shown up on his doorstep. She'd been quite a sight with her hat jammed low on her head, her face muffled in a woollen scarf and her coat covered in snow — like a miniature abominable snowman. But then she'd taken off that coat, revealing a shapely body clad in figure-hugging jeans and a soft jumper not quite baggy enough to hide the curves it clung to. The hat had come off next, allowing tousled, flame-like hair to fall around her face. And finally the scarf was unwound from a full mouth and sea-green eyes.

  No grey hair. No frumpy tweeds. No hint of middle-aged-to-elderly. Far, far from it. He was aware he'd stared at her and could only hope it hadn't come across as a bewildered leer.

  It wasn't that he minded Abby being young and curvy and pretty — he wasn't in the market to take advantage anyway. The problem was he had a deadline, and he could do without distractions.

  Jack frowned. He hadn't been distracted by a woman since Beth died — not that a few hadn't tried — and if anyone had asked him twelve hours ago, he would have said he wasn't likely to be. But that was before Abby had literally blown in, and for the first time since his wife died, he'd had no choice but to take notice. It was impossible not to.

  Putting Abby's looks aside for the moment — not an easy task — she seemed to have quite a temper on her. That was something he could definitely do without and something the oh-so-efficient Miss Summers hadn't bothered to warn him about. He needed someone calm and collected, someone who would do what he needed without … kerfuffle. And there was a word he never thought he'd use in this lifetime.

  Jack sipped at his coffee, brooding. The thing was, her temper had only come out to play when he'd tried to show her to her room. He recalled the way the colour had drained from her face, swiftly followed by pink spots of anger on her cheeks. It was obvious she hadn't known she was to stay at the house. He could understand her dismay if she hadn't been expecting it, but his gut instinct told him there was something more than that behind her reaction, something beyond the understandable reluctance she might have about sharing space with an eligible bachelor.

  Whatever her reasons, this misunderstanding over the accommodation he'd offered was going to be a problem. Had he not told Casey that Abby would be staying at the house? Had the woman misunderstood? Or had she told Abby correctly, but Abby had misunderstood?

  He raked a hand through his hair. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it was convenient for him to have his assistant on hand. The house was big enough for them to have their own space. It would be ridiculous for her to be to-ing and fro-ing all the time — and with the weather, that wasn't possible right now anyway.

  Mrs Macintosh hadn't minded last year. She'd loved her room, been available whenever he asked (as long as it wasn't after ten, when she retired for the night), supplied him with endless hot drinks and often tasty stews, kept herself to herself when she sensed that was what he wanted, and kept him company for the occasional murder mystery on television. And it had all been set up again this year, until her sister had gone and broken her hip.

  Worse than Abby losing her temper, Jack had lost his own. He might not know what had made her so foolhardy as to try and drive off like that, but he did know he'd been absolutely right not to let her. He wasn't sorry for that, but he was sorry he might have frightened her, even if his anger was justified, fuelled as it was by such appalling memories. If she'd already been spooked at finding out she had to stay in an old house in the middle of nowhere in impassable weather with a man she'd never met before—and, judging by her reaction, knew little about – he'd hardly helped by yelling at her and manhandling her.

  Jack sighed. Maybe an apology was due.