by Annie O'Neil
“Only if you’re happy for me to hold him.”
“Of course.” She shook her head, as if trying to shake away any concerns she might have. “I’m just so used to doing everything on my own, I—”
A deep ache took hold of Matthew’s heart. Amanda worked so hard and gave so much...it was unfair that she had shouldered so much responsibility on her own. Instead of anger that she hadn’t told him earlier he felt shame. Sorrow, even, that he had come across as someone who wouldn’t care. Who wouldn’t be there.
And that, he thought grimly as he held out his hands to accept the weight of their son, was the crux of the matter. He was going to have to step up. Make himself into someone who could be relied on.
“What about the tree?” Amanda moved to the side as Matthew stepped in, gently wiping the snowflakes from Tristan’s loose curls.
“I’ll get it after I put Tristan down.”
“I’m not even sure where the decorations are...” Amanda’s top teeth took hold of her bottom lip as she shot him an apprehensive look.
He could see she still wasn’t sure about him. How much to let him into their lives—if at all. And the ache of that uncertainty formed into a resolve to do everything he could to be part of their lives—even if he had to do it from the sidelines. He wanted to be there. Be here.
He managed to tug his lips into a smile and nodded toward the kitchen.
“Why don’t you put the kettle on? Get yourself warmed up? I’ll bring the tree inside. It’ll need to dry out a bit before being decorated anyway. Perhaps we could meet up for a hot chocolate and a bit of decorating tomorrow?”
Amanda’s shoulders dropped—an instant sign that he’d made the right call. To back off.
“Amanda darling, is that you?”
They both turned toward the staircase, then threw anxious looks at Tristan. They needn’t have been worried. He was fast asleep, fingers tightly clutching the remaining half of the gingerbread heart he’d chosen over all the Santas and snowmen on offer.
“Here.” Matthew handed over his son, vividly aware that he knew where the other half of that heart was. Not inside Tristan’s little belly, but thumping loudly inside his chest, banging against his ribcage so hard he almost had to catch his breath. “I’ll let you two settle him in. Relax for the night.”
He hesitated a moment, then went with his gut and dropped a soft kiss on Amanda’s forehead. When he pulled back he stroked his hand along Tristan’s soft curls and met Amanda’s gaze, unsurprised to find her expression completely indecipherable.
“Night, then. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.”
She nodded, her eyes watching him as he walked back to the door, opened it up to the magical wintry scene beyond and then pulled it shut behind him.
A sensation of complete emptiness filled him as the door’s weighted click sounded against the muted noises of the city. And for the first time in his life Matthew’s feet felt leaden, unwilling to take first one step then another toward the solitary, scarcely furnished flat he had once seen as his sanctuary.
He should be in there. Helping out. Tucking his boy in. Helping with supper. Carrying Amanda up to her room and making love to her. And then again for good measure.
But that click of the door had said its piece. He wasn’t one of them.
Refusing to let himself turn back on the off chance there would be a final glimpse of Amanda and Tristan in the window, he hunched his shoulders against the cold and headed for the only other place he knew that would provide some form of comfort. The hospital. At least there he would be able to put his restless energy to some use.
* * *
“Are you ready to put the star on?”
Amanda turned and stared at the decoration in Matthew’s hands. She pretended she was transfixed by the glittering eleven-point Bethlehem star she’d managed to sneak out of her parents’ house before she’d taken that final walk of shame out of their lives.
She’d been the only one who really enjoyed decorating the Christmas tree anyhow, she’d justified at the time. Now it was a little part of her family history for her son. She’d tell him one day. Just as she would tell him about Matthew.
He’d been his usual charming self when he’d accepted her invitation to enjoy some mince pies and help decorate the tree, but ever since he’d arrived his natural warmth had been tinged with a slightly squirrelly edge she couldn’t put a finger on. Maybe she should have offered him the spare room last night. Not that she would have been able to sleep, knowing there was six-foot-something of sexy down the corridor.
Ugh. This was a no-win situation. Why couldn’t she have gotten pregnant by someone she wasn’t in love with?
Wait.
What?
“Amanda? What do you want?”
She looked up at Matthew, confused as to what he was asking about. A life of wedded bliss? Yup. She’d go for that.
“The star? Are you ready for the star?” He wiggled it in her eyeline, obscuring his baby blues.
Oh. Christmas tree. Son. Responsibility.
“Sure.” She pulled back and gave her shoulders a little up-down shake before turning to Tristan, who was still busily hanging tiny shatterproof baubles along the lower branches of what had turned out to be a ridiculously beautiful tree. “Tristan, darling. Would you like to watch the Christmas star light up?”
She took a few steps back and sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling her little boy into her lap and wrapping her arms around him as Matthew made a show of trying to reach the top of the tree and failing, much to Tristan’s delight.
Thank heavens Matthew’s attention was focused on their son. She was flustered and light-headed as her heart and brain met somewhere in the middle and had a discussion. She was in love with Matthew. The dedicated bachelor who hadn’t been able to wait to get out through the front door last night. Who had reluctantly agreed to come over today. Who didn’t want to be a part of their lives.
She watched Matthew stretch to his full length, his shirt and jumper rucking up enough for her to get a glimpse of the stomach she vividly remembered skidding her fingers across, her body growing more taut with desire at each touch.
“Look good?” he asked.
“Perfect,” she whispered, only to be caught off guard as Matthew turned around.
When their eyes met her breath caught in her throat. He’d seen the look in her eyes. The longing. The burning ache for his touch. Their gazes clashed with a burst of fire that ignited and turned from innocent ogling to scorching desire in an instant.
“Star!”
Tristan began clapping his hands—a welcome distraction from the hunger she hadn’t expected to feel. The bone-deep yearning for all of this to be real.
And then the doorbell rang.
“Don’t worry, darlings,” Florence trilled from the doorway, precariously balancing a tray of mince pies in one hand. “I’ll get it.”
Matthew shot Amanda a questioning look and she shrugged, still reeling from the potency of her feelings for him. She hadn’t invited anyone.
The second the door opened an exchange of “Merry Christmases” floated into the entryway and into the sitting room Amanda’s heart went still. Icicles of insecurity replaced the warmth and comfort of the afternoon they’d just shared together.
Frozen in place, she found it impossible to turn around. Move. Blink, even. What were they doing here?
Tristan looked up at her with the same questioning gaze she could feel Matthew sending from across the room.
What’s going on? Why have these strangers turned you white as the snow?
“Amanda, darling!” Florence’s slightly anxious voice called out from the doorway. “Look who’s popped in for a mince pie and some mulled wine!”
Amanda helped Tristan to his feet and pushed herself up to
stand. Avoiding Matthew’s pure blue eyes, she turned around, willing her lips into a smile as her eyes lit on the new arrivals.
“Mum. Dad. Happy Christmas!”
* * *
Matthew was no expert on family relations, but even he could see that Florence had engineered this situation and relied upon the sheer Britishness of everyone in the room to at the very least kick things off on a civilized foot.
A very well-heeled foot, from the looks of things.
Amanda’s parents oozed the kind of wealth that only came from generations of elevated comfort and privilege. Her father shrugged off one of Savile Row’s latest winter coats and handed it to Florence as if she were little more than a servant. Or perhaps it was just a sign of the nerves everyone was feeling.
“Oh, dear. I hope we’ve not come too early,” said Amanda’s mother.
Violet, was it? Her eyes darted from Amanda to Matthew and then stopped, transfixed by the little boy who was brave enough to walk over to the newcomers.
“Tristan,” he said, pointing to his chest.
He handed his grandmother a bauble, then took her by the hand and led her over to the tree.
“Oh, goodness. Well, hello there.” Violet Wakehurst’s expression switched from anxious to enchanted and then back again, as if her features were being spun like a pinwheel, clearly unable to choose how she actually felt. “Would you like me to put this—? Oh, are you seeing this, Giles, darling? All right, we’ll put it on this branch, here, shall we?”
Matthew watched Violet’s fingers, trembling ever so slightly, as she hung the ornament on the tree, looked down at her grandson, then at her husband, and finally to her daughter, with astonishment and pleasure lighting up her features in equal measure.
How did he do it? Matthew shook his head in wonder. How did this little boy win over the grandmother he’d never met in the same way he’d reached into his own heart?
The answer came to him in an instant.
Faith.
The faith of an innocent believing that all would be right in the world as long as there was love. It was instinctual. In the same way survival was. Instinct was guiding Tristan to bring them all together.
“What brings you two here? Bedford Square isn’t on your usual round of Christmas parties.” Amanda’s eyes flashed from parent to parent.
The look she threw Matthew was so fast he almost missed it, but its intensity made an impact. Her whole body language was that of a frightened child. There was a brittle edge to her voice he hadn’t heard before. Self-preservation, he thought, glancing at Tristan. Amanda was acting from the other end of the emotional spectrum...as an adult who had taught herself that trust, faith and belief weren’t her allies. Couldn’t be relied on to carry her through a situation she had never envisaged.
The father of her child and her estranged parents were in the room, with the son she had vowed to protect.
In her shoes he would have run to the sink to throw cold water on his face. Rouse himself from what had to be a nightmare.
“I invited them, love. ’Tis the season and all that!” Florence brightly cut through the thick atmosphere in the room. “Mince pie, anyone?” She swirled the plate round the room, sending her brother’s coat flying off to the sofa. No one moved. “Oh, heavens! Where are my manners? Matthew.” She gave him a warm smile. “I believe you have met my brother Giles and his wife Violet before. At a charity event, was it? Something about soldiers?”
Florence’s intervention softened things. Gave the uncomfortable group some chitchat to get them through the awkwardness of the scenario.
After a few exchanges of, “Oh, yes, I remember,” or, “It was at the Savoy, wasn’t it, darlings?” and, “Weren’t you also at the SoS benefit, Amanda?” the cool conversational temperature begin to warm. A touch.
“Here.” Matthew decided to take the bull by the horns and stepped across to shake Amanda’s parents’ hands. “Shall I take your coats? Give you a chance to get comfortable?”
Amanda shot him a horrified Don’t leave me alone look, counterbalanced by Florence interjection as she wrapped an arm around her niece’s shoulders.
“That’s a wonderful suggestion, Matthew, dear. And while you’re at it would you mind awfully nipping into the kitchen and fetching the mulled wine? I’ve set out some porcelain mugs next to the range.”
“Of course.” Matthew nodded, wondering if this was actually his cue to absent himself from the house all together or just Florence orchestrating an opportunity for them to explain his presence.
As he began ladling the spiced wine into the delicate mugs he heard the door swoosh open behind him.
“How could you do that?” Amanda raged, as much as she could in a whisper.
“What? I was doing what your aunt asked.” Matthew feigned innocence.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Were you part of this? Did you help her bring them here?”
If Matthew hadn’t known the steam coming from behind Amanda’s head was from the mulled wine he would have sworn it was coming from her head. Despite the intensity of Amanda’s fury, he laughed.
She punched him in the arm. “What are you laughing for? This is a total nightmare! You!” She jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “My parents!” She flicked her thumb toward the sitting room, then pulled herself taut and growled, “They’re in there with your son. Would you bloody do something about it?”
Matthew couldn’t help himself. He laughed again.
Not ten minutes ago he had been wondering if he was welcome, and now Amanda was asking him to leap into the saddle and go into battle on behalf of her and their son.
“Why. Are. You. Laughing?” Amanda demanded, her cheeks pinkening with barely contained fury.
Matthew put the ladle down and rubbed his hands along her arms, even more amused when she stiffened in his touch like a little wooden toy soldier.
“C’mon, love. This is all a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? This whole set-up? I have to give it to your Auntie Florence. She doesn’t do things by halves, does she?”
Amanda’s fury seemed to double. “She has gone well and truly over the top this time. First she makes me invite you to Winter Wonderland, then she insists you come along with the tree, using Tristan and making Christmas memories as—”
“Wait a minute.” All the warmth dropped from his voice. “What are you talking about, made you invite me? You didn’t want me to be part of this? Get to know my own son?”
“No.” Amanda balled her hands into fists as if grabbing back all the words she wanted to say but wouldn’t. “That wasn’t it at all.”
“Well?” Matthew asked, after she’d glared at him without any sign of throwing some light onto the matter. “Why don’t we break this down? Are you venting at me because you’re angry with your aunt, or are you angry at me for showing up in your life?”
“Noooo!” Amanda’s eyes shone with tears as the word scraped the length of her throat. “Of course I want you here—it’s all I’ve ever—” She stopped, her fingers flying to cover her mouth.
“All you’ve ever what? Wanted? Because if that’s what you were going to say I can tell you right here, right now, without having had a single sip of your aunt’s intensely boozy mulled wine, that I feel the exact same way. And I’m prepared to go a step further. Call it madness, call it destiny—call it the Auntie Florence Effect—but I’m in love with you, Amanda Wakehurst. And if you don’t want to deal with your parents alone you don’t have to.”
“I don’t understand.” Amanda was shaking her head in disbelief. “What are you saying?”
“Beyond the simple fact that I love you?” Matthew looked up and scratched his head.
He hadn’t planned on saying any of it, but now that he’d told her he was prepared to take any steps, go to any lengths, to ensure she and Tristan were hap
py and provided for. Including taking one on the chin from her parents.
“How about this...?” He crossed to her and pulled her hands into his, held them to his lips, dropping kisses on each of them. “Why don’t we go back in there and tell everyone we’re sorry about any confusion, but the real reason we’ve all come together today is for an engagement party?”
Amanda’s fingers went limp in his hands, and shadows instead of sparks of joy darkened her eyes.
She tugged her hands out of his and began shaking her head back and forth. No, no, no.
“I’m sorry, Matthew. I can’t do that. Put all that burden on you. I can see what you’re doing, and it is so generous and unbelievably kind of you, but I cannot accept your offer.”
Matthew flinched at her refusal, but knew he’d just thrown more fuel on a fire that was in danger of combusting. He could hardly take the proposal back, and was astonished to discover he didn’t want to. So he did the only thing he could think of. He pulled Amanda into his arms and began to kiss her.
The first kiss was soft. So gentle it was just a brush of the lips. “Tell me you don’t love me too,” he murmured, before pressing his lips to hers again. He felt her body melt a little in his arms, her fingertips press against his chest. “Just tell me you don’t love me too and I will do whatever you say.”
He nuzzled into the crook between her chin and her throat, kissing and caressing and murmuring with all the tenderness he hadn’t known was living in his heart.
“Anything?” Amanda pressed away from him, tears openly pouring down her cheeks.
“Of course, love. I’d do anything for you and Tristan.”
She swiped at her cheeks and steeled herself after taking a step or two back. “I can’t marry you.”
A lacerating sting of pain swept through him, but he refused to let her look away. He took two steps toward her and cupped her face in his hands, ignoring her rigid shoulders, her cheeks taut with the breath held in her chest as if it were her only lifeline.
