The queasiness in her gut stirred again then settled. She’d done the right thing. She had to believe it. Carter was loved, and regardless of the dreams she’d once harboured, where she and Harley loved him together, she would continue to love him as her nephew.
“Come and help me measure the ingredients,” she said. “And I’ll teach you how to make them so you won’t get a stomach-ache.”
***
“Will Ford be there?” Carter asked for the twentieth time.
He, Amy, and Bree approached the salon from the rear. For the last two hours, the hammering next door was a constant background rhythm to a blasted hard-rock soundtrack. They’d deliberately timed their visit to arrive a few minutes before the guys usually stopped for their morning break. Armed, at Bree’s suggestion, with muffins from The Great Flat White Café. A little sugar bribe might help.
“I heard his voice before,” said Bree. “I’m sure he’d love to give you some Samurai Dawn pointers while you eat your muffin.”
The three of them edged around neat stacks of plasterboard and into what would be the salon’s tiny staff and storage room. A door leaned against one wall, ready to be fitted once the construction of the interior walls was complete. Hands clapped over her ears, Bree approached the doorway leading into the main workspace. She stopped so suddenly that Carter, right behind her, bounced off her back.
Oh, dear Lord.
Think Magic Mike, but with authentic power tools, work boots, and tool belts.
Ben, West, and Ford were stripped to their shorts. All of them completely unaware they had visitors. Ford and Ben played an air guitar duet, while West channelled The Muppet’s Animal on air percussion. But it was Harley who sucked the air from Bree’s lungs. With his bare back to her, he affixed a sheet of plasterboard in place. Triceps and shoulders flexing, he twisted the screwdriver in time to the music, his only concession to dance moves a rhythmic butt twitch.
A woman with lesser willpower would’ve twined herself around all that warm, tanned skin.
Amy nudged into Bree’s side, leaned close to her ear and said-shouted, “Now I get it.”
Bree continued to study the criss-cross of muscle play across Harley’s back as he worked. Well, she didn’t get it. Sure, the man was attractive—okay, she conceded, hot-as-hell—but that didn’t explain how he kept drawing her back into his toxic orbit. No other ex-lover had ever had that effect.
Scott-the-dickhead-ex had tried to slither back into her life once. He’d “made a terrible mistake and missed the solidarity and stability of their relationship.” Ironic, considering the reason he’d given Bree six months earlier, announcing he’d found someone else who was “unpredictable both in bed and out of it”. She’d cut him off cold without the slightest twinge of regret. So why in God’s name couldn’t she scrape Harley from under her skin?
Bree crouched beside the audio dock and hit pause. Silence exploded into the room, and the three guys comically froze, as if they were kids playing a party game of musical statues.
West and Ben shot the women sheepish glances and muttered, “Hey.” Ford grinned at Carter and winked. And Harley turned with insolent slowness, slotting the screwdriver back into his tool belt. She must be one sick puppy, because she read all sorts of suggestiveness in the movement.
“We brought muffins.” Carter held out the brown paper bags to Ben, who grabbed them and stuck his face in the first one, inhaling deeply.
Ford glanced from Bree to Amy to Harley and then back at Carter. “What’s say you come with us next door for smoko? Then you can show us the level of Samurai Dawn you’re stuck on.”
Carter turned to Amy. “Mum?”
Amy nodded. “That’s fine. You can ask Ford to make you a drink of Auntie Bree’s secret hot chocolate stash.”
Ford chuckled, laying a hand on Carter’s shoulder. “It’s not a secret. Let’s go.”
Ford’s gaze flicked to Bree, and she automatically lifted her chin, stomach muscles tensing. A world of difference between the harmless secret of hiding drink sachets and the not-so-harmless secret of a nine-year-old nephew. She’d had no opportunity to gauge what Harley’s twin thought of becoming an uncle, but she’d often gotten a little antsy and guilt-ridden over his coaching of the school’s junior rugby team. The small group of kids—more enthusiastic than competitive—adored him.
Carter led the three men out, West and Ben directing a small nod at her as they passed, their expressions unreadable. Heat quivered in her chest, threatening to rise in a scorching tide up her throat. They probably all despised her—and she couldn’t blame them.
“Harley,” Amy said, once Carter and the men had left, “I’d like to explain.”
Harley strolled across to the shirt draped on a sawhorse. “Explain away.”
He slipped his arms into the sleeves and hauled the tee shirt over his head. Chest muscles popped left, right and center. A graphic memory of licking those flat nipples sprang into Bree’s mind. She dropped her gaze to his sawdust-speckled work boots. Control yourself, woman. What were you thinking a moment ago about scraping the man out from under your skin?
“Though I don’t know what you can add to why Bree kept Carter’s existence from me for nine years.” He sat on one of the saw horses.
Bree leaned against the wall behind her, fixing her gaze on the tangle of wires where the men would soon install the salon’s lighting. Last thing she wanted was to antagonize Harley further—especially since she’d promised Amy to let her do the talking.
“I’m mostly to blame for that.” Amy perched on the edge of the saw horse opposite Harley. “I was terrified that if you found out about Carter, I’d lose my son.”
Someone who hadn’t seen the gamut of emotions on Harley’s face before wouldn’t have noticed the slight tightening of muscles in his jaw as he registered Amy’s last two words. His face returned quickly to neutral, and he braced his palms on his spread knees in an I’m listening position.
“I can’t have kids—uterine cancer when I was twenty-three.” Amy’s chin gave a little wobble then stilled. “Paul and I had only been married a year when I was diagnosed, and we spent the next two years fighting it. The hysterectomy saved my life but killed my dreams of having a family. Until my little sister turned up pregnant.”
Amy folded her arms under her breasts and met Harley’s steady gaze. “Bree said the father didn’t want her and wouldn’t want this baby. She was alone and terrified of the responsibility of raising the child as a single mum.” Her eyes slitted. “That’s right—she planned to keep the baby. Then Paul, who is part Maori, suggested we whangai Bree’s child. We would raise Carter as our own, but she would still be involved in the child’s life, just without the burden of emotionally and financially providing for him.”
Harley’s jaw muscles flexed again. He must be grinding his molars to nubs. “I know what whangai is.”
The fact that Rob and Denise Komeke had brought their nephews to Oban nearly twenty-five years ago and had raised them as their sons was common knowledge. What wasn’t common knowledge—at least, not until the twin’s birth mother died—were the reasons behind Ford’s and Harley’s adoption. But in the few weeks since Ford and Holly had gotten back together, Ford had finally opened up a little, giving his friends some insight into his and Harley’s early childhood. Bree had suspected the men’s past wasn’t sunshine and roses, but like Ford, Harley had opted not to discuss those years. One more way he kept his emotional distance from people.
“And I’ve no problem with it if that’s what’s best for the kid,” he continued. “My problem is that I was kept out of the decision-making process and that there were assumptions made about how I’d deal with an unexpected pregnancy. I wasn’t given the chance to take responsibility.” An icy stare slung in Bree’s direction. “Two of us made this kid, but only one of us got a say in his upbringing.”
“Paul and I have done our best to—”
“I can see that.” Harley held up a hand. “And Br
ee and I will deal with her decisions privately.”
Bree’s stomach recoiled into a churning ball. Privately. Thanks, but no thanks. Her cheeks prickled with heat.
“Carter seems like a nice kid,” Harley continued, “you and your husband have done a good job so far.” His hand dropped to his thigh, long, artist fingers stretching across the muscle there, the pads digging into his flesh. “I’m grateful.”
“What do you plan to do?” Amy asked.
“Do?” Harley squinted from Amy to Bree, his head rearing back. “What do you mean, do?”
“About Carter. Your son.” The quiver returned to Amy’s voice.
Brow furrowed, Harley squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to do anything. Carter’s not mine.”
The first tendrils of relief coursed through Bree’s veins, tempered by pinpricks of hurt at his denial.
His voice softened. “He’s yours and Paul’s. I’ve no interest in being the boy’s father because he already has one.”
Amy nodded like a bobble-headed-figurine, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Thank you, Harley.”
“Yeah.”
He scrubbed the heels of his palms along his shorts then stood, shooting Bree a wary glance. In case she decided to make it a weep-fest with her sister. As if. She’d done all the crying over Harley she ever intended to do.
“We’re good for now?” he asked.
Amy offered him a watery smile and also stood. “We’re good.” Then she slanted Bree a you tell him the rest glance and edged toward the door. “I’d better go check on Carter. Make sure he’s not driving the men insane with his one-hundred-and-one questions.”
Six years Bree’s senior, and Amy still fled at the first sign of conflict as if she were the younger sibling. Then again, Bree and Amy often did have a topsy-turvy relationship, with Bree acting as the older sister. Except the one time when Bree had run out of options and was forced to depend on Amy’s strength.
Harley moved back to the wall, running his thumb down the length of plasterboard over the screw heads.
“Amy and Paul had an argument,” Bree said. “It’s why she turned up here.”
“Must’ve been a bad one to risk bringing Carter to the island.”
“She didn’t know you were here. We didn’t plan to spring this on you.”
“I figured.” He continued to smooth his palm down the plasterboard, leaning in to brush a few flecks from the smooth surface.
“She’s going back to Christchurch this afternoon to sort things out with her husband.”
“Good. Running away from your shit never works. Pointed that out to Ford a few weeks ago.”
Pot, meet kettle. Since Harley still had his back to her, Bree rolled her eyes. “Right.”
“Tonight, I’ll stop by, and we’ll do that talking in private that I mentioned.”
Seriously bad idea. The last time they’d talked in private… Bree folded her arms. “Not going to happen.”
“Concerned about your will power when we’re alone, Queenie?”
The grin he shot over his shoulder made her want to stride across the room and kiss him. Strike that, she wanted to slap his sexy lips off his smirking face. Strike that again—slapping was for tantrum-throwing teenage girls. What she really wanted to do was pin his dick to the wall with a nail gun, because dammit, he was right. Her will power needed a major overhaul.
She showed him her teeth. “I have company tonight.”
Harley faced her, raising his eyebrows then wriggling them rakishly. “Really?”
“Tonight and every night for the next two weeks,” she said. “Carter’s staying with me for the rest of the holidays to give Amy and Paul a chance to sort things out.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” The teasing flirtation evaporated from his tone.
“You could spend time with him, since he’s here.” The words slipped out before she thought the invitation through.
“Why?”
The man sounded genuinely baffled.
“Why would you want me anywhere near Carter?” He hauled the screwdriver out of his tool belt. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not good around kids. Ford’s the kid whisperer, not me. I’d only fuck it up.”
Bree cocked her head at his white-knuckled grip on the handle. Harley Komeke showing signs of self-doubt or weakness? Interesting. “It’s not about you,” she said. “It’s about what might be good for Carter. To get to know you a little.”
“Did you miss the part about me not wanting to be a father to this kid—to any kid?”
Shoving aside the returning pinpricks of hurt, Bree stiffened her spine and stalked over. She stood toe-to-toe in front of him, refusing to react to the faint scent of spicy cologne and male pheromones pumping off him in waves.
“I received that memo loud and clear.” She tapped a finger directly over his heart—if indeed, Harley even had a heart. “But even though you occasionally act like one, I know you’re not a complete bastard—”
“Good to hear.”
“Who would hurt a little boy by deliberately avoiding him. So you could pretend to care, like, you know, the way you did about me.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Bree clamped her lips shut. Where the hell had that come from? She’d meant to say something like “you could pretend to like Carter” or “pretend to be his uncle”. Allowing Harley to catch a glimpse of how much he’d hurt her in the past was unacceptable. It wouldn’t change a damn thing about their current situation, and while he didn’t have an ounce of cruelty in him, her pride wouldn’t permit him to guess the amount of scar tissue marring her heart.
Harley’s gaze didn’t flinch from hers, though some fleeting, unidentifiable emotion flicked through his grey irises before vanishing like mist. Then the corner of his mouth kicked up. “I could do that. And while I’m pretending, maybe you could pretend, too.”
“Pretend what?” Oh, she was so setting herself up to be the punchline of a bad joke.
“Say my name first.”
“No.”
She tried to duck past him for the door, but his hand wrapped around her wrist.
“Say it.”
His voice commanded every one of her primal you-man-me-woman triggers, and dammit, he dragged it, husky and raw, from her lips.
“That’s it.” He loosened his grip, thumb rubbing tiny circles above her throbbing pulse. “Now pretend my name isn’t what you cry out the next time you touch yourself.”
An unladylike suggestion rose to the tip of her tongue, but instead of voicing it, Bree wriggled her wrist free and aimed her haughtiest you pathetic creature glare up at him. “Sorry, I can’t give you credit, since DIY is the term I associate with orgasms and you.”
She walked out of the salon before Harley could see the lie of it on her face.
Or that no matter how hard she resisted, she wanted him to prove her wrong.
***
Bree sat at Erin’s dining table the next morning at seven-thirty, facing a friendly firing squad and wishing she’d more to bolster her courage than a banana, chocolate chip and walnut muffin. They were meeting at Erin’s house, since she was the only friend left who could make it today who didn’t have a home full of fiancé, husband, daughters, sister or adopted-out son. And this wasn’t a conversation Bree wanted to conduct in Erin’s place of business, The Great Flat White Café.
“Emergency meeting called to order,” Erin said.
She passed a muffin to Shaye, who screwed up her nose and handed the plate to her sister sitting next to her.
Erin pretended not to notice and gave the next two plates to Kezia and Holly. “Apologies sent in from Tarryn and Carly.”
Erin sat in the last empty chair, flicked her long blonde plait over one shoulder. “First on the agenda,” she said. “Bree’s oh-my-freaking-gawd-honest-to-goodness love child with Harley.”
Holly picked out a chocolate chunk from her muffin and sucked it into her mouth with a blissful smile. “Way to memorably hijack a bab
y shower, Queen Bee. The old girls will be talking about it for weeks.”
Bree slid a glance to Piper, who’d already finished one half of her muffin and now slathered butter onto the second half.
“I’m sorry about ruining your party,” Bree told her.
Piper looked up from the mutilation of a perfectly delicious muffin and widened her eyes. “Jeez, don’t apologize. No one wanted to play Name the Poop Color or Stick a Nappy on a Cantaloupe after that. You did me a solid with the distraction.”
Erin continued her steady examination of Bree. “That was one hell of a bombshell you dropped on the Komeke family…” She jiggled the tea bag in her cup, dropping her gaze from Bree and shaking her head.
“It’s a bombshell for us too.” Kezia shook her head. “We had no idea—and maybe we could’ve helped you with—I don’t know.” She rolled her shoulders. “Something.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Bree had let them down. She hadn’t trusted her friends enough, and they knew it.
“This is not a kangaroo court and we’re not a jury of your peers.” Shaye rubbed Bree’s back with brisk strokes. “We’ve all screwed up in the past. We’ve all kept secrets from each other”—she shot a glance at her sister—“and none of us wants to play Judge Judy.”
Piper raised her hand. “Um, hello? I wanna play Judge Judy so I can say to Bree, ‘Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining’.” Piper grinned at Bree and stuffed another bite of muffin into her mouth.
Ignoring Piper, Erin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Since we don’t have much time at this emergency meeting, are we talking about you and Harley doing the bump ‘n grind at art college, him still on his ‘I never wanna have kids’ trip then buggering off to New York, or you freaking out about being pregnant and giving the baby to your uterus-free sister?”
“Erin!” Shaye clapped a hand over her eyes. “Holy guacamole.”
“What?” Erin shrugged and turned back to Bree. “Isn’t that it? You didn’t trust us enough to share that oh, while I was in Christchurch I gave birth to Harley’s baby?”
Drawing Me In: A New Zealand Secret Baby Second Chance Romance (Due South Series Book 7) Page 7
