Drawing Me In: A New Zealand Secret Baby Second Chance Romance (Due South Series Book 7)

by Tracey Alvarez

  “We were more than just friends.”

  “Anyway,” she said. Meaning topic closed. “I moved in with Amy and Paul for a few weeks while I looked for a new place. While I was there, I came to the realization that although Scott was a cheating piece of cat turd, he had a point. I had become too involved in Carter’s life in ways that weren’t good for me or for him. So when Christine asked if I wanted to revive and reopen the gallery in Oban I jumped at the chance.”

  “Did the distance help?”

  “Not at first. The first year away from him, the first birthday, the first Easter egg hunt, the first Christmas was torture. But I adapted. I returned to being the sometimes-cool auntie who rang him twice a month and who sent Christmas and birthday presents I knew he’d love.”

  “Well, this is cosy.” Ford’s amused voice came from behind them. “Awww, group hug, everyone!”

  Before Harley could move away from Bree, Ford’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and squeezed. Carter, giggling, appeared on Harley’s other side, worming into his side and slipping an arm around Bree’s waist.

  “Squish the Auntie Bree sandwich,” he yelled.

  A sudden, painful jerk inside his chest as Harley stared down at the boy’s grinning face. Maybe his heart was tugging on the tiny strings connecting him to Bree and Carter. This could’ve been his woman, his son, his life, where breakfast at his brother’s and soon-to-be sister-in-law’s house was a regular, normal event.

  Or maybe he’d eaten one too many spicy sausages for breakfast.

  Bree wriggled and pushed until she’d shifted both Harley and Ford back half a step.

  “Tell those two big baboons to lay off,” she said to Carter.

  Carter’s forehead crinkled. “Are you calling me an ugly, red-bottomed monkey?” He snickered. “Because if Harley’s a baboon, then that makes me a baboon, too—since he’s my other dad.”

  Bree went preternaturally still. In the two weeks that Carter had been in Oban, he’d never once referred to the blood relationship between himself and Harley within earshot of Harley. And from the look on Bree’s face, Carter referring to Harley as “my other dad” was news to her, too.

  She covered her surprise with a fierce smile, pinching one of Carter’s cheeks. “I call it as I see it, monkey-bum.”

  “You’re the monkey bum,” replied Carter, and then he was off on a pre-adolescent stand-up routine of insults involving the simian species with various bodily substances and functions tagged on.

  Ford gripped Harley’s shoulder, dark eyes boring into his soul like a power drill. Neither had to say a word, goddamn the twin thing. You’re a dad now, bro, Ford’s gaze said. Suck it up.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Harley said, even though Ford had done nothing more than chuckle at Carter’s insults. “Time to go and meet the morning ferry.”

  And then everything could return to normal before the sun went down that night.

  ***

  Harley couldn’t deny that Paul Tahere outclassed him in the fatherhood stakes when he met the man twenty minutes later. Paul oozed “Dad”—from his military-clipped black hair to his wrap-around shades and practical-but-trendy navy boat shoes. He also oozed cop who deals with lowlife daily. And Harley bore the scrutiny of his head-to-toe visual pat-down. So, you’re the guy, that gaze said. You’re the sorry asshole who chose New York over Bree.

  Yeah, he was that guy. But screw it. Harley extended his hand. Maybe he wouldn’t have won a Best Boyfriend of the Year award, but it wasn’t as if he’d ruined Bree for all other men.

  Paul’s grip was firm and dry, his brown eyes working Harley over for a moment longer, and then suddenly, the flintiness Harley had imagined vanished. Paul leaned in, pressing his nose to Harley’s in an age-old cultural gesture of hongi.

  When he straightened, Paul gave him the squinty-eyed bro glance. “You’re the artist, ay?”

  “Yeah. And you’re the cop who dishes out traffic violations to people who piss him off.”

  Paul shrugged broad shoulders. “What can I say? The man had a need for speed.”

  And Scott had hurt Bree—who, judging by the bear-hug Paul had given her earlier, he obviously considered her to be more of a little sister than a sister-in-law…which gave him a giant leg up in Harley’s estimation.

  “Then I owe you a beer,” Harley said.

  Carter tugged on Paul’s arm. “Dad? I wanna show you the mural me and Harley are working on. I painted some of the tree trunks.”

  “You did?” Paul glanced toward the Great Flat White Café, where Bree, Amy, Ford and Holly had wandered over to chat with Erin. “Why don’t you go and check with your mum, and we’ll go and have a look on the way to lunch.”

  “Okay.” Carter stared at his sneakered feet and shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Um, Harley? So are you gonna come to my junior premier cricket match next month? Auntie Bree’s going.”

  Devious little bugger. For the last few days, Carter had yapped on about this big deal cricket match, dropping hint after hint about Harley flying up to Christchurch for it. He’d managed to be vague about attending, but now that he’d been put on the spot in front of Paul…

  “Carter,” Paul said. “Your auntie says Harley’s got an important exhibition to prepare for.”

  The boy’s lips arced downward, and the points of his knuckles poked through the cotton of his shorts as his fingers curled into fists. “My game’s important, too! Willowpark Primary hasn’t beaten St. Luke’s in over three years.”

  And so the parental guilt, which Harley had never intended to experience, scored a direct gut-shot. “I’ll try to make it, Carter.”

  The boy’s fixed grey stare was like looking into a mirror. “Do or do not, there is no try,” he said.

  Laughter bubbled over Harley’s gut-shot, and for a moment, hope shone through the tiny holes. He couldn’t and wouldn’t be a second father to the boy, but maybe he could be a mate. “You’ve been watching too many movies with my brother.”

  Carter’s frown wavered then disappeared into a sunny smile. “I’m gonna use The Force and make you come to my game.”

  Harley held up his palms, “Enough of the F-word. I’ll be there.”

  Satisfied with the annihilation of Harley’s defences, Carter ran to his mother’s side.

  “You mean it?” Paul said in a low voice once the boy was out of earshot. “You’ll show?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The other man’s brow crumpled into a deep “V”. “Don’t let him down.”

  “Or you’ll come after me with your ticket book?”

  Harley offered up a wry smile, but Paul’s serious expression didn’t change.

  “No,” he said. “Because if you’re the type of man to let my son pick up a paint brush and risk wrecking your work, then you’re the type of man who wouldn’t want to see his heart broken.”

  Paul lifted his chin, the intensity of his gaze filling Harley with the strangest sense of recognition. He shook it off. Odds were he’d encountered Paul in a professional capacity as a rebellious student living in Christchurch away from home for the first time. Harley’d had a couple of minor brushes with the Boys in Blue during those days.

  “I give you my word that I’ll be there.”

  “That’s enough. You’re Carter’s now, which in turn makes you whānau.” Paul nodded toward Ford, who stood with his arm around Holly, but kept his gaze locked on Harley. “And I can tell whānau means something to you by the way Bree talks about the Komekes and your brother.”

  “But not about me. I’m the guy who left her high and dry.”

  “Yeah. But if you hadn’t, then maybe Carter wouldn’t have become my son.” Paul leaned against the wharf railing and tilted his face to the crisp white clouds blocking the sun. “Would you have stuck by her, had you stayed?”

  “That’s a pretty personal question.”

  “Whānau now, remember?”

  Harley should tell Paul to go to hell, but something s
topped him. Something about the man exuded a you can trust me vibe. Weird—considering Harley had never formed any lasting friendships with men other than his Stewart Island mates.

  “I honestly don’t know,” he found himself admitting. “I was pretty screwed up as a twenty-year-old. Still am, in some ways, truth be told.”

  Paul snorted. “Aren’t we all screwed up at twenty?”

  Harley grimaced. “I never wanted kids. Bree told you that, right?”

  “She mentioned it.”

  Harley leaned his butt against the rail next to Paul. Across from them, Carter stood at Amy’s side, patiently waiting to talk to his mother. He really was a good kid.

  “My old man left when Ford and I were a few months old. Couldn’t hack the realities of screaming babies in stereo, so he fucked off and left my sixteen-year-old mother to deal with the fallout.”

  “Shitty thing to do.”

  “Didn’t see him again until I was nineteen, and that was too soon,” Harley said. “We were better off without him.”

  “He’s the reason you don’t want kids?”

  “One of.” And the others, he didn’t care to share with the class.

  Paul met his gaze. “We don’t have to make the same mistakes our fathers made. You’re your own man.”

  “I am. And so I can choose to live on my terms. Right now, those terms don’t include kids, but I’m glad Carter’s got you for a dad. He got lucky.”

  “Appreciate the vote of confidence but I think it’s me who owes you a beer for giving me the chance to be a dad.”

  Harley grunted in assent, only because he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

  The conversation with Erin tapering off, Bree and the others said their goodbyes and headed toward Paul and Harley. Bree’s gaze slid to his as if pulled by super-strength magnets. He felt the kick of it straight down to his balls.

  Would he have stayed if he’d known she carried his child?

  Would he have stuck around with nights of crying and dirty nappies and catatonic tiredness?

  What did it matter when Carter had a real dad, a man who’d dealt with crying and nappies and sleep deprivation, and who was so grateful for it he wanted to buy Harley a beer?

  Harley wrenched his gaze from Bree and stood. None of it mattered since Carter would be leaving Stewart Island in only a few short hours.

  ***

  Bree couldn’t guarantee her motivations were pure, so as a precaution she put on her oldest, ugliest pair of cotton panties buried in the bottom of her underwear drawer. Considering she’d rather march into Due South in a string bikini singing a raunchy Miley Cyrus tune than have any human being see the slightly saggy black things, she figured it a wise move when confronting the man most likely to talk her out of them.

  She clutched the little container of pink coconut ice and walked up the hill to Piper and West’s house. The treats played the role of a convenient excuse to drop in on Harley. He’d been unnaturally quiet during lunch and the afternoon spent with Amy, Paul, and Carter. And the withdrawn but baffled look on Harley’s face on the wharf that evening when Carter, visibly upset at leaving, had flung himself at Harley?

  It’d broken her fucking heart—and she didn’t use the F-bomb lightly.

  So she’d gone home and made coconut ice. Harley’s favorite. Well, it used to be. Now, she couldn’t honestly say what the man liked or if he even still had a sweet tooth. Tough. She’d be the bigger person, even if it were a little nana-ish to bring home-baking to a man.

  Bree squinted up at the Westlake house with a sigh. Nana-ish and oh so transparent. Piper and West wouldn’t be fooled for a moment if they spotted her. Bree quickened her steps up the driveway, praying her granny undies—or grundies, as she’d labelled them in her head—wouldn’t slide down and tangle around her ankles. Probably should’ve worn pants instead of the cute, Grace Kelly-inspired twin set and pleated pink skirt. But there was no need to go overboard in protecting herself against flirtatious temptation—the grundies would suffice.

  Bree bypassed the Westlake’s open front door and the piano music drifting out of it. She paused for a moment, lips curving into a small and yes, slightly envious smile. West, playing his mum’s piano to his unborn child—something classical and soothing—no doubt to convince the restless Westlake Junior to settle down for a few hours.

  The smile slipped a little when she recalled the almost alien roll and swoop of Carter as he’d twisted and kicked inside her during the last few months of her pregnancy. How she’d yearned for Harley to be tucked up in bed behind her, his big palm pressed to her swollen belly, chuckling his deep, raspy chuckle in her ear as their baby made its presence known. Shaking off such pointless and melancholy thoughts, she headed to the spare room—which, thanks to the sliding glass door, was accessible from outside the house.

  Light fell between the crack of the sloppily drawn drapes, and in the center of the room, Harley stood in front of an easel-mounted canvas—a blank canvas. He’d stripped down to a pair of paint-splattered cargo shorts that hung indecently low off his lean hips. Once again, the man was missing a shirt.

  “Too restrictive,” he’d once told her with a wink. “If it wasn’t such a pain to scrub dried paint from my junk, I’d work bare-assed.”

  Bree tapped on the glass, and Harley jumped—literally jerked as if someone had zapped him with a Taser. That was the other thing about the man—when he was in the zone he was in the zone. And to have all that massive intensity switch focus to you?

  Lordy. Thank God she’d never ended up life modelling for him.

  Harley yanked the drapes apart, a scowl on his lips, his brow furrowed with annoyance. The surly expression only lightened a fraction as he recognized her and slid open the door. The protective layer of glass between her and so much bare hotness vanished. Somehow, Harley managed to be larger than life at any distance but more so up close. Larger, sexier and surlier than his photo, which occasionally appeared in women’s magazines whenever they did a “New Zealand’s Sexy and Still Single” feature.

  She took what she hoped was an inconspicuous half step backward. “Good evening.”

  A dimple replaced the scowl. “It is now,” he said.

  Harley’s gaze dropped, and beneath the summer-weight merino wool, Bree’s nipples budded into two tiny points. Aimed front and center, locked and loaded at Harley. Really, she was beyond pathetic. Especially since his gaze didn’t stop at breast level but jumped down to the clear plastic container in her hands.

  “You’re here to see me?”

  She couldn’t deny it, so she added her most pleasant, neighborly smile. “I am.”

  “Social or sympathy call?” His gaze, flicking briefly onto her mouth before meeting hers, added another option.

  Booty call.

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said.

  “I’m good.” Harley shoved his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts, the act of which had the unfortunate effect of exposing a lot more of his happy trail than she’d intended on seeing again.

  Oh. Dear.

  He was more than good. He was positively sinful. But this was definitely not a booty call, since, grundies.

  Grundies, grundies, grundies.

  Harley tilted his head. “Did you say something?”

  Bree snapped her mouth shut since her brain-to-mouth censorship had malfunctioned, and she thrust the container of fudge forward. It bounced off slightly sweaty abs. “I made you some coconut ice. You’re busy, so I’ll just leave it with you.”

  “I’m not busy. That’s the problem.” Harley made no move to take the container and instead walked back into the room, obviously expecting her to follow.

  And like a good little lemming, she did.

  Bree side-stepped the drop cloth spread under the easel and placed the container on Harley’s bed—his unmade bed. A purple comforter lay crumpled at the foot of the queen-sized mattress, the white top sheet tangled with it, the fitted sheet peeling off o
ne corner. Someone was a restless sleeper.

  “You’re either planning to have your wicked way with me on that bed or itching to straighten it.” Harley stood, hands on bare hips facing the empty canvas.

  Ignoring the dig and the irritatingly messy bed, Bree walked to stand beside him.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope. Not a fucking thing.”

  Her gaze slid to the wall and a haphazard stack of canvases leaning against it. The first one was half finished in shades of cobalt and black—a swirl of ocean and Pacifica designs in a classic Komeke style. The corner of the canvas behind it caught her attention since a good chunk of its right side was exposed. A woman’s bare calf and daintily pointed foot, complete with a hot pink pedicure, draped over the arm of a red sofa.

  That sofa—that leg…

  Bree stomped across the dust cloth and yanked the Pacifica painting aside. Harley’s gritted-through-teeth, “Bree!” reverberated in her ears.

  The woman reclining on the red sofa was young, beautiful, and naked. All long, smooth limbs and not a trace of stretch marks. Black hair spilled down the sofa’s other rolled arm, and her elbow was positioned elegantly over her face. But Bree knew the line of the woman’s jaw. The familiarity of her pink toenails and the slightly crooked pinkie on the left hand, like the one Bree had broken when she was thirteen. She recognised the pink bra draped over the back of the red sofa and the matching lace panties puddled on the floor, because she remembered with painful clarity tossing that lingerie into her garbage the week after Harley left for New York.

  “Oh, God.” Her voice appeared to be broadcasted from a distant, static-filled tunnel. “You didn’t.”

  “I did. You were stunning that night.”

  Harley’s voice came from directly behind her, so close that awareness prickled over her skin as if he’d run a thumbnail down her spine. She shivered and folded her arms.

  “That night was not one I wanted anyone else to see.”

  A night she’d been at her most vulnerable. A night she’d been unable to hold back the tide of feelings she’d had for him.