“That’s why you came home so angry,” she said. “He had more kids, had a family—and turned his back on you and Ford.”
“Yeah. It was his ‘trying to be a good dad’ that made me lose it. I felt as if he were saying those other kids were worthier of his parenting attempts. I, ah…” Harley scrubbed a hand over his face, stared at his kneecaps. “I punched him. Broke his nose, I think. I didn’t wait around to check it out.” He whooshed out a sigh. “Didn’t tell Ford that, either. I’ve never told anyone.”
“Oh, Harley.”
Other than Harley’s childish scuffles with bullies, she’d never seen or even heard of him involved in a physical confrontation. Knowing he’d hit his father—Harley, who like his twin, still kissed Denise every time he saw her and would often drag Rob in for a man-hug—must’ve eaten away at him for years. Respect for one’s parents and the community’s elders was paramount in Maori culture.
Tears burned hot in the corners of Bree’s eyes. Worse still, Harley seemed to subconsciously believe that he and Ford had been rejected by their biological father for who and what they were.
Harley skimmed his knuckles down her cheek and gave her a sad little smile. “You always knew. When I left for New York, at some gut level, you figured out I was not the guy who should be raising kids with you. You made the right decision for Carter, even though it cost you. I was always better out of the picture, for the boy’s sake.”
“And this baby? Are you saying you don’t want to be in the picture for this baby?”
He laced their fingers together and lifted her hand, gently brushing a kiss on her knuckles. “I’m saying that whatever you need, whatever this baby needs, you’ll have it.”
“Financially. You’ll take care of us financially.” Somehow, Bree managed to keep her voice calm and non-accusatory.
“Yeah. You don’t need to worry about anything.” Harley’s brow wrinkled and then smoothed. “And I’ll be around more; I’ve had enough of New York. I’m thinking of hunkering down in my Queenstown property for a bit. You won’t be alone this time.”
The fight slipped out of Bree like a slow puncture. Harley living two-hundred kilometers away on the mainland, slipping in and out of their lives because of some skewed sense of duty, would be worse, way worse for their child than a clean break. And during those brief visits, she’d watch from the side lines as he moved on with his life. Moved on to other women.
Nope. Not her. Couldn’t do it.
But if she fought him, demanding he make that clean break immediately, the man’s innate stubbornness would make him dig in his heels. So for now, she’d pretend to be chill.
“I appreciate it,” she said. “A sensible solution all around. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment and then a scan to check everything’s okay with the baby at the mainland hospital five days from now—”
“I’ll go with you,” Harley interrupted, and his shoulders sagged a fraction, as if he’d been holding his spine rigid. “Hold your hand to keep you calm.”
“Great.”
Oh, she was calm. She was chill, actually. Not even Harley probably making a mental check in the “Taking Care of My Responsibilities” column fazed her. Or hurt like a bastard.
Not compared to the one thing she’d learned from watching the man all these years. When Harley truly wanted something—whether his art or pursuing a woman—he’d go after it with single-minded ferocity.
So she didn’t just suffer from wishful thinking. She’d been wilfully delusional, pretending that one day that woman would be her.
***
“How much longer?” Bree wriggled beside Harley on the hard plastic chair in the hospital waiting room.
“Shouldn’t be long.”
Harley looked up from the car magazine he was attempting to read, casting a sympathetic eye to the only other man in the waiting room. The guy studied his thumbnail as if it were the key to the Holy Grail, while the heavily pregnant woman beside him barked a steady stream of German into the phone glued to her ear.
“I need the bathroom.”
“You’ve told me that every two minutes since we got to the hospital.”
Which was thirty minutes ago, fifteen minutes before Bree’s appointment with the ultrasound technician. His gut gave a little twinge at the casual way Bree mentioned that her GP had recommended a scan to make certain the spotting and occasional cramps she’d experienced over the last month weren’t indications of an ectopic pregnancy. An ectopic pregnancy wouldn’t be good news for Bree or the tiny cluster of cells growing inside her.
Cells, he told himself. Just cells.
Bree’s elbow stabbed him in the ribs. “That’s because you don’t have a bladder enlarged to the size of a football. I really need to pee.”
“I’m sorry.” Because what else could he say? “Drink four big glasses of water before your appointment,” were the instructions she’d been given, so Harley had made sure Bree drank every last drop on the flight from Oban to Invercargill. “Try to think of something else.”
Deadly silence from beside him.
“Something that isn’t related to the women’s restroom over there,” he added.
“Trust me,” she said. “What I’m thinking about involves you, duct tape and a rusty blade, not a toilet bowl.”
Harley sucked in his cheeks and bit them to keep a smile from showing on his mouth, staring down at a review on the latest model BMW.
“Bree Findlow?” A woman in blue scrubs appeared outside the waiting room doorway. “This way, please.”
He and Bree followed the woman into a small room containing a complicated-looking piece of equipment, a monitor screen, and a paper-covered hospital bed. Posters of babies and pregnant bellies and fetuses covered one wall, along with stacks of pamphlets containing God-knew what sort of information.
Manfully hiding a full-body shudder, Harley cleared his throat as the technician shut the door.
“You’re the father?” she asked, then she must’ve noticed an oh shit widening of his eyes, because she added, “Or a support person?”
Gonna man up? His twin’s smug voice popped into Harley’s head. Or be a support person?
“The father.” Harley didn’t dare look at Bree, who had already boosted herself onto the bed.
“Good.” The woman crossed to Bree and spoke quietly. Then she twisted around to him and pointed to a chair beside the bed. “Take a seat. There’s nothing to be nervous about; you’ll see your baby in a few moments.”
Precisely what Harley was shitting himself about. Only not really, because, cells. Just cells.
Harley walked on feather-light legs to the chair, sinking into it and giving Bree an all-under-control smile. She returned the smile—hers as mysterious and serene as the portrait sitting behind bullet-proof glass in the Louvre—and slid her knit top up over her stomach. Her flat stomach with pale, creamy skin and a tiny birthmark to the left of her belly button. A stomach he’d recently kissed, all the time unaware that deep within her, life stirred. A life he and Bree had created, blood and bone enclosed around a tiny, vulnerable soul…
“Harley?”
He jerked, gaze shooting to where both Bree and the technician were staring at him with unabashed concern. The woman rested a probe-thingy on Bree’s bare stomach.
“You’re not going to faint on me, are you?” Bree said.
“No! Of course not.” Harley sat upright, caught a glimpse of the fuzzy grey-and-black images on the monitor beside the bed. “Holy shit, there’s really something in there.”
The technician laughed and moved the probe a little to the left. “Yes, a baby boy or girl. But it’s too early to tell.” She smiled over at Bree. “Would you like to hear your baby’s heartbeat?”
“Yes. Please.” Bree’s voice was husky, and her gaze slid to Harley.
The connection between them swelled and pushed against the restraints he’d tried to place on it as the woman fiddled with the machine. A loud, pulsing rhythm filled the tiny r
oom, and Harley gripped Bree’s hand. Blood soughed in his eardrums in a competing beat, and for a moment, the room’s four walls closed in so tight around him he had to shut his eyes.
The technician’s words rang in his ears. Boy or girl. Baby’s heartbeat.
Harley cracked open an eye and stared again at the shifting images on the monitor. Not just cells. Not even close. This was sacred life.
He stiffened and let go of Bree’s hand, easing back in the chair in a parody of relaxed detachment. Sacred life or not, he couldn’t be a permanent fixture in this child’s life. Not if he wanted to hold onto some semblance of self-respect, not if he cared for the well-being of his unborn tama or tamahine—his son or daughter. The best thing for the baby’s welfare was to have Bree as its mother; of that, he had no doubt. Her love and strength and kind heart would make this kid the luckiest in the world.
He couldn’t be allowed to fuck that up.
Yeah? You cool with giving up Bree for good then? Once again, his twin’s annoying voice sneered inside his head. Cause you know that eventually she’ll grow sick of waiting for you to get your shit together. That some other guy will come along and teach your son to catch a rugby ball or your daughter to finger-paint. Some other guy will take your place in Bree’s heart, and in her bed each night. So…You cool with that, bro? You sweet as?
Harley stood and stalked to the blind-covered window, his knuckles making little popping sounds as he flexed his fingers.
The woman slotted the probe-thingy back into its holder then handed Bree a handful of tissues. “Get yourself cleaned up and you can use the bathroom through there.” She pointed to the room’s second door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
She left, easing the door shut behind her, leaving only the soft hum of the ultra-sound machine as company. On the monitor, the peanut-shaped silhouette of his unborn child stared at him accusingly.
You’ll thank me in thirty years’ time, he silently told the peanut shape. You’ll thank me for the years of therapy you avoided from having a man like me raise you.
Harley shoved his fists into the front pockets of his jeans as Bree dabbed the tissues on her stomach.
“I haven’t told anyone other than my brother,” he blurted. “I wasn’t sure who you wanted to know.”
Bree sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her lips folding into a small frown. “I’ve only told my sister and asked her not to tell anyone else yet—Carter included—until I knew the baby was okay.”
“He is, though,” said Harley.
A faint crease in the corner of Bree’s mouth nearly turned the frown into a smile. “Or she. But yes, while you were zoned out, the sonographer said everything is just fine.”
“I wasn’t zoned out.”
“Uh huh.” Bree eased off the bed with an eye roll. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like your mum and dad to know as soon as possible,” she said. “Seeing that they missed so much with Carter, I’m sure they’d like to be more…involved.”
Oddly touched that Bree would think of his parents before her own mother, Harley had to clear the lump out of his throat before speaking. “They’d like that. They’ll be a big help to you when”—when I’m no longer around, he’d been about to say—“whenever you need unwanted advice or a babysitter.”
Bree’s beautiful face froze in increments, turning into a porcelain mask void of any emotion. “I’m sure any advice after raising two little hooligans like you and Ford wouldn’t be unwanted.” She smoothed down her top and tossed the tissues into a plastic-lined bin.
“And the rest of them? Do you want to tell our friends?” Even though the ninth circle of hell would be more tolerable than having West, Ben, Del and their women on his case.
“I’m sure they know how to keep their mouths shut,” Bree said. “But as soon as Betsy Taylor finds out, she’ll broadcast it on the Oban grapevine, so you might want to make yourself scarce once I start to show.”
Harley’s gaze automatically dropped to Bree’s still-flat stomach then rose to the swell of her breasts pushing against the stretchy knit of her top. Were they a little fuller than the last time he’d seen her naked?
“Stop picturing me naked,” Bree said.
Guess he wasn’t as subtle as he’d thought. Harley folded his arms, “Actually, I was picturing Mrs. T. coming after me with a shotgun in one hand and a marriage license in the other.”
Instead of the reaction he’d been hoping for—another exasperated eye-roll or maybe, if he was lucky, laughter—Bree flinched, her mouth tightening into a hurt pucker.
“I think Betsy would want more for me than a man who had to be coerced into commitment with a shotgun.” She arched her chin. “I know I do.” Then dropping her gaze, she muttered. “I’m going to use the bathroom.”
Before he could kick his own ass for being such a dick, he was faced with an empty room and a locked door.
***
This time, when Bree paid the Westlakes a visit, she took the path at the side of their house and climbed the steps to their back door—thereby avoiding Harley having to let her in downstairs. And possibly trapping her in the entranceway with smoking-hot kisses that threatened to melt the ice she’d layered around her heart.
Not that Harley would likely try to kiss her. Not after her hospital appointment two days ago. Not since this distant, reserved, and scrupulously polite cyborg had replaced the man who usually made her blood boil and her toes curl. A local case of an Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was a preferable explanation than facing up to the terrifying truth.
Bree tightened her grip on the casserole dish and practiced her everything is super smile before knocking.
The door swept open, West looking like the happiest man in the world. Impressive, for a guy whose eyes bordered on bloodshot, whose shirt had a damp milky spot on one shoulder and whose jaw had enough stubble to qualify as a short beard. “Hey, it’s Auntie Bree.”
Each of West’s and Piper’s friends had become instant aunties and uncles. Cute.
“Dinner for tonight.” She shoved the casserole at him. “Instructions for re-heating are on top. Don’t let Piper anywhere near it and the oven.”
“Right.” He took the dish and grinned, backing up a step. “Come inside for a minute.”
“Oh, no, I won’t disturb you.”
“Come on, I know you want another cuddle.” West turned and disappeared into the house, leaving Bree on the doorstep.
Well, she couldn’t walk off now. Bree stepped inside, trying to propel her hearing through the living room walls to figure out if anyone else was in there with Piper. Only the soft, murmuring sounds of a mother crooning to her baby and the slightly deeper tones of West announcing her arrival. A quick visit then…and maybe just a little cuddle.
Bree discovered Piper in a rocking chair with baby Michaela lying passively in her arms—her friend, the ex-cop and police diver with bigger balls than most of her male colleagues—staring teary-eyed at her daughter. At the sound of Bree’s footsteps, Piper looked up and gave a tired smile. “I’m finally a C-cup and too damn tired to appreciate it.”
“I’m not,” West yelled from the kitchen. “Doesn’t my wife look beautiful, Bree? She’s glowing.”
“You are.”
Bree bent to run a fingertip along Michaela’s soft wisps of cinnamon-colored hair. The baby smacked her little cherub lips but kept her eyes closed.
“Like one of those deep-sea creatures that use a light to lure smaller fish to their doom,” Bree added.
“I can always count on you for a reality check.” This time, when Piper smiled at Bree there was a little more oomph in it. “And I like that analogy. Here…take my gorgeous, little sea slug off me for a minute.” She transferred her daughter, swaddled in a pink receiving blanket, into Bree’s arms and stood. “I need to swap my shirt for one that isn’t fragranced with eau de infant-puke.”
“Piper?” Bree looked down on the sleeping baby. “Your dad would’ve been so proud, so
touched that you chose Michaela as her name.”
“Shit,” Piper said in response as her eyes filled. “Now look what you’ve done. Switching on the damn waterworks again.” But she pressed a palm to her heart and smiled. “I still miss him every single day.”
“Michael Harland couldn’t ask for a sweeter legacy than this little one.” Bree brushed a kiss on the baby’s wrinkled forehead. “She’s the most beautiful baby girl in the world.”
“My God,” West said, coming out of the kitchen, “am I witnessing you both agreeing on something?”
Piper laughed and ducked into the hallway, throwing over her shoulder, “Put the kettle on, Westy. Make us a cup of tea—oh, and load the dishwasher.”
“You okay to…?” West tipped a chin at Bree.
She was still loving up on his baby, sniffing that delicious snuggly new born smell. “We’re just fine.”
And she was, until she heard Piper yell out, “Yo, Harley? Bree’s here.”
Bree hadn’t seen him since yesterday evening after the gallery closed, when he and his brother arrived in their father’s ute and had transferred Harley’s easel and other supplies into her studio. Ford had taken over most of the small talk, which, given that he wasn’t the greatest conversationalist, only emphasized Harley’s withdrawal.
Bree’s arms unconsciously settled into the slight jiggly rhythm needed to keep the dozing baby asleep. Funny how, after years of not being around babies, her body still recalled old, familiar motions. Not that she’d had many opportunities to rock Carter to sleep at this age. Just the two nights she’d spent in hospital. Nights of very little sleep, holding his tiny body close, going over and over the pros and cons of changing her mind and keeping him. But in the end, she’d placed him in her tearful sister’s arms and kissed her rights as his mum away, donning the mantle of Auntie Bree.
Prickly heat spread from behind her nose to the corners of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly.
“Hey.”
Harley stood in the doorway, morning sunshine spearing shards of light across the floor to his bare feet. He leaned a shoulder against the frame, kept his arms folded tight across the broad expanse of his chest. Lines etched across his forehead as he scratched his nails down the thick stubble on his jaw. A small white tag poking out of the seam of his tee shirt at hip level caught Bree’s eye.
Drawing Me In: A New Zealand Secret Baby Second Chance Romance (Due South Series Book 7) Page 19
