by Heidi Rice
‘I …’ Halle’s mind blanked as the prickle of guilt became a thorn, stabbing her in the back. ‘I’m in Tennessee. And the signings have been good.’ The lie sat on her tongue like a wad of cotton wool, making the fire in her scalp flame hotter. ‘It’s not like you to be interested,’ she said, the reflex action purely defensive, until it occurred to her how hostile the comment sounded.
She braced herself for a tirade. A tirade that for once she thoroughly deserved.
‘I know,’ Lizzie said, the expected corrosive tone noticeably absent. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’ve been so shitty about your career the past couple of years. I feel really bad about it now.’
‘You do?’ Halle yelped, the guilt starting to strangle her, at the look of genuine contrition on her daughter’s face.
She’d waited for years for Lizzie to turn this corner and stop sniping at her every time a meeting overran, or they got stopped by a fan wanting an autograph or she had to stay late at the studio. But why did her daughter have to turn this pivotal corner today? The very morning after Halle had spent a long and energetic night getting up close and far too pornographic with Lizzie’s father … while not being on a whistle-stop book tour of the US.
Halle Best’s epic timing strikes again.
‘I mean it, Mum,’ Lizzie replied, her voice thick with an eighteen-year-old’s complete sincerity. ‘I’ve been a real baby about it. When you get home, I want a full report about the book tour. OK?’
Shit.
‘Of course, that’s fabulous, sweetheart. But when did this happen?’ Time to deflect and deny until you can regroup. ‘You seemed so upset when I left.’ And they had basically avoided talking about Lizzie’s last epic sulk ever since, in a series of rather stilted phone conversations, during which her daughter had used any available excuse to pass the phone to Aldo or Trey. But not today. Of all days.
‘I totally overreacted, as usual. So tell me more about the signings.’ The request was filled with the open curiosity and enthusiasm Lizzie had been bursting with before she hit puberty and which Halle had mourned the loss of for years. Until this precise moment. ‘What cities have you been to so far?’ Lizzie added, perkiness personified. ‘Anywhere cool? I hope you took photos.’
‘Um … no. Nowhere that exciting really.’ Unless you count a camp island on Fontana Lake with your father. She cringed, hoping the image was as grainy on Lizzie’s end. And her daughter couldn’t see the blaze of heat fire-bombing her cheeks.
‘Is Aldo there? And Trey?’ She rushed to fill the gap in the conversation before Lizzie asked any more awkward questions that would require the ability to lie like Walter Mitty to answer convincingly. ‘I need to touch base with them before the battery on my phone runs out.’ She winced, hating herself even more for the lie.
It’s official, I am going to Bad Mother Hell when I die. Where I shall be forced to go to Aldo’s parent–teacher conferences for all eternity.
‘Um, Aldo’s busy. And so is Trey.’
‘They are? What are they busy doing?’ It was nearly seven o’clock at night in the UK. Surely they couldn’t be that busy. Trey would have ensured Aldo had done all his homework and was winding down by now, ready for bed at nine.
There was a long pause on Lizzie’s end. ‘Minecraft. They’re busy building something on Minecraft.’
‘Well, do you think you could ask them to stop building whatever they’re building for a minute? I won’t keep them long.’
‘Fine. All right, then, I’ll go get them, since I’m not good enough,’ Lizzie replied, slouching off and looking a lot less perky.
It took a good five minutes, while Halle stared at the view of her empty study and ignored the couple at the end of the porch still staring into each other’s eyes with goofy expressions on their faces. And shoved the problem of how she was going to invent enough convincing anecdotes of a whole book tour of the US without gagging on her guilt into Future Halle’s domain.
The sound of a hissed conversation off-screen neatly sidetracked the guilt as her mum’s alarm bells began to buzz. Was that Lizzie and Aldo she could hear? What were they whispering about so furiously? And where was Trey?
Then Aldo popped into view and sat on the chair, followed by Lizzie, who perched on the arm and slung her arm over Aldo’s shoulders. Which was even weirder—their body language hadn’t been that friendly since Aldo was six.
‘Hey, Mum,’ Aldo said. ‘Lizzie told me to tell you I’m good.’
Told me to tell you … The alarm bells got louder. ‘That’s great, honey. Is everything OK?’
‘Yes, Mum, but …’
Lizzie nudged his shoulder. Hard. And he stopped talking.
‘But what, honey?’ Halle prompted.
Aldo stared at his sister, then turned back to her. ‘But nothing, Mum. Everything’s good.’
‘Are you sure?’ she said, suddenly feeling like a hostage negotiator. Her mum’s alarm bells were going bonkers. ‘How about at school?’
Maybe something had happened and they were trying to keep it quiet. She felt an odd burst of pleasure at the thought. While she certainly hoped Aldo hadn’t punched anyone, it would be wonderful to see Lizzie and Aldo being co-conspirators again. As they had been when Aldo was little. As Luke had suggested they still might be.
The thought of Luke brought with it the memory of a muscular arm around her waist and the musk of warm sexually satisfied male that had enveloped her when she woke up. Heat blazed into her cheeks. And she nearly dropped the iPhone.
‘Yes, Mum.’ Aldo rolled his eyes and stretched the syllables with the harassed patience of a bored ten-year-old. ‘But Marcus Ellis is still a total dick.’
‘Ignore him,’ she said on autopilot. ‘So what were you building on Minecraft?’
‘Huh?’
The alarm bells kicked off again, but before she could question Aldo further, Lizzie leaned across him. ‘Listen, Mum, we’ve got to go. Happy signing. Don’t get any hand cramps. Bye.’
‘Wait a …’ she began, but she was already staring at a blank screen where her children had been, her mum’s alarm bells now sounding off like the cannon fire finale from the 1812 Overture.
She made two more Skype calls, with no answer. Then tried Trey’s mobile and got no joy there, either. Finally forced to give up, she left Romeo and Juliet on the porch giggling like besotted teenagers and headed back down the path towards the cabins.
Each step she took, though, brought with it a rising tide of dismay … and apprehension. But her predicament as a mother, whose kids were clearly hiding something from her, paled in comparison to the much bigger problem posed by the man probably still lying sound asleep in her bed back at the cabin.
She had four days left at the resort, in the company of a man who was as irresistible to her now as he had been twenty years ago.
Four days that, according to Monroe’s very helpful brochure, would involve spending ‘quality time rebuilding the bonds of intimacy’.
I.e.: four days of waking up with Luke’s muscular arms around her. Four days of playing house with him. Four days of discovering even more about the fascinating man he had become. Four days of having his crazy new sex skills and magnificent penis entirely at her disposal. And four days of struggling against all the odds to stop from getting struck by lightning a second time.
Because what were the chances of her coming out of the next four days with her sane, perfectly happy, well-ordered and successful life intact, given the effect he’d already had on her?
On last night’s damning evidence, not a lot, frankly.
Turning round on the path, she took out her phone and hurried back towards the reception building, prepared to give free rein to her mum’s alarms bells, if they would just drown out the siren call of her still needy, still misguided and still stupidly reckless heart.
Luke gazed out onto Halle’s porch, the forest canopy giving the midday sun a muted glow. Kind of like the persistent glow in his nuts. That had been going most of the
night.
Halle had snuck out a good hour ago. He’d been half awake, his dick getting way ahead of itself as he listened to her skulking around the bedroom. But she’d gone before his consciousness had a chance to catch up with the call for action, leaving him to drift back to sleep, only to wake up again hard as an iron spike courtesy of the scorching-hot memories of their night together and the cloud of her scent that clung to the sheets.
Fully awake now, he levered himself up in bed and tried to get his head around exactly what had happened last night.
In the end it hadn’t been that hard to tell Halle stuff he’d only ever told his therapist.
Exhausting themselves with sex afterwards had seemed like the obvious way to go.
But something was nagging at him now. Something that had been nagging at him most of the night, each time he’d seen the shocked arousal in her eyes, each time he’d touched her and revelled in her open, instant response. And especially when they’d snuggled up together, her bum nestled in his crotch and his heart attempting to beat right out of his chest.
She was the only woman who had ever come close to touching that lonely, isolated part of himself, which had crippled him as a kid. And which should have been dead and buried, but apparently wasn’t any more—because that lonely kid was popping out again now when he thought about how much he was going to miss Halle, when they both went back to their normal lives.
Sure, they’d have Lizzie—and that was some compensation. He’d be able to call on Halle while forging a new and more honest relationship with his daughter. But while he was already looking forward to having those conversations, they weren’t the only conversations he wanted to have with Halle. Because the past ten days had made him realise how much he’d missed the fine art of conversation with someone who was his emotional and intellectual equal in the past sixteen years, who was mature and smart and confident enough to challenge him, who was wise to all his bullshit and who didn’t have English as a second language.
The real reason he’d screwed up so badly with Chantelle was because she’d been so young and so adoring. She’d stroked his ego, let him get away with murder, and he’d been paying so little attention he hadn’t even realised she actually thought they had a future together.
That would never happen with Halle, because she knew all his tricks, all his faults, and she was as cynical about the L-word as he was.
And what about the sexual connection between them? It was as strong and exciting as it had ever been, but with a brand-new wow factor, because they both knew exactly what they wanted now and weren’t afraid to demand it.
No doubt about it, it was a crying shame they had only four days left to explore all these new aspects of their relationship.
Not that he was looking for anything permanent. He wasn’t cut out for long-term commitment. No amount of therapy would be able to solve that. But that didn’t alter the fact that four days felt like far too short a time to explore all the good stuff, now they’d put all the crap stuff behind them.
He threw off the duvet and headed for Halle’s bathroom, refusing to let the melancholy envelop him. They’d achieved much more than he could have ever hoped for. It was all good.
Her scent—bold and floral—drifted around him as he stepped into her shower cubicle. He turned the dial to scorching, contemplating the rest of their day together. And the nights to come. Absently soaping his erection. Eager for her to get the hell back to the cabin so they could get started.
He was climbing the spiral staircase to the mezzanine level and his own bedroom when he heard the cabin’s front door opening.
Wherever she’d run off to, she was back. The blossom of warmth that hit his belly disturbed him a little. Four days was more than enough, as long as they made the most of it.
He took his time shaving away two days’ worth of beard to prove to himself he wasn’t that desperate to see Halle again. After yanking on jeans and an old T-shirt, he headed down to the kitchen, drawn by the delicious aroma of cinnamon wafting up the stairwell.
She stood at the counter, her back to him, her damp hair tied up in its habitual knot, drying strands hanging down to touch flushed cheeks, as she beat something in a mixing bowl to within an inch of its life. Skintight jeans, bare feet and a summery minidress added to the effect of sexy, relaxed domesticity.
The reaction in his crotch was swift and predictable. The fist that wrapped around his heart and sucker-punched him in the gut … not so much.
Chapter 19
‘Luke!’ The wooden spoon stopped in mid wallop as a familiar forearm roped with muscles banded around Halle’s midriff.
‘Morning. What are you cooking?’
His chest butted her back as he lifted her hair out of the way to bury his face in her neck. The nuzzling kiss triggered a riot of sensations—surprise, arousal and panic.
‘Blueberry pancakes. I finally took Monroe up on his offer and raided the restaurant kitchen. The blueberries were picked fresh this morning.’
‘Mmmm.’ His teeth tugged at her earlobe. ‘Watching you cook is such a turn-on.’ His palm settled on her belly, sending the riot of sensations south. ‘Always has been, always will be.’
She put the bowl on the countertop to turn in his arms, her pulse flapping against her neck like the wings of a trapped albatross.
He looked and smelled delicious. All fresh and groomed and damp from his shower. His cheekbones were even more pronounced without the two-day scruff, and the well-worn Festival de Cannes T-shirt was doing not a lot to disguise the defined pectoral muscles she’d gotten far too well acquainted with during the night.
Always has been, always will.
He cupped her cheeks, his lips lowering to kiss her.
She shifted away, her bum hitting the counter. ‘Why don’t I get these on the go, then we can eat.’
‘Eat?’ His lips quirked in a wary smile as his hands dropped. ‘Really? I was kind of hoping all my bakery porn fantasies were about to come true.’
She puffed out a strained laugh. ‘So now I know why you watched my show.’
The assured smile had her breath backing up in her lungs, as he settled his hands on her hips. ‘It’s not my fault you look so hot icing cupcakes. What can I say, you inspire me.’
‘I can only imagine.’ Given how inspired Luke had been last night, she could imagine quite a lot. ‘But I think we should eat first, before we deal with your cupcake fantasies.’
His hands dropped away. ‘Fine, but I plan to hold you to that. Do you need anything?’
A backbone would be good, she thought miserably. She was doing the right thing. The safe thing, not just for the kids, but for herself as well.
Tell him, no wimping out allowed.
‘Could you hunt up a frying pan?’ she said, totally wimping out.
‘OK, but be aware you’re only going to be fuelling my fantasies while you do that.’
Fabulous, just what I needed to know.
A large heavy-based pan plopped onto the stove as she rinsed the blueberries.
‘Anything else that needs doing?’
Apart from me, you mean.
‘Could you make some coffee?’ Maybe if he wasn’t hovering right beside her elbow, exuding those drive-Halle-crazy pheromones, it would help with her focus.
‘All right, you’re the boss.’
Was she? She didn’t think so, as she watched him get the coffee under way. His competence with the coffee machine reminding her of how competent he was with so much else.
The luxurious sizzle of melting butter filled the kitchen as she dropped the first dollop of batter onto the hot pan. She inhaled the aroma and watched the edges crisp—determined to get her mind out of her knickers.
It didn’t take long to get in the zone. Cooking had once been her great escape from the chaos of life in a two-room council flat in a Hackney high-rise with a young child and no money. Creating something delicious within the exacting confines of science and her stringent budget had helped
her to focus during the biggest challenges of her life. While blueberry pancakes hardly tested her abilities and she had no budget now, the simplicity of the process, and the comforting aroma of fried fruit and batter that filled the kitchen, helped her to focus again now, and get her priorities straight.
This time with Luke had been an adventure. An adventure she never would have expected. It had healed stuff she hadn’t even realised was still broken. But it wasn’t her real life.
Her real life was with her children. Who needed her now.
Luke worked alongside her, setting the table, frothing some milk for her latte with that infernal machine and digging the maple syrup out of the box of supplies she’d brought back from the restaurant kitchen.
She flipped the last of the pancakes onto the plate she had warming, decorated the stack with the remaining blueberries and carried the plate to the table.
He placed a steaming latte by her elbow and sat opposite her. Forking one of the pancakes off the stack, he poured a generous dollop of syrup over it.
She watched him take his first bite, the nerves finally settling in the pit of her stomach, when he gave a rumbling hum of approval.
‘Incredible. They taste better than the resort’s ones. What did you do?’
‘I added a splash of vanilla essence, to lift the flavour of the blueberries. And used buttermilk and melted butter in the batter.’
‘Genius.’ He quartered the rest of the pancake. As he set about demolishing it in a few bites, it occurred to her how much she had always adored feeding him.
‘Listen, Luke, I wanted to let you know how glad I am you blackmailed me into this.’ She poured syrup over her own pancake. ‘Everything that’s happened in the past ten days has been a … well, “surprise” is way too mild a word. I’ve been stubborn and resistant to change and I should never have shut you out for so long, for Lizzie’s sake. And I regret that now. I’ve also discovered I can survive white-water kayaking, which is pretty phenomenal, too.’
His next forkful of pancake stopped in mid-air. ‘Why am I getting a sense there’s a “but” coming?’
