by Kate Hardy
‘Go and sit down. It’s fine,’ she said gently. ‘And, just for the record, resting doesn’t make you weak or pathetic. It means you’re being sensible and giving your body a chance to heal.’
‘I guess,’ he lied. He still hated feeling weak and vulnerable and having to rely on other people. He was strong and capable; he was the fixer, not the fixee.
‘Rob, do you think your patients are weak and pathetic?’ she asked.
He frowned. ‘No. Of course not. They’re ill or they’ve been in an accident and they need my help.’
‘And the difference between them and your situation is...?’
He didn’t have an answer for that, so he huffed out a breath.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she said gently. ‘Go and sit down.’
‘OK,’ he muttered, and went into the living room. It was comfortable and cosy; the mantelpiece was crammed with framed photographs that he guessed were of her family and the people closest to her, but he didn’t have the energy to be nosey and have a proper look.
Resting doesn’t make you weak. It means you’re being sensible and giving your body a chance to heal.
She’d been kind. She’d tried to settle some of his restlessness.
And she was right. He wouldn’t judge his patients in the same way that he judged himself.
He needed to apologise to her for being snippy and difficult. And he intended to fill her house with flowers to make up for being a rubbish house guest.
He switched on the TV and flicked through the channels until he found a nature documentary, then settled back on the sofa to wait for her to join him. Although he tried to keep his eyelids open, they seemed to have a mind of their own and kept closing. He blinked hard, but they simply refused to stay open...
* * *
Florence finished washing up, drying the crockery and cutlery and putting it away.
From the sounds in the room next door, Rob was watching the kind of documentary she liked, too. Finding something in common with her temporary house guest would be a good idea.
But, when she went to join him, she discovered he was sound asleep on the sofa.
She tucked a throw round him; he murmured in his sleep, but he didn’t wake.
He looked absolutely exhausted. She’d let him rest for a while, then wake him so he could go to bed, she decided. She curled up in the chair and watched the documentary, though she couldn’t concentrate on it properly; she was way too aware of the man sleeping on her sofa.
A man who hated resting and said that he was happiest when he was busy.
A man who had craved adventure, given that he’d worked for a humanitarian aid organisation and loved climbing.
The man she’d made love with, two short weeks ago. The man who’d be sleeping in the room opposite hers, only few steps away...
No. She wasn’t going to let herself think about bed and Robert Langley in the same sentence. She’d invited him to stay purely because he was ill, he was her colleague and he needed a bit of support. She wasn’t attracted to him. Her heart didn’t skitter every time she looked at him. The way his mouth had felt against her was totally irrelevant.
And if she told herself that often enough, she’d start to believe it.
Perhaps.
An hour later, she shook his shoulder gently until he woke.
‘Wh...?’ He blinked at her, his eyes fuzzy with sleep.
‘Go to bed,’ she said gently. ‘Or you’ll get a crick in your neck that’ll annoy you all day tomorrow.’
‘I...’ He blinked again, as if trying to focus. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to crash out on you.’
‘No need to apologise. I let you sleep for a bit because you looked too exhausted to move, but I wouldn’t leave you on the sofa all night.’
He stared at the throw she’d placed round him. ‘You put a blanket over me.’
‘So you didn’t get cold. I don’t want my house guest complaining about the lack of services,’ she quipped, trying to keep it light.
He followed her lead. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll leave you a review on all the hospitality websites saying that you’re a hostess who goes above and beyond.’
His smile was the sweetest, loveliest thing she’d ever seen. So much for keeping this light and teasing. If she wasn’t careful, she’d fall for him. Which would be a very bad move.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow. And thank you, Florence. For looking after me without making me feel miserable and mollycoddled. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate that.’ This time, there was an intensity in his gaze that made her stomach swoop.
‘No problem,’ she said. And she really hoped he didn’t hear the slight squeak in her voice. ‘See you tomorrow. I’ll let you have the bathroom first. Feel free to use anything you like, and the towels are all clean.’
‘Cheers.’ He still looked terrible, but not quite as bone-deep tired as he had earlier. ‘See you tomorrow.’
CHAPTER FIVE
ROB WOKE THE next MORNING, his head all woozy. He was still hot and shivery, but he felt slightly better than he had the day before. Until he glanced at his watch and realised that it was half-past ten. Apart from the fact that he never slept this late, he was Florence’s guest. Lying in bed all day and keeping her waiting around to dance attendance on him was incredibly selfish.
Really, he ought to get up and go home.
He dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, showered and cleaned his teeth, then dressed swiftly and went to find Florence. She was sitting in a chair by the window in the living room, holding a wooden hoop in her left hand and concentrating on something; he watched her for a moment and realised that she was stitching. Rob had never met anyone who sewed before.
‘Morning,’ she said, smiling at him.
That smile did weird things to his insides. Weird things he wasn’t comfortable thinking about. He didn’t react to people like this. ‘Morning,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry I slept in.’
‘It’s fine. You’re ill. It probably did you a lot of good, getting some rest. How are you feeling?’
‘A lot better,’ he said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Want to let your common sense answer, rather than your pride?’
In other words, he still looked as bad as he felt. Busted. ‘Better than yesterday,’ he said, ‘but, OK, I admit it: not that much.’
‘These things take time,’ she said.
Yes. And resting made him feel so boxed in and miserable. He hated being still. Always had, always would. Oh, to be halfway up a mountain somewhere...
‘What would you like for breakfast?’ she asked.
‘I don’t expect you to wait on me,’ he said. ‘It’s more than enough that you offered to let me stay with you for a few days. I’ll sort myself out.’ Then he thought about it. She was at home at this time on a Saturday. She hadn’t said anything yesterday about being on a late shift today. ‘Are you off duty today?’
‘Yes.’
Oh, no. ‘So does that mean you’ve had to cancel your plans because of me?’
‘They were movable,’ she said.
So she had had to cancel her plans. He groaned. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your day off.’
‘You haven’t ruined it. I’d tell you if there was a problem.’
He wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t told him what the problem was when she’d bolted, the weekend before last; and the subject had remained off limits between them ever since. But he felt too rough right now to deal with emotional stuff, so he decided to take what she’d said at face value. ‘OK. Thanks.’
‘Help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen.’
‘Thanks. Can I make you a coffee?’
‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘A splash of milk, no sugar, please.’
‘Toast?’
�
�Apart from the fact I’ve had breakfast,’ she said, nodding at her sewing, ‘I need to keep my hands clean for this.’
‘What are you making?’
‘A ballet-saurus for Margo.’ She lifted the hoop to show him a blob of stitches in various shades of green and pink.
Was that meant to be a dinosaur wearing a tutu, like the drawing he’d seen on her fridge last night? ‘I’m glad you told me what it was,’ he said, ‘because I’m afraid I wouldn’t have guessed.’
Florence chuckled, and Rob realised just how pretty she was. She sparkled, and that smile made the whole room feel as if it had just lit up. It made him want to walk over to her and kiss her—which was the last thing he should do. The last time they’d kissed, it had all been wonderful—and then it all gone badly wrong. Staying here would give him a chance to find out what the problem was, and he couldn’t afford to blow it by giving in to his impulses. He made them both a mug of coffee and took hers in to her.
‘Thanks. That’s perfect,’ she said, giving him another of the smiles that made him feel all quivery.
He tried not to think about that and watched her sew. Though that too was a mistake, because her fingers were so clever, so deft—and it made him think about how those fingers had felt against his skin. How she’d touched him, heated his blood. How much he wanted to repeat that.
She glanced up and noticed him watching her. ‘What?’
He definitely wasn’t going to tell her what was in his head. ‘I’ve never seen anyone sit and sew before,’ he said instead.
‘Not your mum or any of your girlfriends?’
He shook his head. ‘One of my exes used to knit things, but she got very offended when I didn’t wear a sweater she’d made for me to climb in. I explained that wicking material was much more efficient at regulating my temperature and a lot lighter than the sweater she’d knitted, and I didn’t mean to offend her...but she was still hugely upset with me. She dumped me, two days later.’
‘I can see both points of view—she’d tried to do something nice for you and of course she’d be upset that you didn’t like it, but maybe she should’ve checked with you before doing all that work.’ Florence raised an eyebrow. ‘Remind me never to cross-stitch anything for you.’
‘You mean, make me a blob I won’t appreciate?’
She laughed and indicated her sewing. ‘I know this looks like a blob. It’s the back stitching—the little bits of detail—that’ll bring it to life. When it’s done, Margot will love it.’ She put the hoop down, picked up her phone and scrolled through it. ‘Here. I did this one for my best friend’s birthday. This is before and after adding the detail.’
He looked at the blocks of colour, then at the peacock with all the iridescent colours and the delicate fronds on its tail feathers. ‘That’s impressive. It must’ve taken you a long time.’
‘It got me through my divorce, last year.’ And then she looked shocked, as if she hadn’t meant to say that.
Was that what she’d meant about baggage?
He needed to tread carefully: acknowledge what she’d said, but not say anything that could be considered in the slightest bit judgemental. Give her an opening, if she wanted to talk—and he would most definitely listen, but not make her feel under any obligation. ‘Uh-huh.’
When she didn’t elaborate—and it was none of his business anyway, he reminded himself—he said, ‘So have you done sewing like that for very long?’
‘Years,’ she said. ‘Mum taught Lexy and me when we were teenagers, as a stress-reliever. It got us through our exams. It’s like counting dance steps, or counting reps in the gym. You have to concentrate on counting the stitches and there isn’t any room left in your head for your worries. It gives you a proper mental break.’
‘That’s what climbing’s like, too,’ Rob said. ‘I concentrate on where I’m going to put my hands and my feet; I guess it’s like you have to concentrate on where you put your needle.’
She gave him a wry smile. ‘Except if I go wrong I can just unpick a few stitches, whereas if you go wrong there’s going to be pain and possibly broken bones.’
‘Not if you belay properly—fixing your rope, so if you slip you won’t fall far,’ he added in explanation, seeing the confusion flit across her expression when he mentioned belaying. ‘But, yes, it’s the same thing. You have to concentrate on what you’re doing.’
‘And at the end of it you’ve got something to show for it, and you don’t feel guilty about wasting your time, the way you might feel guilty if you’d just spent a couple of hours playing games on your phone,’ she said.
That was exactly how he felt about climbing. ‘It’s the buzz of achieving something,’ he said. ‘Pushing yourself further—though does that happen in sewing?’
‘It can. You start by making something simple in one or two colours, and you work up to stitching something more complex with maybe lots of very similar colours,’ she said. ‘Or create your own patterns rather than just following someone else’s. It’s the same feeling.’ She paused. ‘Since you’re here for a few days, I could teach you how to sew.’
‘I can’t stay here for a few days,’ Rob said, aghast. ‘That’s way too big an imposition.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘If you want to be stubborn about it—not to mention stupid—you can always call a taxi and leave this morning. And then, when you’ve collapsed and someone has to ring your brother from the hospital to tell him where you are, you can explain to him that not only were you ill in the first place and didn’t tell him, you also refused a colleague’s help. My guess is he’ll go for the big guns and call your mum.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s what you actually want in the first place, despite all your protests.’
He shuddered. ‘No. Really no.’ He looked at her. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I feel guilty about being a burden on you. You had to change your plans today because of me.’
‘You’re not a burden. If I was the one who was ill and could do with someone just to be there for a few days in case I needed help, you’d offer to do it, wouldn’t you?’
How could she be so sure that he was that nice? Though he thought about it. Of course he’d offer to help. He was a bit single-minded, but he was a team player too and he wasn’t completely selfish. ‘I guess.’
She looked at him. ‘You’re not well enough right now even to walk to the park, but I think you need something physical to do, to distract you. That’s why I suggested teaching you to sew.’
Sewing. He couldn’t quite get his head round the idea. ‘Forgive me for being rude, Florence, but men don’t sew.’
‘I’ll remember that next time you’re suturing someone’s forehead,’ she said dryly.
He laughed. ‘I don’t mean that kind of stitching. That’s more like tying knots and doing it neatly so your patient has minimal scarring. I can do that, no problem.’
‘OK—but you’re still wrong,’ she said. ‘There was the guy in the POW camp in the Second World War who made samplers and he stitched rude messages about Hitler in Morse code in the borders.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. And it was my grandfather who taught my mum how to sew. His doctor was way ahead of her time and recommended it to help him relax. So don’t genderise sewing.’
‘Got it.’
‘And right now you’re stuck resting. You’re bored.’
That didn’t even begin to describe how he felt. Fidgety. Unable to settle. Filled with fear that it was all going wrong and he’d end up back on dialysis again, and he’d be stuck waiting for months for another replacement kidney and feeling the walls close more and more tightly round him when he was desperate to be outside in the mountains. And underneath it all something else that he wasn’t used to dealing with: his growing feelings towards Florence. That made him twitchy, too.
‘Why not give this a try?’
He thought about the needlework he’d seen on the walls in stately homes while accompanying his parents. ‘But isn’t it all alphabets and flowers?’
‘Grandad liked stitching birds and dogs. But, if you’re going to be stereotypical about it, you can stitch a motorbike, or a car, or...’ She gave him a pointed look. ‘A tiger.’
That was how he felt. Like a caged tiger. Had she realised that? If so, she was maybe the first person ever to see what made him tick. And he wasn’t sure whether that excited him or unnerved him more.
‘Start with something simple to get the hang of the technique. A bookmark would give you a quick result, so you get the hit of finishing.’
‘Are you saying I’m impatient?’
She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you?’
Not at work; but, in his private life, he supposed he was. Though he’d never understood why. ‘OK. If you’ve got the time, then thank you. It’d be lovely if you taught me.’
‘You’re on.’ Leaving her stitching on the table by her side, she went to the sideboard and took out some material, a box filled with threads, and a file. ‘What do you want to stitch?’
‘I’ll be guided by you,’ he said.
She opened the file and took out a pattern. Her huge brown eyes glittered with mischief as she met his gaze. ‘Something simple, then. A stylised rose.’ She opened the box of threads so he could see the colours better. ‘Pick two colours.’
He noticed now how much pink there was in her living room. Cushions. The rug. The curtains.
And he knew she was expecting him to choose a traditionally masculine colour.
Given her comment about not genderising things, he wondered if her ex had done that. He’d heed her warning and not make the same mistake.
‘Pink or red for a rose, right?’ he asked.
‘There’s no reason why you can’t stitch a blue rose if you want to. Or yellow. Or orange. And the leaves don’t have to be green, either.’
