by Ally Blake
“So no holiday. No place of our own. I’d have had to stop work to look after the bubs. Which I’d have loved. Except we’d have had to move in with my mother.” She let that thought sit for a good long moment. “How’s that for a pretty picture?”
Sable glanced at Rafe to find his frown had deepened. The curling grass had unfurled from his finger, and lifted on the light breeze. His gaze was faraway as he said, “No kids.”
“Hmm?”
“No kids. The rest, maybe. But no kids. Not for me. You knew that.”
The ache in her gut grew serrated edges. Even while it was good news that his determination not to raise a child of his own was still prevailing, the fact that he still felt that way, a man with his kindness, and goodness, and genes. He’d have been a great dad.
“Right,” she said, shaking her head before she turned it into a nod. “That’s right. So this, now, the way things worked out, your life is better, right? Janie’s life is infinitely better. Just as it is.”
He looked into the middle distance and said, “All true.”
Had his voice trailed off a little there? No matter. Things were falling into place. Exactly as she’d hoped.
Till he said, “How about you?”
“Hmm? What now?”
“Is your life better now?”
She opened her mouth and closed it, trying to figure how to twist his question to get back on track. Instead she found herself comparing her mess of a life to her life back then: home fires and forest walks, creativity rushing through her veins, lazy afternoons spent with Rafe in the loft of the old barn. No, her life wasn’t better, not right now. But it would be and that was the point.
He moved then, slowly turning to face her, his gaze intent. And he said, “I know a little. Of what happened. In LA.”
“Oh?”
“I know that it’s been more than a year since you’ve released any new work.”
More than a year? Was that possible?
“And you and that famous chef of yours...you’re done.”
Hearing Rafe mention her ex was so unexpected, she flinched.
“Janie liked to keep tabs, kindly sprinkling me with news every now and then. Bear brought me up to date, when he heard you were in town. And fine, I might have searched the Internet on occasion.”
A quick flush rising in his swarthy cheeks, he looked down. He tossed the blade of grass to the ground and leaned back on the railing. When he looked back at her again, his gaze was intense. Enough it made the backs of her knees tingle.
“If that’s what this is all about, Sutton, if you’ve come back here looking for a soft landing, looking for me to make you feel all better, I can’t give you that. I won’t.”
Sable found herself caught in Rafe’s dark eyes as he talked about “making it all better”. A euphemism that set off a plethora of memories inside her head—warm, tender, knee-melting memories—as if they’d been waiting to be set free.
She had to physically shake herself back to reality. “That’s not what I’m here for, Rafe. You can relax on that score, I promise. What I want...”
This was it. From here there was no turning back. She looked to Rafe, her past, present and future concertinaing till her throat tightened.
She fought past it, pressing her feet into the ground, firming up her foundations, as she said, “Rafe, I’m here because I want a baby.”
Rafe’s hand snapped back to his side as if burned. “You want—”
“A baby. Your baby.”
Now the words were finally out she breathed deeper than she could remember breathing in years. Lungs filling and emptying. Spilling glorious oxygen through her body, her brain, until she felt strong, light and, oh, the blessed relief.
“I don’t understand.”
When Sable realised Rafe was physically backing away from her, she reached out and grabbed him by the hand. His warm, brown, strong and scarred hand. Held on tight. Using it to anchor her.
“Rafe. I was hoping—I am hoping—that you will agree to be my baby’s father. Well, not ‘father’. Because I do know that kids are not in your life plan. It’s what makes this plan so beautiful. I want you to be my donor. I’m not asking for you to sleep with me. There would be doctors—”
“To sleep with you?”
“No! To take care. Of your sperm.”
He looked so pale, so stunned, it was almost funny. Though she knew that was the adrenaline making her feel giddy. She’d never been more serious in her life.
“It’s all very safe. Clinical. And quick. Especially on your part. Once you...do your bit, that would be it. I wish for nothing more—no financial outlay, no physical help, no visitation. Nothing. No strings. Not a single one.”
She was saying all the right things, all the things her research said might sway him, but she could tell she was making no headway.
Realising how tight she held on, she let him go. His hand whipped back, and he with it, putting even more space between them as he paced away from her.
Though he didn’t bolt. That was something. Right?
“Rafe?”
His back remained facing her. He had one hand on his hip, the other in his hair. Tugging. As if he was trying to yank his thoughts to the surface.
Sable moved a little closer still. “I know you never wanted kids, Rafe. And I always understood why, even while I struggled to accept it. That’s why we would never have made it. You and me.”
She could have sworn she saw him flinch. But then he didn’t move. He stood there. Breathing. Listening. His face turned just enough she could see his eyes were closed.
“Because it has been my dream since as far back as I can remember. No matter what else had changed in my life, that instinct, that yearning, has been a constant.”
He moved a little then, his eyes opening. His face turning. His strong profile her focus as she said all the words she had to say.
“So why I’m asking this of you? And not some random donor? Or any other man I’ve met since?”
Something shifted deep behind the daze in his eyes. A flicker of discontent. An echo of possessiveness. It sent a shiver down her sides. She shook it off. Focussed.
“I considered,” she went on. “Of course I did. I’m not here on a whim. My reasons for asking this huge thing of you are two-fold. Firstly, most importantly, you were so good to me, Rafe. I look back on that time with such fondness. Such gratitude. I would not be who I am if I had not had you in my life. But a baby, my baby—I’ve come to realise it’s something I want to do on my own. No outside pressure from interested parties, no raising by committee. Just me and all the love that I plan to pour into my kid.
“It’s all but fate for the women in my family to do this alone. My mother managed, in her own way. My grandmother too. I know I can take what they did right, and what I believe they could have done better, and I can do this well. This is my time, Rafe. It’s now, or never.”
Rafe’s eyes grew dark, his body a study in stillness. Then he turned. Slowly. Face first, then torso, then feet.
His jaw was tight, his eyes dark and apologetic.
He was going to tell her no.
“Sable—”
“Stop,” she said, moving in to quickly slam a hand over his mouth. “Just...think about it. For a day. Or two. I know you owe me nothing, not a single thing. If anything, I owe you. So much. Yet here I am. Asking. Even while knowing I’ve set myself up for ridicule, censure, rejection.”
Doom.
She closed her eyes, told her ex and his dodgy therapist to stay out of this. “It’s that important to me, Rafe. So please, think about it. And, as a bonus, once all is said and done I will walk away, and this time you’ll never have to lay eyes on me again.”
His breath blew hot against her palm, and ripples of heat rolled over her skin like creeping vines.
&
nbsp; Slowly, a finger at a time, Sable removed her hand from Rafe’s mouth.
His nostrils flared as he licked his lips. His eyes drilling into hers.
And despite the intense emotion, she felt a curl of attraction so strong it nearly knocked her sideways.
Not now. Not that. There was no place for it here.
Ironically. For jumping him would be far easier than the rigours of fertility drugs, and risky timing, and the ache of implantation. She’d read all about it. Talked to people who’d been through it. Even joined a support group in LA when her doctor had given her diagnoses. Plural...
But falling into bed with Rafe would only make a mess of things. And she was not about to sabotage whatever slim chance she had.
The Chef’s enabling therapist would be so proud.
Sable didn’t breathe as the leaves skittered at their feet. Rustled in the trees above. As if even the wind was mirroring the restlessness surging through the both of them.
Then Rafe’s phone rang, buzzing in his pocket a moment before the sound split the heavy silence. It rang again and Sable flinched.
“Answer it,” she said.
Rafe slowly slid his phone from his pocket and answered, eyes not once leaving hers, as if afraid of what she might do if he didn’t keep an eye on her. “Rafe Thorne.”
Then, before he had the chance to ask her to wait, or tell her no, she walked away. As fast as she possibly could.
* * *
Rafe barely remembered getting off the phone with his Sydney team, and making it out of the park, for his brain was shooting sparks in every direction like a faulty firecracker.
A baby, he thought as he turned onto Laurel Avenue.
Sable wanted a baby. Not just any baby. His baby.
And it wasn’t some euphemism for How about we take up where we left off?
That he might have been able to get behind. For the attraction between them was thrumming so loud it was hard to hear over it. Chemistry had never been their problem. Only everything else that was against them: youth, family, the whole town, timing...
A baby. His baby.
No strings. Not a single one.
Was she out of her mind? Possibly. She’d lived in LA for years. Who knew what weird foods she’d eaten. Or substances she’d taken.
He might even have grabbed onto that notion and left it at that, had it not been for the fact that he knew her so damn well. The only thing they’d ever openly argued about was her dream to be a mother and his vow to never be a father.
He remembered one such time—or maybe it was several memories merged into one—wrapped up in an old blanket in the loft of his dad’s old barn, dust motes floating through the air, on the verge of sleep as her fingers traced the hairs on his chest, her soft voice going through the alphabet, listing possible names for their future children.
Annalissa with the blonde curls and obsession with kittens. Benjamin with the grumpy frown and kind heart. Carys who thought she could fly...
He’d never felt as torn as he did in those moments, soul-deep, right to his marrow. He’d been so deeply smitten with her, desperate to give her everything she could possibly hope for, but the thought of having a child to take care of made his head spin, his lungs squeeze to the size of raisins.
He’d had to tell her, time and time again, in the loudest voice he’d allow himself to use, to stop. That it was never going to happen. That he’d do anything for her, but he would never give her that.
For he’d still been a child himself, thirteen, and Janie no more than three, when his own mother had left, leaving the pair of them in the care of their father—a turbulent man who wasn’t to be trusted with his own welfare, much less that of two children.
So Rafe had raised his little sister as there had been literally no one else to do so.
That first couple of years had been the hardest. Keeping her fed with no money. Keeping her safe when she’d had a tendency to run.
As she hadn’t even been in school attending himself had been nearly impossible. They’d called him a truant, a brooding, troubled kid, when really he’d been doing his best, while his head had been constantly in seven different places at once. None of them good. How had his mother left them? What mood was his father in? Could he keep Janie alive?
But they’d made it, the two of them. A little rough around the edges, but thick as thieves. And while their lives were now solid, secure, safe, he had not forgotten a second of the hard work needed to make that happen. How sometimes even that wasn’t enough. That bad things happened—kids got sick, authorities intervened, life got in the way.
He had no intention of going through that again.
All of which Sable knew better than anyone.
His heart twisted, like a wrung-out rag, as he tried to understand what on earth had made her think he’d even consider the idea of having a baby with her—
Not what she asked, his subconscious piped up.
Rafe rocked forward. Looked down at his feet to find they’d stopped. He scuffed a boot against the footpath, dirt and decaying autumn leaves shifting under his sole.
Seriously, though. To come back here, after cutting and running, not speaking to him in years, where the heck had she found the nerve to ask him to father her child—?
That’s not what she asked.
What had she said, exactly?
That she’d found some kind of loophole? She didn’t want him to father her child. Didn’t want him to participate in the raising of the child at all. She wanted nothing from him bar his swimmers. Clinical. Safe. And quick. No support required, or wanted by the sound of it. And he’d never have to lay eyes on her—or presumably any offspring forged from the endeavour—again.
She’d left that bit till last. As if never having to see her again would be the clincher.
Rafe laughed out loud, the sound catching in his tight throat.
A day, he thought. She’s been home a day, and you can’t stand still. Nor can you move forward. And now—because you didn’t immediately say, hell, no, flat out, clear as day, unequivocal—she’s out there, believing that you are actually thinking this ridiculous plan over.
And why hadn’t he said no?
Because she’d tucked her hair behind one ear over and over again. She’d looked up at him, unblinking, with those vivid eyes. She’d been so earnest, so hopeful, and so utterly Sable it had taken him back with a yank that had all but upended him.
Realising he’d stopped in the middle of the footpath again, Rafe rubbed a rough hand over his face, and told his feet to move. He grabbed a leather tie from around his wrist and pulled his hair back. Hard. Till the roots hurt. And made tracks to Radiance Restorations.
The scent of oil, the clang of steel on steel, the mutter of hushed voices, the tinny sound of Stan’s filthy old radio playing country music from its place on the top shelf in the workshop ran over him like quieting hands. If any place could calm the tornado in his head, this was it.
For this was his home.
His father’s old place had been a prison. The Airstream was Janie’s happy cave. His Melbourne apartment, his London place, the hotels he stayed in when meeting clients around the world were simply places to sleep between jobs.
Work, endeavour, taking something broken and putting it back together better than it ever was—that was his happy place.
“Boss!” That was Fred McGlinty—tufts of sweaty red hair poking out of the edges of his grey on black Radiance Restorations cap as he ambled over.
Rafe nodded, not quite ready for words.
“Good, thanks,” said Fred, oblivious. “Check this out.”
Heading to a Charger up on blocks—only a polish and new tyres from completion—Fred popped the lid, slid behind the wheel, left the door open and gave the engine a rev.
It sounded great. Throaty and rough, but clean. A
dream compared to all the other stuff in Rafe’s head right now. “Again,” he demanded.
Grinning, Fred revved and revved and revved.
And Rafe’s twisted heart slowly but surely came down from the ledge.
Sable had meant something to him once. Strike that—she’d meant everything. Ensuring her happiness had been his number one goal in life. But the choices she’d made had changed all that. Irrevocably. She’d broken him when she’d left. In a way his mother’s leaving and his father’s volatility never had. But he’d put himself back together—with determination, and guts, and by sticking to the choices he’d made in his life.
And while it was patently clear the attraction still hummed beneath the surface of every word they’d uttered, it was not, and never would be, the same.
He was no longer accountable for her dreams.
Ed, Fred’s twin, poked his head over the engine. “Gorgeous, right?”
Utterly, he thought, then realised Ed was talking about the car.
The engine cut off. The guttural growl echoing in their ears for a few moments before the soft strains of Stan’s radio once more took over.
A cough came from the corner of the garage, where Stan himself sat. All weathered skin, and bristling silver moustache. Local newspaper open on the small table before him. “You still in town, boy?”
“So it seems,” Rafe said.
Stan closed the newspaper and shot him a glance. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with Mercy Sutton’s girl being back in town.”
Rafe’s fingers clutched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. Hell, he couldn’t even hear about her without feeling that whump of heat rush through him.
“Who?” Ed asked.
“Rafe’s old flame,” said Stan. “First car he ever worked on with me he was building for her. A hunk of junk VW Beetle they dragged out of the creek and called Rosebud. Or Periwinkle or some such thing. Whatever happened to that thing?”
Ed blinked. And Fred cleared his throat.
The muscle below Rafe’s right eye jerked.
“Boys,” said Rafe, his voice like sandpaper, “take an early lunch. Grab some petty cash and head to Bear’s.”
