A Very Single Woman Page 4

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he said, in a curiously gruff voice. ‘They look better on you than they ever did on me anyway.’

  She felt a gentle tide of warmth wash over her skin at his words. There didn’t seem to be anything to say, no sensible way to reply, so she said nothing and the silence dragged on. Finally he cleared his throat.

  ‘Well, if you haven’t got any problems, I’d better go and get on with the tree-house. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Why don’t you come for supper? We’ll eat about seven o’clock.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, suddenly short of air. ‘I’ll do that. Good luck with the tree-house.’

  He chuckled. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll need it.’

  Helen hung up, settling the receiver back with a little click and staring pensively at it. She had a perfect vision of Nick in the garden with Sam, building the tree-house in the fork of an old apple tree, with a wonky rope ladder and a little door just big enough for Sam to get inside. It was just the sort of thing she’d always wanted as a child, the sort of thing she would want for her own child, but she doubted her ability to build it safely.

  And she had yet to convince the adoption authorities that she would be a suitable parent anyway. She sighed and ran her hand through her hair, lifting it away from the nape of her neck. It was hot again today, close and sticky, and the thought of her new tangled rose garden was wonderfully enticing.

  She phoned the estate agent, and to her delight he thought the cottage would sell at auction for a figure in her price range. If she was successful, she could take possession of it as soon as all formalities had been completed, although, of course, there was a great deal of work to do before it would be truly home.

  Still, she would only be at the surgery a few hours a day, and would have plenty of time to spend on it in the afternoons and evenings, so with any luck wouldn’t be too long before it was done. She was suddenly excited, and couldn’t wait for Monday evening.

  A whole new chapter of her life was about to begin, and she didn’t allow herself to ponder on how much of her excitement was because Nick was going to be at the centre of it.

  Because, of course, he wouldn’t be. She had an agenda already, clearly mapped out and planned, and Nick wasn’t part of it.

  ‘Focus,’ she told herself firmly, and tried to think of everything she’d have to do before the adoption authorities would consider her.

  Saturday was a scorcher. Nick found himself out in the garden with Sam, wedged halfway up a tree, screwing together a platform to make the base of the tree-house while most of his mind was perversely fixed on Helen.

  His head was full of images of her—her long legs as she climbed out of her car, her face as they walked through the garden of Mrs Smith’s cottage, kneeling beside him on the blood-splattered floor helping him with Mr Emanuel, and then late on Friday night, wearing his shirt and the worn-out old jeans he’d discarded years ago, taut across the smooth curve of her bottom.

  Even the thought filled him with heat. On a hot day like today, that really wasn’t an asset, and it did nothing for his concentration.

  ‘Dad!’ Sam wailed. ‘You’ve cut this one too short, so it doesn’t fit.’

  Nick groaned. ‘Never mind, son, we’ll use it somewhere else. We’ve got plenty of planks to choose from.’ He went down the ladder and selected another length of wood, cut it to the right length and screwed it into position. ‘Right, I reckon we’re about ready to build the sides. How tall does it need to be?’

  ‘I dunno. Big enough for me to sit in, but not too high ’cos it’ll look silly. And I want a window looking that way.’ Sam pointed across the garden towards the woods.

  ‘What about the door? Which way do you want that to face?’

  ‘Down the drive,’ Sam said firmly, ‘so I can see you coming.’

  Nick nodded. ‘OK. Right, let’s get to it.’

  And if I get really lucky, he thought, I won’t hammer my thumb too many times, thinking about Helen.

  By Sunday afternoon the tree-house was finished, and Sam was installed, with an old piece of carpet cut to fit, and a collection of odd cups and plates so he could take friends up there for picnics. He was up there now, with Tommy from over the road, and every time Nick stuck his head out of the door he could hear them giggling.

  He was glad he’d finally got round to it, after all the nagging, and they really did seem to be having fun.

  Unlike Nick.

  He was busy cooking supper, wondering why on earth he’d asked Helen to come and join them. It wasn’t that he didn’t like cooking, because he did, but it was too hot still, and he knew he was going to ridiculous lengths in order to impress her. What he couldn’t quite work out was why, but he had a horrible feeling it was connected with his hormones.

  Every time he thought about her, his body leapt to attention, awakening sensations and emotions that had been dormant for years, ever since Sue had died.

  Not that it wasn’t about time, of course. Five years alone was long enough for anybody, and he was only thirty-six now, far too young for his sex life to have been mothballed all this time. Still, his social skills were rusty, because it had been over ten years since he’d tried to impress a woman, and he wasn’t at all sure he could remember how to do it.

  And maybe stunning her with his cooking wasn’t the way to go—always assuming he could, of course. Knowing his luck, she’d be a vegetarian or have a wheat allergy. Oh, well, you couldn’t win them all.

  He turned his attention back to the prime fillet of local barley-fed beef, spreading it thickly with pâté and then wrapping it in Parma ham. It needed twenty-five minutes in a hot oven, but he wouldn’t put it in until Helen was here. He was serving it with new potatoes roasted in olive oil and herbs and garlic, and a mixed green-leaf salad, in deference to the appalling heat. He’d made a summer pudding the night before, and it was chilling in the fridge, the rich dark red juices soaking into the white bread and butter that lined the deep bowl. He just hoped it would hold together when he turned it out, but he probably wouldn’t get that lucky.

  Not today, not when it mattered.

  Not that it ought to matter. He wondered what he was doing. She was going to be a colleague, and he really, really ought to concentrate on that fact, and not allow himself to become sidetracked by her body—or his!

  He glanced at his watch. It was half past five, and he was cooking pizza and chips for the boys. He’d take it up to the tree-house with some lemonade in a minute, and then at half past six Sam was going back to Tommy’s house for the night and would go to school with him in the morning. That would give Nick the evening free to settle Helen in, and then sort her out early in the morning.

  Not to mention giving them an opportunity to eat together alone. In fact, if he helped her move her things in before they ate, then they would have the rest of the evening together without interruptions.

  The phone rang and he picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nick? It’s Helen. I wondered—would it be a real pain if I came a little earlier? I’ve got everything loaded in the car and I could leave now, if that wouldn’t be a problem. It actually only takes about forty-five minutes, once you know the way.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Nick said, thinking on his feet. ‘I just have to see Sam and Tommy over the road after they’ve eaten, and then we could go straight to the surgery and settle you in before supper. How would that be?’ He found himself holding his breath waiting for her reply, mentally berating himself for allowing it to become so important.

  ‘Oh. Um, yes, OK, that would be fine,’ she said, and he let his breath out on a quiet sigh.

  ‘I’ll look out for you in three-quarters of an hour, then,’ he said, trying not to sound too eager. Difficult, when he was panting like a choirboy in a brothel. Oh, hell. He cradled the phone, whipped the pizza and chips out of the oven, slashed the pizza into bits and piled everything on a tray, grabbed a bottle of lemonade out of the fridge and headed up the garden.


  The tree-house ladder was a few strips of wood nailed onto the trunk, and he struggled up it, leaning his chest against the tree and juggling the tray at arm’s length. All he needed was to dump all of it on the floor, but he got away with it. Sam and Tommy lunged out of the doorway, grabbed the tray from him and disappeared back inside the tree-house with a whoop of delight. He passed the lemonade to them, sprang down from the tree and headed back to the kitchen.

  Ten minutes later it was spotless, the salad was made, the new potatoes were parboiling ready to roast and he just had time to plump the cushions in the sitting room before he heard the scrunch of Helen’s tyres on the gravel drive. He drained the potatoes, threw them into the pan of oil, put the saucepan into the dishwasher and had the front door open before she reached it.

  Nick’s heart thumped against his ribs, and he felt the slow burn of desire warm his body yet again. She looked even more lovely than he’d remembered, and he suddenly had the horrible feeling that he could be in deep, deep water. Hot water. Totally out of his depth. Oh Lord, Sue, help me, he thought. You’d know what to do.

  But Sue wasn’t there, or he wouldn’t be in this mess. The thought sobered him, and he dredged up a smile. ‘Hi, there,’ he said, and opened the door wider. ‘Come on in. You made good time.’

  ‘I was probably speeding a little,’ she said with a wry grin. ‘Anything to get the air moving through the car. I can’t believe it’s so hot.’

  She didn’t look hot, just windswept and absolutely delectable. She handed him a carrier bag.

  ‘Here, your jeans and shirt. I’ve washed them.’

  ‘I told you not to bother. The jeans don’t fit me any more, I’ve outgrown them,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘You might as well keep them—the shirt, too. I never wear it any more. Anyway, the colour looks better on you. That muddy olive green just makes me looked dead.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘I love the shirt.’

  ‘Quite sure. Just have it,’ he said, suddenly irritated. He really, really didn’t want to think about how good she looked in it, with the soft fabric draped over the ripe curve of her breasts. He’d been tortured by the memory all weekend as it was.

  ‘I’ll just go and sort the boys out,’ he said, ‘and then we can go and move your things into the surgery. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In the tree-house. They’ve just had pizza and chips and lemonade, so they’ll probably be sick, but it won’t be me that has to clear it up.’

  Helen laughed, a warm, rich chuckle that made him smile. ‘Can I come, too? I’d love to see the tree-house.’

  Nick shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure. It’s nothing amazing, I can assure you.’

  ‘It’s just that I always wanted one when I was a child, and I love them.’

  There was something wistful about her then that got to him, and he felt his smile soften. ‘Me, too. I never had one either. A friend of mine did, and I think, adding all the time together, I probably spent a couple of years of my early childhood in it. That’s why I made Sam one, because I never had one myself.’

  ‘Living your life through your child?’ Helen said with a wry grin. ‘You want to be careful, doing that—a child psychologist would have a field day with you.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he said with a slightly bitter laugh. ‘Everybody’s so busy being correct these days they’ll forget how to be parents. Come on, let’s go and find them or the evening will be gone.’

  They went up the garden together, and with every step of the way he was conscious of her presence, aware of her in a way he hadn’t been aware of a woman for years. He didn’t need this, he thought, but her perfume drifted to him on the evening air, mixed with the scent of honeysuckle and wisteria, and it was irresistible.

  The boys saw them coming, and there were shrieks and wails and giggles before he eventually managed to persuade them to come out. Helen gazed longingly at the tree-house, that same wistful smile on her face, and he almost wished he’d made it a little bigger so she could fit in it. Maybe he’d make her one in her rose garden.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve done it really well. He’s a lucky boy to have you for a father.’

  Nick snorted. ‘That’s not what he said on Friday night,’ he muttered to her. ‘If you remember, I was the lowest of the low.’

  ‘Ah, but that was my fault. I’m so sorry about that.’

  He shrugged. ‘What were you supposed to do about it? Your car broke down. Nobody can help something like that.’

  ‘But when you’re eight, things look a little different. As far as Sam was concerned, you’d broken a promise. Kids are very black and white.’

  ‘Sam’s getting quite good at the grey areas,’ Nick said ruefully. ‘I’m afraid he’s had rather a lot of practice.’ He peered up the tree. ‘Come on, boys, time to go.’

  With a bit more cajoling and a certain amount of grumbling, the boys were persuaded to come down, and Nick walked them over the road to Linda, Sam’s overnight bag dangling from his fingers. Linda invited him in, but he was conscious of Helen’s things that still needed to be unloaded, and the supper that he still had to cook, so he declined.

  Nothing to do with the fact that he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Helen this evening.

  He crossed the road again, and found her bent over a rose in the front garden, her nose buried in the middle of a huge overblown apricot bloom. She straightened as he approached, and gave a lovely smile.

  ‘It smells heavenly,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t wait to get my cottage. There are some fabulous roses in the garden.’

  ‘I take it you’re going for it, then,’ he said, and tried to ignore the little flutter of hope in his chest. To have her so close…

  ‘Yes—thank goodness he thinks it’ll be in my price range. I would have been gutted if it had been too expensive.’

  Her and him both, he thought drily. Lord, this was going to drive him nuts.

  ‘Shall we take your stuff down to the surgery?’ he suggested hastily, and she agreed.

  They only took the one car, and it didn’t take long. She didn’t have a great deal, and there was very little to show her in the surgery that wouldn’t keep until morning. He helped her make up the bed, and she hung up a few clothes before turning to him with a smile.

  ‘That’s it, then. All the rest can wait. I’m starving.’

  ‘Good,’ he said with a grin. ‘I can’t bear picky women who fiddle with their food.’

  ‘Not me, then.’ Helen laughed. ‘I’ve never been accused of fiddling with my food.’

  Maybe his instincts were right. Perhaps he would be able to impress her with his culinary expertise. It was about the only social skill he had in any degree after all, he thought with disgust.

  They drove back to his house, parked her car next to his and went in.

  ‘I just need to put the meat in the oven,’ he said. ‘It shouldn’t take long, everything’s virtually ready. Make yourself at home.’

  Helen settled herself at the breakfast bar with her elbows propped on the counter and her chin in her hands, and she watched him. It was no hardship. He was easy to watch, his movements fluid and confident. He was truly at home in his kitchen, and it was obvious he knew exactly what he was doing. She envied him that.

  He was right, it didn’t take him long, and he turned to her with a smile. ‘Right, that’s that. We’ve got about twenty-five minutes before we eat. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘How about a glass of wine? I’ve got a nice Merlot that would go well with this, or you could have tea or coffee, or there’s iced water or—I don’t know, all sorts. You choose.’

  ‘I have to drive later,’ she said regretfully. ‘Can I save the wine for the meal?’

  ‘Of course you can. So what will you have now?’

  Helen shrugged. ‘Water?’ she said. ‘It just tastes different really cold.’

  He
grinned. ‘I agree. That’s why I bought the fridge. I could never remember to fill up a bottle, or to use it, and I resent paying good money for bottled water, so I used to drink rubbish. Sam drinks water now all the time, and that has to be healthier than fizzy drinks.’ He filled two tall glasses with the cold water and the outside frosted instantly.

  He slid one across to her, and their fingers brushed as she reached for it. It was like touching an electric fence, she thought, as the tingle shot up her arm and dithered around her heart. Distracted, she drew patterns in the mist on the outside of the glass with her fingertip, avoiding his eye. Suddenly the kitchen seemed terribly small—too small.

  Maybe Nick thought so as well, because he immediately picked up his glass and headed for the door. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go into the sitting room.’

  She followed him through into a lovely room, not the circular base of the windmill, as she thought it would be, but a large, rectangular room with a fire-place at one end and heavy beams spanning the ceiling. It was simply furnished in muted, natural tones—creams, soft terracotta, a deep, muted jade green on the walls. The carpet was off-white, more of a rug than a carpet, although it covered most of the wooden floor, and she was sure it would feel wonderful to wriggle her toes in.

  ‘What a lovely room,’ she said, looking around her at the pictures on the walls and the interesting little pieces of sculpture on the shelves at the end each side of the fireplace.

  ‘Thanks. I like it. It’s my retreat, the place I come when I want to relax. I don’t get to be in here very often.’ His smile was wry, and she answered him with one of her own.

  ‘Maybe that will get better now I’m here to take some of the pressure off you.’

  Nick snorted softly. ‘I doubt it. It’s not work that’s the problem, it’s running round after Sam all evening that takes the time. And then, of course, at the weekend, he’ll find something like a tree-house for me to do.’

  ‘You love it really,’ Helen said softly.

  ‘No—I love him,’ Nick corrected her. ‘Believe me, Helen, being a single parent is no picnic.’