smile, probably, because he still felt bitter and always would. There were some things that you couldn’t forgive, some lies that were too cruel. You just had to move on. And he had. He was.
Sort of.
‘Sea bream?’
They sat back, the plates were put in front of them and they dropped the subject and turned their attention to the food.
She couldn’t decide, so they swapped halfway, and then he had to endure watching her struggling with the dessert menu.
‘The melting middle chocolate pud is amazing,’ he told her helpfully. ‘So’s the apple crumble. Or they do a selection to share that sounds interesting.’
She nibbled her lip thoughtfully and he felt his guts clench again.
‘Let’s try that,’ she suggested.
Oh, Lord. It suddenly seemed ludicrously intimate and he wanted to kick himself for suggesting it. He did it, though, holding out a spoonful of rhubarb crumble to her, stifling a groan as she closed her lips around his spoon and sighed sensuously before dipping her spoon into the tiny chocolate pudding and reaching over to feed it to him. They squabbled over the last bit of rice pudding, and she ended up victorious, then held it out to him, her eyes teasing.
It was a wonder he didn’t choke on it.
Emelia felt crazily full, but it had been worth every bite.
Especially the bites from Sam’s spoon. And his eyes—
She wouldn’t think about his eyes, she told herself, heading upstairs. It was too dangerous. She was falling for him, she realised, and it was altogether too easy.
He was charming, funny, sexy—a lethal cocktail of masculinity mixed with a surprising sensitivity.
Very dangerous. Dangerous because she couldn’t trust it. He was trying to convince her to stay so he’d be near the baby, sweet-talking her into thinking it would be a good idea. And it probably would, but she mustn’t let herself be lured by his charm. She had to make the right decisions for herself and the baby based on common sense. The trouble was, she didn’t seem to have any left, she thought in despair. Not where Sam Hunter was concerned.
He was in the study—he had work to do, he’d said, and so she went to bed and fell asleep thinking about his eyes…
Two days later, she moved into the cottage.
Sam brought all her things down again, put them in thecar and drove them round, and she unpacked them and stood back and thought of all the things she’d left behind, all the things she hadn’t thought to bring—like vases.
She’d had some lovely vases, tall slender ones for lilies, and a lovely round tulip bowl that had been a wedding present—but she hadn’t thought of it, and now she looked around and it seemed barren. Cold and empty and soulless.
‘It’ll soon be home,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind—or more probably her face. James had always told her she’d be a lousy poker player.
She gave a soft sigh. It seemed years since she’d had a home she could really call her own. Not since she and James had bought their little house in Bristol and furnished it on a shoestring. They’d stretched themselves to the limit, but it had been home, and they’d been happy there.
It seemed so very, very long ago. She could scarcely remember it.
‘Hey, it’ll be all right,’ Sam said, rubbing her shoulder gently, and she gave a sharp sigh and nodded, and he dropped his hand, as if he’d only touched her because he’d felt he had to. And it would have been so nice to lean on him, to put her arms round him and rest her head on that broad shoulder.
‘Look, I know it’s small, and it’s probably not what you were used to with James, but it’s got lovely views, the garden could be really pretty and it’s very private, and there’s an outhouse that could possibly be turned into another bedroom if you felt it was necessary. Just—see how it goes, OK? If there’s anything you want decorated differently or changed, just say. I want you to think of it as your home.’
The short,
Sort of.
‘Sea bream?’
They sat back, the plates were put in front of them and they dropped the subject and turned their attention to the food.
She couldn’t decide, so they swapped halfway, and then he had to endure watching her struggling with the dessert menu.
‘The melting middle chocolate pud is amazing,’ he told her helpfully. ‘So’s the apple crumble. Or they do a selection to share that sounds interesting.’
She nibbled her lip thoughtfully and he felt his guts clench again.
‘Let’s try that,’ she suggested.
Oh, Lord. It suddenly seemed ludicrously intimate and he wanted to kick himself for suggesting it. He did it, though, holding out a spoonful of rhubarb crumble to her, stifling a groan as she closed her lips around his spoon and sighed sensuously before dipping her spoon into the tiny chocolate pudding and reaching over to feed it to him. They squabbled over the last bit of rice pudding, and she ended up victorious, then held it out to him, her eyes teasing.
It was a wonder he didn’t choke on it.
Emelia felt crazily full, but it had been worth every bite.
Especially the bites from Sam’s spoon. And his eyes—
She wouldn’t think about his eyes, she told herself, heading upstairs. It was too dangerous. She was falling for him, she realised, and it was altogether too easy.
He was charming, funny, sexy—a lethal cocktail of masculinity mixed with a surprising sensitivity.
Very dangerous. Dangerous because she couldn’t trust it. He was trying to convince her to stay so he’d be near the baby, sweet-talking her into thinking it would be a good idea. And it probably would, but she mustn’t let herself be lured by his charm. She had to make the right decisions for herself and the baby based on common sense. The trouble was, she didn’t seem to have any left, she thought in despair. Not where Sam Hunter was concerned.
He was in the study—he had work to do, he’d said, and so she went to bed and fell asleep thinking about his eyes…
Two days later, she moved into the cottage.
Sam brought all her things down again, put them in thecar and drove them round, and she unpacked them and stood back and thought of all the things she’d left behind, all the things she hadn’t thought to bring—like vases.
She’d had some lovely vases, tall slender ones for lilies, and a lovely round tulip bowl that had been a wedding present—but she hadn’t thought of it, and now she looked around and it seemed barren. Cold and empty and soulless.
‘It’ll soon be home,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind—or more probably her face. James had always told her she’d be a lousy poker player.
She gave a soft sigh. It seemed years since she’d had a home she could really call her own. Not since she and James had bought their little house in Bristol and furnished it on a shoestring. They’d stretched themselves to the limit, but it had been home, and they’d been happy there.
It seemed so very, very long ago. She could scarcely remember it.
‘Hey, it’ll be all right,’ Sam said, rubbing her shoulder gently, and she gave a sharp sigh and nodded, and he dropped his hand, as if he’d only touched her because he’d felt he had to. And it would have been so nice to lean on him, to put her arms round him and rest her head on that broad shoulder.
‘Look, I know it’s small, and it’s probably not what you were used to with James, but it’s got lovely views, the garden could be really pretty and it’s very private, and there’s an outhouse that could possibly be turned into another bedroom if you felt it was necessary. Just—see how it goes, OK? If there’s anything you want decorated differently or changed, just say. I want you to think of it as your home.’
The short,
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