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  She hadn’t even said goodbye to her mum properly before she’d left to go on her book tour. And every time her mum had phoned since, she’d been really stroppy with her.

  But what if that was the last time she ever got to speak to her? Or the last time she ever got to see her again?

  She couldn’t even remember now why she had been so mad with her.

  Trey could see shock and horror in Lizzie’s face; what he couldn’t see was pity.

  He should correct her. And tell her the truth. His mum wasn’t dead. She was just sick. Much sicker than she had been four years ago when he’d got that dopey tattoo.

  The nurse at the hospice had told him yesterday they didn’t think she had much longer. He didn’t think so, either. As he held her hand, the papery skin so thin it was translucent, her breathing had sounded tortured, each new breath a titanic struggle to defeat the inevitable.

  The nurse had told him the last of the senses to go was hearing, so all he could do now was read her the girly novels she loved. He’d been embarrassed to read them when her sight had first started to go, especially all the sexy bits. He wasn’t embarrassed by them any more. The stories took him to foreign lands in times past, with lots of action and adventure and all the sexy bits in between, in the company of characters who were young and fit and able-bodied and didn’t need a catheter or a drip. Transporting him out of the sunny cubicle, where the scent of bleach and bodily fluids could always be detected beneath the masking scent of air freshener; away from the sound of rasping breaths and the sight of the thin grey hair spread out on the pillow, which belonged to a frail husk of a human being who looked nothing like his mum.

  Maybe he could have shared all that with Lizzie, the reality of his life outside his job. And the truth about his mum.

  She’s had multiple sclerosis since I was thirteen. But she’s not dead. Not yet.

  But he didn’t want to tell Lizzie the truth. Because the reality had isolated him so often as a kid. When he was his mum’s primary carer. The truth had made him weird, a freak, and different from everyone he knew.

  His responsibilities as her carer had never bothered him—cleaning her teeth, washing her hair, helping her with the bedpan, feeding her when she got too weak to eat. It had all just been a growing part of his daily routine. But as the responsibilities grew, other people became aware of them, and that was what had made him uncomfortable: the social workers who were forever encouraging him to join some stupid club; the kids at school who thought he was a loser because he could never hang out after class; the teachers who didn’t give him a detention when he didn’t do his homework, even though they gave everyone else one.

  He didn’t want Lizzie to look at him like that, as if he were different, or, worse, pitiful. He wasn’t sure she would, because she had always seemed pretty direct—not to mention self-absorbed—but he wasn’t going to chance it. Better to take the easy route and tell Lizzie half the truth.

  ‘She died a few years ago.’

  ‘That sucks.’

  He smiled at the pithy comment. The honest anger on his behalf so much better than the apology he usually got.

  Why did people even say sorry to you when someone died, or got so sick they might as well be dead? Did they think it was their fault? And what was he supposed to say back? ‘Don’t worry, it’s OK’ or ‘It’s not that bad’, as if you were comforting them? Or just ‘Thanks’? As if them saying sorry was actually going to help.

  ‘Yeah, it does suck,’ he replied.

  ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ she asked, slipping the tray of cupcakes into the oven.

  ‘No, it was just me and my mum.’

  She threw the oven mitt down. ‘That’s even suckier, then.’

  ‘I suppose. Although I would have expected you to figure I was better off,’ he pointed out. ‘Seeing what a hard time you give Aldo.’

  Her face flushed a dull red.

  He liked that she had no make-up on. She usually wore a lot of gunk around her eyes. She looked better without it. Not that he usually had an opinion on what women wore on their faces. He liked lipstick as much as the next guy. But without the gunk she seemed less remote, more real. And he could see her eyes more, that cornflower blue bold and expressive—as if he were getting a precious glimpse of the real Lizzie behind the hipster mask.

  Emotion flittered across her face, easy to read. First embarrassment, then guilt, then the hint of defensiveness. He found all three captivating in their own way. Especially when she held back the snarky comment she probably wanted to say and smiled instead.

  Lizzie had a very cute smile when it wasn’t ironic.

  ‘Sorry, but those who don’t have annoying little brothers,’ she said lightly, ‘don’t get to pass judgement on those who do.’

  He chuckled. All the melancholy thoughts of his mother, and the upcoming duty visit to the hospice, neatly dispelled.

  ‘What about those who always wanted a little brother,’ he countered, ‘and think those who have one ought to appreciate them more?’

  ‘Excuse me, but wanting one and having one are two very different conditions.’ She propped one hand on her hip and placed the other on the countertop, her stance combative, and flirtatious. Sweat had gathered in her cleavage, making the skin glisten, spotlighting the small, firm breasts beneath her jogging bra. He dragged his gaze back to her face, with an effort.

  ‘But I give you major points for wanting a little brother like Aldo,’ she said. ‘After seeing his dark side.’

  ‘His dark side’s not so bad. Yours, on the other hand …’

  He let the playful insinuation hang in the air. Knowing he shouldn’t flirt back with her. He’d been avoiding her all week for this very reason. Flirtation wasn’t cool. She was eighteen and fragile beneath all the bravado and bitchiness, according to her mum. And he was twenty-one and in her mum’s employ. He’d been careful to keep his distance from day one in this job, but after what had happened at the Serps, he’d been extra careful, realising that friendly Lizzie could be a lot more dangerous than arsey Lizzie.

  But today, after all the stress of what was going on with his mum, the chance to think about something else and enjoy some, OK, mild flirting didn’t seem like such a major crime. And while Lizzie’s mum thought she was fragile, she didn’t seem particularly fragile to him. She certainly wasn’t naive, or romantic. If her arsehole boyfriend had taught her one thing, it was to be smart around guys, and not get too invested. And it was a lesson she’d obviously learned with interest if the ballsy way she’d handled that prick in the park was anything to go by.

  Luckily, he’d learned the exact same thing when he was seventeen and lost his virginity with one of the neighbours. Jenny had been a nice lady, divorced with a young kid and lonely. And the sex had been amazing, at least for him. He wasn’t so sure it had been that great for her in retrospect, because he’d had the staying power of a tsetse fly and couldn’t locate a clitoris without a lot of fumbling. But she’d been sweet enough not to complain.

  His mum had totally freaked when she’d found out, so Jenny had moved away. And he’d been crushed. The loneliness enveloping him. He figured out eventually that he hadn’t been in love with Jenny. He’d just needed the chance to escape every Saturday afternoon while her little boy was with his dad. But it had taken him months to get over the misery whenever he’d walked into the house and saw the new people living next door. If there was one thing a kid whose mum had primary progressive MS should have known, it was that nothing stayed the same, and you couldn’t rely on anyone.

  But for a while he’d relied on Jenny. And he shouldn’t have.

  Ever since, he’d steered clear of romantic relationships. He already had enough shit to deal with, without asking for more. Once his mum was gone, he’d think about dating, but until then, he didn’t need the hassle.

  So there was no way he would ever go too far with Lizzie. Which meant it was daft to get paranoid about enjoying her company. Or some extracu
rricular flirting. If it made them both feel good, and he was well aware of the limitations, where was the harm?

  ‘How can you possibly judge how dark my dark side is,’ she replied, her breasts doing that perky thing again as she leaned into his personal space, ‘when you’ve never had an older sister? I can tell you categorically it’s perfectly normal to bitch at your little brother. Even my therapist said so.’ The colour in her cheeks bloomed like a mushroom cloud. She opened the oven door.

  He found it endearing that she was embarrassed about the therapy. He knew that feeling, too. ‘Therapists are mostly all talk, though, right?’

  She pressed her finger into a cupcake to test it. Then slammed the door, shooting him an uncertain look. ‘You’ve had a therapist, too?’

  ‘I’ve had several, when my mum was sick. They weren’t all bad, but it seemed to me just talking about stuff wasn’t going to make my mum better. So what exactly were they being paid for?’

  She propped her bottom on the counter, the smile that flitted over her features instant and genuine. ‘Same.’

  His pulse gave a funny lurch. Not a big deal.

  ‘Aldo isn’t any different from other boys his age,’ he continued, the blip of panic unsettling enough for him to divert the conversation onto safer ground. Aldo was his area of expertise, after all.

  ‘Except that he doesn’t have a dad,’ Lizzie pointed out. ‘He doesn’t even know who his dad is.’

  ‘So what? Neither did I. It didn’t do me any harm,’ he said easily enough to make himself almost believe it. Until he saw curiosity sharpening her gaze and realised the conversation was right back where he didn’t want it again. On him.

  Lizzie knew a lot of people who didn’t have dads, not just Aldo. She also knew people who had dads who were dick-heads. But still she felt bad for Trey. Which was silly really. Even if Trey had needed a dad once, as she often thought Aldo needed one now, he didn’t need one any more. He was strong and competent and confident. Except …

  ‘Why didn’t you want to hug Aldo, at the Serps?’ She’d been wanting to quiz him about that for days. ‘It was so obvious that’s what he needed, and he wanted it from you, not me.’

  He looked taken aback by the non sequitur, but then he straightened away from the counter and she knew this wasn’t just surprise at the sudden change of topic. Because he looked a lot less relaxed.

  ‘I can’t hug him. I shouldn’t even touch him really. It’s a child protection thing.’

  It was her turn to be surprised. ‘You mean you’ve never given him a hug?’

  ‘It would be crossing a line I’m not allowed to cross.’

  Bullshit was her first thought. And her second. ‘Who said you’re not allowed to give him a hug? I can’t believe my mum told you that.’ Her mum thought Trey was God’s gift to childcare, and from what she’d observed while he was looking after Aldo—when she wasn’t allowing her judgement to be coloured by jealousy—her mum had got that right. ‘You’re important in Aldo’s life, you must know that.’

  His jaw went rigid, and she saw the glint of annoyance, so unlike him. ‘I’m not his dad, or his big brother. I’m a paid employee.’

  He had to know he was more than that. Especially to Aldo. But then she remembered a line from her GCSE English, something about protesting too much. Was it Shakespeare? She couldn’t be sure because she’d barely scraped a D in English Literature. But even so, it applied. Trey was definitely protesting too much. The question was why? Then she thought of him standing beside her at the park, that blank look on his face, his fingers curled into a fist, and she had her answer.

  ‘You weren’t protecting him, were you? You were protecting yourself.’

  The bell on the oven timer chose that precise moment to ping. He grabbed the mitt and slid the cupcakes out of the oven. But she already had her answer, his rigid expression a dead giveaway.

  Trey had no parents and no siblings. He had no family at all by the sounds of it. Was he lonely? Wouldn’t it be terribly isolating to work with a family, to become important to them, the way he’d become to Aldo, and not be able to become too invested? Was he scared to get too involved?

  ‘These smell delicious,’ he said as buttery steam filled the kitchen and made her stomach rumble. ‘Thanks for helping out. I owe you one.’

  He didn’t understand the dynamics of sibling relationships, that much was obvious. But did he even understand the dynamics of a family relationship? How long had his mum been sick before she died? Had he been the one caring for her? Was that why he was so adept at looking after Aldo?

  ‘I guess we should wait for them to cool down before icing them,’ he said, clearly trying to fill the void with inane conversation.

  ‘I need to go have a shower,’ she said, feeling indescribably grimy all of a sudden. Certainly some eyeliner wouldn’t go amiss. Especially now she had a plan.

  She liked Trey; he was a nice guy. And, for the first time ever, despite his lame taste in polo shirts, ‘nice’ didn’t feel like a euphemism for ‘boring’. Could this be a sign of her own maturity? Had she finally grown out of wanting to hook up with bad boys who thought they were cool but were really just creepy and sex-obsessed?

  Having Trey’s warm brown gaze stray involuntarily to her tits had made her feel excited, not dirty, the way Liam had when he’d told her he wanted to come on her boobs.

  Trey was hot, and totally cool in his own way. Even if he didn’t know it. But he was also way too reserved and serious.

  An intervention was called for. He needed someone to shove him off the sidelines and into the action. And she was the perfect person for that job. She’d spent so much of her life shoving herself into the action.

  If that meant passing her flirting proficiency test, so be it.

  ‘I’ll be back in ten, and then we can ice them.’

  ‘Cool,’ he said, deliberately nonchalant. But she was sure she could feel his chocolate gaze warming her arse as she dashed out of the room.

  Score one to Lizzie Best’s Play Trey Initiative.

  Chapter 14

  ‘OK, folks, you’re all set.’ Chad, Wilderness Kayaks owner and apparently sole operator, placed the cooler packed with freeze-dried rations, beverages and ‘other essentials’ into the hatch in the kayak’s bow and sealed it. ‘Step in and I’ll give you a boost.’

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ Luke stepped into the fibreglass boat’s front cockpit, sat down to extend his legs under the hull and then leaned back to catch the paddle Chad chucked him. All in one fluid movement, with barely a wobble.

  The man could have been born in a bloody kayak. Even in the chunky life vest—or personal flotation device, as Chad had called it—Luke looked cool and competent and mouth-wateringly sexy.

  Whose stupid idea was that kiss again?

  Nine days into their ‘extreme bonding activities’ and Halle had come to regret that errant lip lock more and more, the odd hormone bump having morphed into an increasingly severe case of can’t-take-my-eyes-off-you syndrome.

  Their companionable chat at the waterfall hadn’t helped. There was only so much distraction smutty novels, work commitments and scenic walks to the reception to phone or email her children could provide when she was sharing a cabin with a man she was actually conversing with again.

  But much more frustrating was the wealth of stuff that remained unsaid. Stuff she had become increasingly aware Luke was determined would remain unsaid. His lightning-fast reflexes to deflect the conversation elsewhere every time they strayed anywhere near the topic of their past were something to behold.

  If she hadn’t had complete faith in his journalist abilities, she certainly did now.

  Unfortunately, her growing sexual awareness of him was not helping her to handle the gargantuan task of trying to circumvent his avoidance techniques. Which appeared to be even more well honed than they had been twenty years ago.

  The only good news so far was that the hot tub remained out of bounds for both of them.

&n
bsp; Not so good was the fact that Monroe’s programme kept them bonded together like superglue during the day. They’d gone on two more hikes, luckily not to secluded waterfalls, done a two-hour horse ride—which her bottom had only just recovered from—and a geocaching trip the day before, during which they’d resolutely failed to find a single geocache.

  But she’d discovered this morning that the next day of the programme involved a two-day kayak trip. Which meant one night spent at an island campsite on Fontana Lake.

  And while part of her was pleased to have Luke secured in one spot with nowhere to hide, another part of her was very apprehensive about inviting any more intimacy into their situation.

  That and the indisputable fact that she was not a natural-born kayaker.

  Her arms were already chaffing on the PFD and she didn’t like the look of the Tuckasegee River, even though Chad had assured them that this fork of it, leading into Fontana Lake, was only a class two—which was supposed to translate as tame for this time of year. Tame was clearly relative, because the white froth rippling ominously over the rocky riverbed while they’d been driving along the NC288 towards their drop-off site in North Carolina did not look tame to her.

  Still, at least her uneasiness over their latest adventure was distracting her from her uneasiness at spending the night with Luke at a wilderness campsite.

  Because even more unsettling than the spike in sexual awareness had been the building familiarity. Each new day in the cabin brought with it a new reminder of the days they’d once spent together in their cramped council flat in Hackney.

  He still drank his coffee black enough to tar the M4. He still smelled of sandalwood and minty toothpaste after his morning shower. He still only bothered to shave every couple of days, giving him an increasingly rakish look on his off days—the specks of grey in his stubble the only appreciable difference.

  And to add to her apprehension about their night alone together was the fact she would have to do it without the trusty shield of make-up.

  She’d never been high maintenance as a teenager, but an intricate personal grooming regime had become part of her daily routine in the years since. Not only did she not want to risk going out in London without her concealer and eyeliner and end up in some blurred snapshot in Heat magazine looking like a bag lady, the careful application of moisturiser and foundation, expensive powders and gels made her feel secure, protected, like a knight donning her armour ready to do battle with the demons of daytime TV.