Liz Fielding - The Bride's Baby

‘That’s what you’d choose?’

‘Quick, simple. Sounds good to me.’ Then, because his expression was rather too thoughtful, ‘That’s classified information, by the way.’

‘Of course. I realise how bad it would be for business if it got out that the number one wedding planner hated weddings.’

‘I didn’t say that!’

‘Didn’t you? Or are you saying that it’s only your own wedding that you can’t handle?’

‘I can handle it!’ Of course she could handle it. If she wasn’t here. If he wasn’t here. ‘It’s just that it’s all been a bit of a rush. I can’t seem to get a hold of it. Find my theme.’

‘Why don’t you wait until after the baby arrives? Isn’t that what most celebrities do these days?’

‘I’m not a celebrity,’ she snapped. ‘And the Wedding Fayre is this weekend.’

‘There’ll be other fayres.’

‘People are relying on me, Tom, and when I make a commitment, I deliver. It’s a done deal.’

‘So you’re going through this hoopla just for the sake of a donation to charity?’

‘It’s a really big donation, Tom. We’ll be able to do so much with the money. And I really do want to help local businesses.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Isn’t it enough?’

‘I thought we’d already agreed that it wasn’t, but who am I to judge?’ He sounded angry, which was really stupid. Her fault for making such a fuss, but before she could say so, apologise, he said, ‘Fish and chips?’

‘Out of the paper. Or sausage and mash. Something easy that you can eat with friends around the kitchen table.’

‘Well, it certainly beats anything I’ve seen in here,’ he agreed, tossing the menu brochure back on the pile of stuff she’d gathered during the afternoon. ‘I didn’t know there were so many ways of serving salmon.’

She groaned. ‘I loathe salmon. It’s just so…so…’

‘Pink?’ he offered, breaking the tension, and they both grinned.

‘That’s the word.’ Then, ‘Come on.’ She stood up, began to gather the plates. ‘Let’s clear this away and then we’ll go and take a look at the attics.’

‘Forget the attics. Go and sit down. I’ll bring you some coffee.’

She leaned back a little, pushed back a heavy strand of hair that had escaped the chiffon scarf and tucked it behind her ear. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You’ve been running around all day. You need to put your feet up. Rest.’

‘Well, thanks for that, Tom. You’ve just made me feel about as attractive as a-’

‘You look wonderful,’ he said. ‘In fact, you could be a poster girl for all those adjectives that people use when they describe pregnant women.’

‘That would be fat.’

‘Blooming.’

‘Just another word for fat.’

‘Glowing,’ he said, putting his hands on the table and leaning forward. ‘Apart from the dark smudges under your eyes that suggest you’re not getting enough sleep.’

‘Tired and fat. Could it be any worse?’

‘Well,’ he said, appearing to consider her question, ‘maybe you’re a little thinner about the face.’

About to protest, she caught the gleam in his eye and realised that he was teasing.

‘Tired, fat and gaunt. Got it,’ she said, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. Teasing! Who would have thought it? ‘You haven’t mentioned the swollen ankles.’

‘Your ankles are not swollen,’ he said with the conviction of a man who paid close attention. Then, as if aware that he’d over-stepped some unspoken boundary, ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure a skilled photographer will be able to produce pictures that won’t give the game away.’

She groaned. ‘The photographer. I forgot to call the photographer. It’s true what they say. My brain is turning to Swiss cheese…’

‘All the more reason for you to go and put your feet up now. The drawing room has been surrendered to your Wedding Fayre, but there’s a fire in the library.’

‘Mr Kennedy lit a fire? What bliss.’

‘I lit a fire when I was working in there this afternoon. Go and enjoy it.’

‘I will. Thank you.’ That was the thing about living on your own. No one ever told you to put your feet up or brought you a cup of coffee. For a moment she couldn’t think of anything to say. Then the word ‘coffee’ filtered through and she said, ‘Not coffee. Tea. Camomile and honey. You’ll find the tea bags-’

He closed the gap between them and kissed her, and she forgot all about tea bags.

It was a barely-there kiss.

A stop talking kiss.

The kind of kiss she could lean into and take anywhere she wanted and she knew just how right it would be because they’d done that before. But how wrong too. She wanted him just as much-more, because this time it would be her decision, one made with her heart, her head. Not just a response to that instinct to mate in times of stress that had overwhelmed them both.

But she wanted Tom involved with his baby. That was the important relationship here. Her desires were unimportant.

Maybe he understood that too, because he was the one who leaned back. Left a cold place where, for just a moment, it had been all warmth.

‘-somewhere,’ she finished, somehow managing to make that sound as if nothing had intervened between the first part of the sentence and its conclusion. Then, because keeping up that kind of pretence was never going to be possible, she quickly scooped up her laptop and the brochures and walked away.

Not that it helped. She could still feel his lips clinging to hers. Still feel the tingle of that kiss all the way to her toes.

F ORa whole minute Tom didn’t move. Taking the time to regain control over his breathing, over parts of him that seemed to have a will of their own.

His heart, mainly.

For a moment there he’d been certain that Sylvie was going to kiss him back. Reach up, put her hands to his cheeks and hold him while she kissed him and he climbed over the table to get at her, show her everything he was feeling.

But this time she didn’t lose it. Attuned to her in some way he didn’t begin to understand, he’d sensed an almost imperceptible hesitation and he’d put a stop to it before he embarrassed himself, or her.

In fact common sense suggested that the most sensible thing he could do right now was walk out of the back door, climb into his car and head for the safety of London.

But he’d run before. There was no help for him in distance and Sylvie was locked into another relationship. She’d said it plainly enough. She’d made a commitment and she always delivered on her word.

No matter what she was feeling deep down, and he knew she had felt the same dark stirring of desire that had moved him, she wouldn’t lose her head again.

As for him, the need to face himself in the mirror every morning would keep him from doing anything he’d regret. Hurting her any more than he already had.

He dragged both hands through his hair, flattening it to his head, staring at the ceiling as he let out a long, slow breath.

He’d lived without love so long that he could barely remember what it felt like, could only remember the fallout, the pain. It was an alien concept, something he could not begin to understand. And spending a lifetime watching from the sidelines as friends and acquaintances fell apart and put themselves back together again offered few clues. He had always kept his distance until, finally, he’d arranged what had seemed like the perfect marriage to the perfect trophy wife. A woman who’d neither given nor wanted deep emotional commitment.

Just the perfect trophy husband.

Then he’d come face to face with Sylvie Duchamp Smith and, from that moment on, his perfect marriage had hung like a millstone round his neck. But, like Sylvie, he’d made a commitment and, like her, he always delivered on his promises.