Jessica Gilmore - Happily Ever After...

Clara’s eyes locked onto the photo that sat on her otherwise clutter-free desk and the anger left just as suddenly as it had arrived. Dark hair, dark eyes, just like her father. Clara’s feelings didn’t matter here; Byron’s behaviour didn’t either. Summer was the one who counted and this was the first communication she had had from her daughter’s father in years. He wanted to meet. Maybe he wanted to be involved.

Or maybe not. But she had to try. If only she didn’t have to do it all alone. Of course her parents would come with her if she asked, but she didn’t trust them not to threaten to castrate Byron with the butter knife—or actually do it. Not that he didn’t deserve it but it wasn’t quite the reconciliation she was hoping for.

Her parents were amazing. Supportive and loving and endlessly giving with their time. Clara couldn’t have managed without them. But every now and then she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be part of a couple, to have a co-parent. Someone who was there all the time to laugh with at the funny bits, to burst with pride at all the amazing things only a parent could truly understand. To help when things got a little bumpy.

It wasn’t that she minded being both mother and father to her daughter, she just wished for Summer’s sake that she didn’t have to be.

Clara scrolled back to the top of the email and reread it intently. If it were just going to be Byron, then meeting him alone would have been difficult, probably emotional, but eminently doable. His father’s presence changed everything. He was a hard, harsh man. Clara sagged. She tried so hard to be strong but she really didn’t want to do this alone.

‘Here, drink this.’ A coffee slid across the desk, rich and dark. ‘You look like you’ve had a shock.’

Clara reached out for the white mug, absurdly touched by the gesture. ‘Thanks,’ she said, blinking rapidly. No, don’t you dare cry, she told herself fiercely.

‘I make a good listener, you know.’ He was back leaning against her desk, cradling a mug of his own, concern in his eyes. ‘Besides, you know a lot of my family secrets.’

Clara opened her mouth, a polite rebuff on the tip of her tongue, but closed it as a thought hit her.

Maybe she didn’t have to be alone after all?

The memory of his earlier offer hung there tempting, intoxicating. He owed her a favour. Anything she wanted. What if she didn’t have to face Byron and his father alone?

‘I’ll do it.’ The words were sudden, abrupt, loud in the quiet office. ‘If you guarantee me double time in office hours, treble at evenings and weekends, the bonus at the end of the six weeks and...’ she swallowed but forced herself to look up, to meet his eyes ‘...and you will accompany me to one meeting. Agreed?’

It was Raff’s turn to pause, the blue eyes regarding her quizzically, probing beneath her armour. ‘Agreed,’ he said finally.

Clara exhaled the breath she didn’t even know she was holding. ‘It’s a deal.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday.’

His hand reached out to take hers, folding over it in a gesture that was far more like a caress than a handshake. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at noon.’

‘But...’ Clara tried to withdraw her hand but it was held fast in his cool grip ‘...I thought you needed a date to meet your grandfather on Sunday.’

He smiled, the devilry back in his eyes. ‘I do, but we need to get to know each other first. You and I are going on a date.’

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS BECOMING an annoying habit, somehow agreeing to the outrageous when she meant to refuse.

She’d felt sorry for him, fool that she was. She’d been lured in by a weary expression, candour and charm. A moment of personal weakness.

And yet there was a certain excitement about getting dressed up, about going somewhere other than The Swan. About going out with an undeniably attractive man.

Even if it wasn’t a real date.

It was probably a good thing she had said yes. It was so long since she had been on any kind of date she was bound to be a little rusty, a little awkward. This was an opportunity to practise without any pesky expectations hanging over her.

And that was all this fizz in her veins was. It certainly had nothing to do with Raff Rafferty. It was about a pretty dress, a chance to wear her hair down, to put on a lipstick a little darker, a little redder than she wore for work. A chance for heels.

No, Clara decided, eying herself critically in the mirror, she didn’t look too shabby. The vintage-style green tea dress was flattering and demure teamed with black patent Mary Janes and her hair was behaving for once, falling in a soft wave onto her shoulders.

She glanced at her watch. Five minutes. She wanted to be downstairs, sitting at her desk, working when he arrived. She might be all dressed up but this was work. Letting him upstairs, into her private space, was a step far too far.

And there could be no blurred lines.

She took a long look around the small, cosy sitting room. It wasn’t the grandest of homes, the fanciest. But it was hers, hers and Summer’s. Her sanctuary.

She’d bought it, paid for it, chosen the wallpaper, decorated it. Okay, there was a patch where it wasn’t perfectly lined up but it was hers.

Raff would dominate the room, suck all the air out of the space.

Make it unsafe.

The urge to sink onto the overstuffed velvet sofa was almost overwhelming. To play hooky from work, from responsibilities, from this devil’s pact. She could curl up with a large bar of chocolate and a Cary Grant film, block out the world for a few blissful hours. She pulled her phone out of her bag—one call and this whole crazy arrangement would be over before it had even begun.

Just one click. So easy.

Her finger moved to the contact list icon and hovered there.

Brrriiiing! The doorbell’s loud chime echoed through the room, making her jump.

Panic caught in her throat, making breathing difficult for one long second. Clara put her hand to her stomach and took a deep breath, purposefully clearing her mind, filling her lungs, allowing herself a moment to calm.

This isn’t real, she told herself. This is work. This is my business. I’m happy to clean loos, I’ll stock shelves, I even pick up dog dirt. I should be looking forward to a few weeks of socialising instead. Any of my staff would kill to swap with me.

She could do this.

But a part of her would much rather be scrubbing a room out from top to bottom, picture rail to skirting boards, than spend any more time alone with Raff Rafferty.

And the other part of her was looking forward to it just a little bit too much.

* * *

‘Relax, this is supposed to be fun.’ Raff threw an amused look over at his passenger. Clara sat up ramrod straight, clutching the seat as if it were her last hope. ‘I’m a safe driver.’

‘In a very old car.’

‘She’s not old, she’s vintage.’ He patted the steering wheel appreciatively. ‘These Porsche 911s were the It Car in their day.’

‘In the middle of the last century.’

‘She’s not quite that old. This is a seventies’ design classic.’ It was the only car Raff had ever owned. She might be red, convertible and need a lot of loving maintenance but she was a link to his father, the only link he had.

‘The seventies,’ Clara scoffed. ‘The decade that taste forgot.’

Raff grinned. ‘Sit back, Clara. Enjoy it—the wind in your hair—if you’d let me put the top down that is, the green of the countryside flashing by. What’s not to love?’

Clara was twisting the silver bangle she was wearing round and round. ‘A date, you said. I thought you meant a drink in The Swan or, if you wanted to go crazy, a meal at Le Maison Bleu. This isn’t a date. This is kidnap.’