Nicola Marsh - His Little Miracle - The Billionaire's Baby

Cringing as she steadied herself to burst his bubble of hope, as she’d called for another reason than what he wished for, she rushed on. ‘Actually, I need your help. I’ve got a refrigerator hinge that needs fixing, and it’s pretty urgent. I gave it a shot myself but couldn’t manage it, so I was wondering if you could pop around tonight and take a look for me?’

The sound of a circular saw whined in the background, closely followed by a loud hammering that had her holding the phone an inch away from her ear.

‘Sure. Let me finish up here and I’ll be around in about two hours.’

To give him credit, he didn’t sound disappointed or annoyed. She should have been relieved. Instead, a small part of her was insulted he didn’t push her for an explanation as to why she hadn’t called or when she finally did it was to ask him for his building expertise.

Injecting false cheer into her voice, she said, ‘Great. I really appreciate it.’

‘No worries, see you later.’

He hung up first, leaving her staring at the phone in confusion.

By his own admission he wanted them to get reacquainted. He’d said it, blunt as you like, the other night. So why wasn’t he bothered she hadn’t called?

Shaking her head, she replaced the cordless phone in its charger and crumpled the card in her hand. Considering almost a week had lapsed since their infamous chat, he’d clearly got the message she wasn’t interested in resurrecting the past.

Great.

Or was it?

Blane slid his mobile back into his top pocket, rubbed his palms down the side of his jeans, and perched on the tailgate of his ute.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he muttered, his words whipped away by the blustery gale blowing straight off the ocean, the wind effectively drowning out Mike’s staple gun as it hammered nails into the fence.

She’d called.

After six days, during which time he’d mentally kicked himself for being a jackass and leaving the ball in her court, she’d finally picked up the phone.

Okay, so it wasn’t quite the ‘let’s catch up and have a drink, dinner, whatever’ call he’d been hoping for, but she’d called nonetheless.

A busted fridge hinge could be fixed by anybody, but she’d rung him, which could mean one of two things: she wanted to see him again and was using the fix-it as a flimsy excuse, or she couldn’t be bothered paying some guy out of the phone book a small fortune for such a quick job and was using their shared past to get what she wanted: a fixed fridge.

Shaking his head, he inhaled deeply, hoping a good lungful of bracing sea air might give him the clarity he’d so desperately sought since he’d first laid eyes on Cam again.

Refreshing as it was, the tang of salty sea air didn’t help as memories of the way she’d looked and smiled and sounded assailed him.

Memories of those incredibly tight black jeans moulding her long legs to perfection, those sexy knee-high boots, her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders when she’d let it out, the same rich colour as the chocolate fountain on the bar of her café.

She’d changed so much, the young, shy girl maturing into a confident, stunning woman. If she’d captivated him six years ago, it had nothing on the need coursing through him now, the need to reconcile with his wife.

His wife…the word rolled around and around in his brain, sweet and tempting and oh-so-right, exactly like Cam herself.

She’d been his driving force all these years, the thought of coming back to her with so much more to offer making him work longer, harder and faster than his competitors.

Reuniting with the only woman in the world for him had been a powerful motivator, and now that he’d finally seen her…well, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Cam could stall and bluster and pretend she was immune to him all she liked, but he knew better.

He’d seen the old spark in her eyes, the tenderness when she’d swayed towards him, the flare of desire when he’d touched her.

He hadn’t sugar-coated why he’d left, and while she probably hadn’t accepted it yet, she’d come around.

In the meantime he had every intention of giving her all the encouragement in the world to see exactly how perfect they could be together. All over again.

And if she needed concrete proof…Glancing at the house, he hopped off the ute, refastened his tool belt and sauntered back to work, whistling ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, their song, under his breath with a smile on his face and hope in his heart.

Camryn paced the length of the bar, her high-heeled boots rapping against the polished boards, echoing in the silence.

She’d flicked on the music, her favourite swing singer, only to switch it off again in a mild panic when their song had come on, as Blane might see it as a sign she wanted to create a cosy atmosphere or, worse, take it as an indication she’d changed her mind.

She’d retied her hair into its signature French braid, blown out all the tea-light candles, switched on the bright fluorescent strip hanging over the bar, and removed all traces of the essential oil she’d been burning since closing, all in an attempt to ‘de-cosy’ the place.

The last thing she needed was him getting the wrong idea.

Which was?

An image instantly sprang to mind of the two of them sitting in the plush lounge area of the café situated towards the back, curled up on one of the comfy sofas, sharing a steaming moccaccino, or maybe one of the fine Merlots she kept out the back, with the lamps muted and the luscious aromas of cinnamon and vanilla in the air from the essential oils she used to complement the baking.

Oh, yeah, she could see it all too clearly, and unfortunately her vision of the wrong idea appeared way too right.

Casting one last critical look around—and satisfied she’d obliterated any semblance of romantic ambience—she fiddled with the espresso machine, going through the soothing motions of pouring milk into a stainless-steel jug, sliding it under the frother, filling the scoop with coffee, using the tamper, checking the water level.

The familiar actions calmed her, giving her something to do with her hands rather than tug on her plait till it unravelled.

She had nothing to be nervous about. Absolutely nothing. This was business. Nothing to do with pleasure at all.

With a groan, her head fell forward and thunked against the espresso machine. It was the thought combination of Blane and pleasure that did it.

Of course, he had to find her like this, with her head slumped against the machine, his rapid knock snapping her head to attention in time to see his face creased with concern as he peered through the glass door with hands cupped against it.

Giving her head a rueful rub, she crossed to the door and unlocked it, beckoning him in.

‘You okay?’

She ushered him in before relocking the door. ‘Yeah, fine. I was just inventing a new way to check the coffee-ground levels.’

He smiled, his dubious expression saying he didn’t believe her for a second. But what could she tell him? The mere thought of seeing him had her in a spin, wishing she could clunk her head against a hard surface repeatedly to knock some sense into herself?

‘How have you been?’

He propped against the bar, giving her a tempting view of a broad expanse of muscular chest beneath faded sky-blue cotton, not to mention a healthy set of biceps. Just what she needed, a great set of biceps…to fix the fridge, of course.

Clearing her throat, she said, ‘It’s been flat out here. I haven’t had a moment’s peace.’

His right eyebrow rose a fraction, as if questioning her rather pathetic excuse for not calling him. ‘Yeah, work gets like that sometimes.’

Didn’t anything ever rattle him? She’d expected him to call her on her excuse, not agree with her!