Caroline Anderson - The Baby Swap Miracle

Dangerously, terrifyingly easy, and he wasn’t going there again. Even if she would have had him.

So he lay there, tormented by the muffled sobs coming from her bedroom, wanting to go to her and yet knowing he couldn’t because she wasn’t crying for him, she was crying for James, and there was nothing he could do about that. And when finally the sobs died away, he turned onto his side, punched the pillow into shape and closed his eyes.

She must have slept.

Overslept, she realised as she struggled free of the sumptuous embrace of the bedding and sat up.

Sun was pouring through a chink in the curtains, and she slipped out of bed and padded over, parting them and looking out onto an absolutely glorious day. Everything was bathed in the warm and gentle sunshine of spring, and in the distance, past the once-formal knot garden on the terrace below with its straggling, overgrown little hedges, and past the sweeping lawn beyond, she could see gently rolling fields bordered by ancient hedgerows, and here and there a little stand of trees huddled together on a rise.

It was beautiful, in a rather run-down and delightfully bucolic way, and she wanted to explore it. Especially the walled garden over to her right, which drew her eyes now and lured her with the promise of long-forgotten gems hidden by years of neglect.

However it wasn’t hers to explore and she reminded herself she had other priorities, as if she needed reminding. She had nowhere to live, no clear idea of her future, and that had to come first. That, and food.

She was starving, her stomach rumbling, her body in mutiny after yesterday’s miserable diet of junk food and caffeine, and she bit her lip and wondered where Sam was and how she could find him, and if not, if it would be too rude to raid his fridge and find herself something to eat.

Clothes first, she told herself, and went into the bathroom, tapping on the door just in case. It was empty, but the bathmat was damp, and she realised she must have slept through his shower. She had no idea what the time was, but her stomach told her it was late, so she showered in record time, looked in her suitcase for a pretty jumper and some clean jeans with a really sexy stretch panel in the front to accommodate the baby—just the thing for reminding her of all the good reasons why it didn’t matter what she looked like—and then in a moment of self-preservation she dabbed concealer under her eyes, added a quick swipe of mascara and lip gloss and made her way down to the kitchen.

Daisy was there, thumping her tail against the cupboard doors in greeting, and as she straightened up from patting the dog she saw Sam lounging against the front of the range with a mug cradled in his large, capable hands.

His rather grubby hands, to go with the worn, sexy jeans and the battered rugby shirt. He looked light years from the suave and sophisticated man of yesterday—and even more attractive. He smiled at her, and her heart gave a little lurch of recognition.

‘Hi. How did you sleep?’ he asked, his voice a little gruff.

‘Well. Amazingly well. The bedding’s blissful.’ ‘It is good, isn’t it? I can’t stand rubbish bedding. Hungry?’

‘Mmm. Have you got anything healthy?’ His mouth twitched. ‘Such as?’ She shrugged. ‘Anything. Yesterday I had chocolate, cheese and caffeine!’

‘So—does healthy rule out local free-range eggs?’ ‘How local?’

‘Mine.’ Her eyes widened, and Sam laughed at her. ‘Everyone around here has chickens.’

‘There is no one round here,’ she pointed out, but he shook his head.

‘There are lots, and it’s only a mile or two to the village. I’ve got local home-cured bacon from pigs that grub around in the woods, sausages ditto, mushrooms, tomatoes—’

‘Whoa!’ she said, laughing now, and he felt his gut clench. ‘I said healthy!’

‘It is. The bread’s local, too, so’s the butter.’

‘You’re going to tell me next that you grow the coffee, and I’ll know you’re lying.’

He felt his mouth tilt into a grin. ‘The coffee’s Colombian. So—are you up for it? Frankly, as it’s three hours since I had breakfast, I’d happily join you and we can call it brunch, if it helps.’

She gave in. He watched it happen, saw the brief internal tussle and the moment she surrendered, her body relaxing as the fight went out of her and a smile bloomed on her lips, making his body clench.

‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’

Not nearly as lovely as you, he thought, his eyes feasting on her as she stooped again to talk to Daisy. Her hair, the colour of toffee, swung down across her face, and when she hooked it back behind her ear he could see that smile again.

God, she was gorgeous, and he had no business eyeing up a pregnant woman he’d given sanctuary to! Especially not one he was locked in a complicated relationship with for the next twenty-odd years. And anyway, she was still grieving, he reminded himself firmly. Definitely out of bounds.

He scrubbed the grease and dirt from the lawnmower off his hands, pulled out the frying pan, stuck it on the hot plate and started cooking.

‘Thank you. That was amazing.’

‘Good. You looked as if you needed it. And there were vegetables.’

‘Yeah—fried.’

‘Barely, in olive oil. And fats carry vitamins.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ she said teasingly, and he wondered if he could be arrested for his thoughts, because her smile was having a distinctly unplatonic effect on him. And that was a disaster, because he didn’t do this. Didn’t get involved with nice women. Any women. Especially ones who were carrying his child.

These days he only engaged in the kind of relationship where everyone knew the rules, where there were no expectations or hurt feelings.

No broken hearts, his or anyone else’s.

Been there, done that, he reminded himself, as if he needed reminding.

‘More coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’

He shoved the chair back and walked over to the stove, and Emelia watched him thoughtfully. Something had happened—some kind of sizzly, magnetic thing that left her feeling breathless and light-headed.

Hormones, she told herself sternly, and hauled her eyes off his jeans.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine,’ she answered, a little on the drag and sounding just as breathless as she felt. She cleared her throat silently and sighed as she realised she was staring at his shoulders now—those broad, solid shoulders that would feel so good to lean on—

No! No, no, no! He was being kind to her, it didn’t mean anything, and she had to keep this relationship firmly on track, because if he wanted to keep in touch with his child—and for its sake she desperately hoped he would—she’d be stuck with him for the next however many years.

‘Sam, I need to make some decisions,’ she said firmly, and he glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘About?’

‘Where I go next.’

He sat down again, mug in hand, and searched her eyes, his own expressionless. ‘There’s no hurry.’

‘Well, there is. I have to get settled somewhere and register with a doctor and a maternity unit for my antenatal care, and I need to find a house, and a job.’

‘Any ideas?’

She gave a brittle little laugh and wished she had. ‘Not one—but I can’t stay here indefinitely. I ought to make a few phone calls. My mother, for one—not that I can stay with her. She lives in Cheshire, in a tiny little cottage with my stepfather who wouldn’t take kindly to me rocking up with a baby on the horizon and shattering their peaceful existence. And anyway, I’m too old to go and live with my mother.’

Sam frowned slightly, his brow pleating as he studied the grain on the table top, tracing it with his finger. ‘Don’t rush into anything, Emelia. You can stay here as long as you need to. There are lots of things to consider, and maybe we should consider them together, under the circumstances.’