Neurosurgeon . . . and Mum!. Kate Hardy

before heading back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was halfway through a cup of tea, a sandwich and the cryptic crossword in the newspaper she’d bought on impulse that morning when the front door opened.

      Buster gave a sharp bark to warn her that someone was there, and then a warmer, more welcoming woof, and skidded up the hallway to greet the person who’d just walked in.

      ‘Hey, Buster. Go find your Frisbee and we’ll have ten minutes in the garden.’

      This must be Tom, the locum, Amy thought. He had a nice voice, deep and calm with the slightest trace of a London accent.

      Just as she registered it, he walked into the kitchen. ‘Hello. You must be Amy. I’m Tom Ashby.’

      He was in his early thirties, she’d guess, around her own age; he had a shock of dark wavy hair that he’d brushed back from his forehead, very fair skin, and hazel eyes hidden behind wire-framed glasses. His smile was polite enough, but there was a seriousness to him and an intensity that made her wonder what he’d look like if he let himself relax and laughed. Whether his mouth would soften into a sexy grin and his eyes would crinkle at the corners.

      Not that it was any of her business. She already knew that Tom was unavailable; in any case, relationships weren’t her thing. Since the wreckage of her engagement to Colin, ten years before, she’d kept all dates light and very, very casual; she was just fine and dandy on her own.

      ‘Hello.’ Amy shook Tom’s proffered hand. ‘Cassie left me a note. She said you’d introduce yourself and Perdy at some point.’

      ‘Perdy’s at school.’

      So Tom’s wife was a teacher. ‘I see,’ Amy said, giving him a polite smile and hoping that by the time Perdy came home she’d have managed to find a stock of small talk.

      

      Amy Rivers was nothing like Tom had imagined. For a start, she was gorgeous. Too thin, and there was a pallor in her face to go with the bagginess in her clothes that told him she hadn’t been looking after herself properly, but she was still beautiful. Her sea-green eyes reminded him of Joe’s; her dark hair was cut very short and yet managed to be feminine rather than making her look aggressive or butch. Her mouth was a perfect rosebud; it made him want to reach out and trace her lower lip with the tip of his finger.

      Not that he was going to give in to the impulse.

      Apart from the fact that Amy Rivers could already be involved with someone and wouldn’t welcome his advances, there was Perdy to consider. She’d had enough upheaval in her life, and the last year had been seriously rough. She really didn’t need her father forgetting himself and behaving like a teenager. So Tom knew he had to treat Amy just as if she were another colleague, even though they didn’t actually work together. Polite enough to avoid any friction, but distant enough not to get involved. Keep everything to small talk.

      ‘How was your journey?’ he asked politely.

      ‘Fine, thanks. I got stuck behind a tractor three miles out of town, but that’s par for the course around here at this time of year.’ She indicated her mug. ‘The kettle’s hot. Can I get you a coffee or something?’

      ‘That’d be nice. Thanks.’

      ‘How do you like it?’

      ‘Just milk, no sugar, please.’

      She switched the kettle on and shook instant coffee into a mug. ‘So Buster’s suckered you into playing Frisbee with him. Have you taught him to drop it yet?’

      ‘I wish. He normally leaves it under the trees at the bottom of the garden and waits for me to fetch it.’

      ‘You’d never believe his pedigree’s full of field trial champions, would you?’ Amy finished making the coffee and handed the mug to Tom.

      His fingers brushed against hers and desire zinged down his spine.

      Not good. It was the first time he’d felt that pull of attraction since Eloise. Given how badly that had ended, he wasn’t prepared to take a second risk—even if Amy Rivers turned out to be single.

      ‘Cassie says you’re staying for a while,’ he said, deliberately putting the whole length of the table between them. Not that it stopped him noticing her face was heart shaped. Or how fine her fingers were, wrapped around her mug of tea. No ring on her left hand: not that that meant anything nowadays. You didn’t have to be married to be committed. But she had beautiful hands. Delicate hands. An artist’s hands, maybe? Neither Cassie nor Joe had told him much about Amy. Just that she was their niece, she lived in London, and she was taking some time out from her job. Cassie had looked worried, which implied that there was a problem with Amy’s job, but Tom hadn’t pressed for details; it wasn’t his place to ask.

      ‘Don’t worry, I won’t get in your way,’ she said, her face shuttering.

      And now he’d put her back up. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to suggest that you would. There’s plenty of room for all of us. I was just thinking, maybe we could all eat together. It seems a bit pointless, cooking separately. But that doesn’t mean I expect you to do all the cooking,’ he added hastily. ‘Maybe we can share the chores.’

      ‘Sure.’ She still looked slightly wary: a look he’d seen all too often on his daughter’s face. Meaning that she wanted space.

      ‘Look, I’ll go and wear Buster out a bit, then I’ve got a couple of house calls to make,’ he said.

      ‘You’re not stopping for lunch?’

      ‘I’ll get something later.’

      She bit her lip. ‘Look, I meant it about not getting in your way. And don’t feel you’re obliged to entertain me or anything.’

      ‘Ditto,’ he said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, we’re sharing the house and looking after the dog for Joe and Cassie. And we’re sharing chores because it makes sense. It’s more efficient.’

      She was silent for a moment, and then she nodded. ‘Agreed. Well, I ought to stop lazing around and unpack. I’ll catch you later.’

      ‘What about your sandwich?’ he asked. She’d eaten less than half of it, he noticed.

      ‘Did Cassie ask you to watch my eating?’ Amy asked.

      He felt himself flush. ‘No. Just that I didn’t want you to feel I was pushing you out of the kitchen before you’d finished.’ Was that what the problem was? Amy had some kind of eating disorder and it had caused her to have a breakdown at work? In which case she must have interpreted his suggestion of eating together as pushing her, too. This was going to be a minefield.

      To his surprise, she smiled. ‘Thank you. And, no, I don’t have any kind of eating disorder.’

      He groaned. ‘Did I say that out loud? I apologise.’

      ‘No, you just have an expressive face,’ Amy said dryly. ‘I admit, I haven’t been eating properly lately, because I’ve been busy at work and when you’re under pressure and rushed for time it’s easier to grab fast food. That, or wait until you get home and it’s so late that you’re too tired to bother with more than a bit of toast. But you don’t have to worry that you’ll starve when it’s my turn to make dinner. Cassie taught me to cook.’

      Why hadn’t Amy’s mother taught her? Tom wondered.

      Or maybe Amy’s mother was the kind of mother that his wife had been. Distant. Feeling trapped. Wanting to do her own thing and wishing that she’d never got married and had a child to hold her back.

      ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be prying,’ he said. And he certainly didn’t want to answer any questions about his own past. ‘How about I cook for us tonight?’

      ‘You’ve been at work.’

      He shrugged. ‘And you’ve had a long drive, which I’d say is more tiring—especially as I know there are roadworks on the motorway