Bound By Their Babies: Bound by Their Babies. Caroline Anderson

she asked victoriously, lifting her hand and touching a finger to the outer corner of his eye. She lifted it to her lips, flicking her tongue out to taste it, and he stifled a groan. ‘Tears, Stratton! Actual, real tears! So don’t you go giving me grief!’

      She was just there, mere inches away, hands on her hips and laughing at him while her eyes still sparkled with her own tears, and the urge to lean in and kiss that sassy smile off her face nearly finished him.

      But not quite.

      He took her by the shoulders, eased her away from him and stood up, sending a shower of popcorn crumbs onto the carpet. ‘Right, enough nonsense, it’s time for bed,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ve got a long day tomorrow, and we need to rehearse our interview technique in the evening.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yeah, really. Come on. Bedtime.’

      He reached out a hand and hauled her to her feet, then just because he couldn’t help himself he reeled her in and hugged her.

      Just briefly, just enough to mess with his dreams, but they were probably going to be X-rated anyway after that wrestling match over the popcorn. Dammit. He let her go, screwed up the empty bag and picked up the mugs as she headed for the stairs.

      ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said, and flicked off the light and went into the kitchen for a quiet moment alone to gather his ragged composure and have a stern word with his heart, because the tears she’d seen in his eyes had had nothing to do with the film and everything to do with his feelings for a woman he couldn’t allow himself to love.

      Not if this job share was going to stand the slightest chance of working.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      THEY SPENT WEDNESDAY evening interviewing each other, thinking up all the horrible questions they could be asked and trying to answer them coherently.

      How would they divide their time? What if it didn’t work? How about sick leave, holidays—would they cover for each other on an overtime basis? Did they have an agreement to share the tasks equally and equitably? What if one of them wanted out? Medical questions, too, because Nick Jarvis, the husband of Liv who’d delivered Zach, had been grilled by Ben when he’d come back to work here the year before and he’d warned them not to expect Ben to play nice.

      ‘Enough!’ she said, jumping to her feet and clutching her hair when midnight was looming and her head was ready to explode. ‘If we don’t stop talking about this, I’m going to be awake all night and I won’t be able to string two words together. It’s bad enough that I’m going to look like a bag lady.’

      He started to laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Why will you look like a bag lady?’

      ‘Why? Because none of my decent clothes fit me properly now—and I can’t even remember when I last wore a skirt.’

      ‘So wear trousers.’

      ‘I can’t get into them either, they won’t do up because I’ve changed shape and put on weight. The only thing I can get into is a stretchy pencil skirt I had when I was first pregnant, and a jacket that won’t quite meet. And frankly, Jake, that’s not adequate!’

      He laughed again, but his eyes were tender and made her feel strange. ‘Em, you’re gorgeous. You couldn’t look like a bag lady if you tried—’

      ‘Don’t patronise me! I don’t look gorgeous, and I certainly don’t look professional. At the outside I’ll get by.’

      ‘Hey, you’ll be fine,’ he assured her, serious now. ‘They want to talk to you about the job, not check out your dress sense.’

      She growled under her breath. ‘It’s not about them, it’s about me. I need to feel professional and well presented to give me confidence, and I’ve worn nothing but stretchy skinny jeans and baggy tops covered in baby goo for the last nine months!’

      ‘Oh, Em.’ He laughed softly, and getting to his feet, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her hard. His chest was broad and solid, and the scent of his skin drifted over her, warm and familiar and oddly disturbing.

      ‘You’ll be great,’ he murmured, his low voice rumbling in his chest beneath her ear and adding to the disturbing sensations. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine, you’ll wow them. Now go to bed. I’ll wake you in the morning so you’ve got time to get showered before I have to leave, OK?’

      ‘OK.’

      He let her go, the warm, safe embrace broken, and she kissed his cheek and went up to bed, too tired to worry any more. What would be would be, and worrying wasn’t going to make a blind bit of difference.

      * * *

      Jake watched her go, then stared sightlessly out of the window into the night.

      He hoped he’d managed to reassure her, but there was nobody to reassure him, and so much—so much—was hanging on these interviews.

      Tomorrow had the potential to change the entire course of his life. He just hoped it would be for the better—for all of them.

      His mind churning, he tidied up the kitchen, turned out the lights and went upstairs. Her bedroom door was open, the light on, and as he walked past it to check on Matilda he saw her sitting up in bed in those cute pyjamas that made him think of things he had no business thinking about.

      And it didn’t help that she was feeding Zach.

      She patted the mattress beside her, and he went in and perched on the edge of the bed.

      ‘What’s up?’

      ‘I’m just nervous. It will be all right, won’t it?’ she asked, a worried frown puckering her forehead. ‘It has to be.’

      He shrugged. ‘I hope so. We’re well prepared. We can’t do any more than we have.’

      ‘No, I guess not.’

      She eased the sleepy baby off her nipple, and he looked away hastily, his eyes falling instead on a small double picture frame on her bedside table.

      ‘Could you hold him for me, please? I need the bathroom and then I need to change his nappy.’

      ‘Sure.’ He stood up and took Zach from her, his eyes drawn again to the photos under the bedside light as she left the room.

      They were both pictures of Em and Pete, but they were very different. The first had been taken on their wedding day, laughter shining in their eyes; the second looked like a selfie, with her propped up beside him on a bed, Pete holding something on his chest. He peered closer, and the little blur became clear.

      ‘Oh, Em,’ he breathed, emotion clogging his throat. The only image Pete would ever see of his son, his twelve-week scan photo, was resting on his heart. Em must have been taken the selfie on the day of the scan, less than a week before Pete died.

      He stared at it silently, the image blurring. It was so cruel, so unfair. He’d promised Pete on his deathbed that he’d look after Emily and the baby and keep them safe, and he said it again now, his mouth moving silently as Emily came back into the room.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the now sleeping baby from his arms. She put him down on the bed, then turned back to Jake as he stood up and slipped her arms round him and rested her head on his chest with a sigh.

      ‘We will be OK, won’t we, Jake? We can do this, can’t we?’

      He dragged his eyes off the photo and tried to stop thinking about the feel of her body against his. ‘Of course we can, and it’ll all be fine, one way or another. Go on, go to bed, get some sleep.’

      Her arms tightened briefly and then, as if the hug wasn’t enough to finish him off, she tilted her head and touched her lips to his cheek. Her scent curled around him, the soft touch of her skin,