Falling For The Single Dad. Jessica Hart

chair, he put his big, gentle hands on her shoulders and squeezed. ‘Tight as a bowstring,’ he said, tutting, and worked the muscles carefully.

      Bliss. It was absolute bliss. The only thing that could be better would be if they were lying down, and then when he’d massaged her shoulders, he’d run his hands down her back, over her bottom, her legs, then back up, really slowly, teasing, slipping his finger under the elastic of her knickers and running it round, just enough to torment her. Then he’d roll her on her back and start again, kneading—

      ‘Are you OK?’

      Oh, lord, had she really groaned aloud?

      ‘I’m fine. Sorry, bit tight there,’ she flannelled, wondering if she’d get away with it. He paused a moment longer, then his fingers started working again and she let her breath go in a long, silent sigh.

      ‘Better?’

      Was she imagining it, or was his voice a little husky? No. Don’t be silly, she told herself. You’re imagining it.

      ‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, and wondered if her voice was a little off kilter or if she was just imagining that, too. But then she turned to smile her thanks, and met his unguarded eyes.

      Need.

      That was what she saw. Need, and hunger, and reluctance. Well, she knew all about that. All of them, in fact. Just at the moment reluctance was way down her list, but it was still there, smothered by the need and hunger and the unrequited ache that had been there for what seemed like half her lifetime.

      Was half her lifetime.

      Oh, hell.

      She turned back to the desk. ‘I’d better drink my tea,’ she said, a touch unsteadily. ‘It’ll be cold. Thanks for the massage—I’ll be able to put in another couple of hours at the drawing board now.’

      She felt him hesitate, then with a murmured, ‘See you later, then,’ he went out and closed the door softly behind him.

      She sagged against the desk and closed her eyes. Why? Why on earth had he had to come back and torment her like this? And why was it all so incredibly complicated?

      She straightened up, pulled the file towards her and sorted through the pages, considering the next project she had to do for Nick. She couldn’t afford to think about Harry now. She had work to do, to earn her living. And Harry Kavenagh was just a distraction she could do without.

      He shouldn’t have touched her.

      Just the feel of her shoulders, tense under his hands at first, then gradually relaxing, and that little moan—hell, he’d nearly lost it.

      Bit tight? Rubbish. She’d been utterly floppy and she’d only tensed up again after she’d made that needy little noise.

      And her eyes, when she’d turned—wary, longing—he had no idea how he’d got out of there. If she hadn’t turned away when she had, God knows what would have happened.

      He snorted. Well, of course she’d realised that. That was why she’d turned back to her desk, because she’d realised that if she kept looking at him like that, he would have lost it.

      Might still.

      He growled with frustration and checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He’d fed Kizzy at seven-thirty. With any luck he’d got another hour, at least. He tapped on the study door and opened it a crack.

      ‘Are you OK if I go for a walk? Kizzy should be all right for a bit.’

      ‘Sure,’ she said, her voice a little strained. ‘Take your mobile.’

      ‘Done,’ he said, and went out into the blissful evening. It was gorgeous—a light breeze to take away the heat of the day, the sun low in the sky, creeping down to the horizon. He walked to the clifftop and sat watching the sun brush the sky with colour. It was the wrong way round for a sunset, of course, facing east as it did, but sunrise would be glorious.

      If he was up one night, woken by Kizzy, he might bring her here and let her see the dawn.

      He glanced at his watch, surprised at how dark it had become, and realised he’d been longer than he’d meant to be. Still, his phone hadn’t rung, so Kizzy hadn’t woken.

      Unless Em just hadn’t phoned him.

      He jogged back and arrived just as she began to whimper.

      ‘Milk’s in the microwave,’ Em told him, meeting him in the hall.

      ‘Thanks.’ He ran up and lifted the baby into his arms, and she snuggled into him, her little mouth working, feeling the material of his T-shirt and growing impatient.

      ‘Sorry, baby. Do I smell wrong? Never mind. Come on, let’s go and find some milk for you.’

      Em was waiting for him, handing him the bottle and going back into the study and shutting the door. Just as well. A little space would do them both good at the moment.

      He fed the baby, persevering through her fussing until she took the bottle in the end and settled down to suck, then he bathed and changed her and put her to bed.

      Ten. Just in time for the news, he thought, and watched it in silence on the edge of his seat, saw friends of his reporting from places he knew well, read between the lines, guessed the things they weren’t telling or had been ordered not to report.

      Did they miss him? Were they all having to work extra shifts, or were there things not being given coverage because he wasn’t there? Maybe some youngster was getting his first chance. Or hers. There were plenty of women now out there working in the field, covering stories every bit as dangerous as the ones he covered.

      He laughed softly to himself and shook his head. The most dangerous thing he had to do at the moment was dodge one of Kizzy’s special nappies.

      Or Emily. Keeping out of her way, keeping the simmering need between them under control because frankly things were complicated enough without that. And then she stuck her head round the door.

      ‘I’m off to bed now. The breast pump’s in the sink—it needs washing up and putting in the sterilising solution. There are four bottles in the fridge—should see her through. ’ Night.’

      ‘Good night,’ he said automatically, and switched off the television. They’d got onto the local news, and he didn’t need to know about the local protests about a meat-rendering plant and the woman who’d had her dog stolen.

      So he went into the kitchen and picked up the breast pump. Warm. It was still warm, the bits that went over her nipples still holding her body heat, the reservoir warm from the milk.

      And he had to wash it, knowing where it had been, aching to have touched her as closely as these bits of plastic.

      Dear God, he was losing it. It was just an ordinary, everyday thing, and he was turning it into something huge.

      Because it was.

      He didn’t know anybody else who would have done it for Kizzy, and it brought a lump to his throat. He didn’t want to be there in the kitchen. He wanted to be upstairs with Em, cradling her in his arms, holding her close to his heart, listening as her breathing slowed into sleep, but he didn’t have the right.

      He didn’t have any rights.

      He washed it up, put it in the solution, checked the bottles and went upstairs to bed.

      Kizzy slept right through to four, and when she woke she snuggled down into his arms and fell asleep again, so he went down to the kitchen, warmed the bottle and went back up, laid her carefully down on the bed and pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, wrapped her in her fleecy blanket and went down, took the bottle and headed for the cliff.

      ‘We should just make the sunrise,’ he told her, and as they turned the corner, he saw the first tiny rim of gold creep over the horizon.

      ‘Look, Kizzy,’ he said, holding her up,