A Family of His Own. Liz Fielding

her. No doubt he thought that being rude was not only the quickest way to get rid of her, but the most likely way to ensure that she’d stay out of his hair.

      She’d tried that approach, too. In fact his response brought her own hateful ingratitude shamefully to mind. She’d been rude, too. Vilely rude. It hadn’t worked. Amy had seen through the anger to the pain and stuck with it.

      She dunked the tea bag, added milk to the mug and offered it to him. ‘You haven’t got any sugar, so I assume you don’t take it. You haven’t got any marmalade for the toast, either.’

      ‘I haven’t got much of anything except you,’ he said, ignoring the mug. ‘You, I have altogether too much of.’

      ‘That’s how it is with us do-gooders,’ she said, putting the tea down on the table where he could reach it. ‘I’ll bring you a pot of mine. It’s very good. It won best-in-show at the summer fête.’

      ‘Congratulations, but don’t put yourself out. I don’t like marmalade.’

      ‘Strawberry jam?’ she offered. It was as if her mouth had a mind of its own. ‘I used organic, home-grown strawberries. It won best in its class.’ She snapped her mouth shut.

      ‘What do you want?’ he persisted.

      ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

      ‘Good, because that’s what you’ve got.’ And he picked up the tea and tipped it down the sink.

      She swallowed, stunned at how much that had hurt. But then it was meant to. She knew all the moves.

      ‘You prefer coffee?’ She didn’t make the mistake of offering to make him some, but said, ‘I’ll remember that for next time. In the meantime, if you need anything you know where to find me.’ And without waiting for him to respond, to tell her to get lost, stay away, she walked back out into the garden.

      Back to the witch hazel she’d been rescuing when he’d kissed her.

      Her head told her to keep going, but she refused to leave a job half done and she knelt down to finish her rescue mission. Only when she attempted to unravel the tightly coiled stem of the bindweed did she discover that her hands were shaking so much that she was forced to tuck them beneath her arms to hold them still.

      Dom picked up the toast and, tight-lipped, he tossed it in the bin. Then he picked up his bags and carried them upstairs to the bedroom he’d shared for one sweet, perfect year with Sara.

      Last night the only scent he’d been aware of was the lingering ghost of her perfume clinging to her clothes.

      He dropped his suitcase and strained to find it again, to cling to that last lingering essence of the woman he loved.

      But it evaded him. Today, the only smell was that of a house locked up and unlived-in for too long. And he opened a window.