‘I’ve made your favourite—shepherd’s pie.’
I swallow. ‘Brown sauce?’
‘Always.’
And just like that the mood lifts, as it has every time I’ve returned over these last few months.
Every visit is an emotional rollercoaster that will get smoother as time goes by and will continue to get easier, I tell myself.
It will.
* * *
I open the wrought-iron gate and smile as it gives its familiar little squeak. I already feel calmer. The welcoming charm of the O’Connors’ nineteenth-century cottage and its pretty little rose garden out front never fails to work its magic over me.
It’s funny, really. You’d have thought with all the wealth they accumulated over the years Marie and Robert would have moved out—bought somewhere bigger, more impressive. But, no, Marie loved it, and therefore Robert loved it too.
My smile turns bittersweet as I let myself in, dropping my handbag in the hallway and toeing off my shoes. At least Marie still has me, and vice versa.
And now she has Cain too.
And that’s just fine.
Absolutely.
Fine.
I push him out of my mind, though I know he’ll make his way back in again soon—like he has done practically every minute of every waking hour these last four days.
I dip to pull from my handbag the bottle of wine I’ve brought and tell myself that this is mine and Marie’s time and no one else can encroach on that. The wine is Marie’s favourite red, and I bring it every Sunday. It’s our weekly routine. We don our comfies—which for me means leggings, a big fluffy jumper and equally fluffy socks—and put the world to rights over good food and good vino.
‘Only me, Marie!’ I call down the hallway—as if it would be anyone else—and follow the sounds of crockery to the kitchen.
The house smells delicious, of comfort in all its glory. Marie’s a terrific cook—something she’s always been keen to pass onto me—and the homemade sticky toffee pudding I have hooked under one arm is all thanks to her teaching.
I kick open the kitchen door and walk on in, my smile wide. ‘Hey, I hope you’re up for something naughty—’
My eyes land on the tall, dark figure standing before the window and my smile dies. No, it can’t be.
But of course it is. Cain’s her son. This is her home. How naïve I’ve been to think things wouldn’t change, that our easy routine wouldn’t be upended with his arrival.
‘Something naughty sounds thrilling.’
He pushes away from the window as he says it and stalks towards me. For one half-crazed second I think he’s going to embrace me...kiss me, even...
Something naughty.
My mind races. Why did those have to be the words I used?
‘Sounds perfect, love.’ Marie is talking to her prized cast iron range as she finishes serving up some steaming veg. At least I think it’s veg, but my eyes are hooked on Cain, my lips parted, my heart pulsing in my chest.
He pauses in front of me, his smile so warm I wonder if I’ve imagined the way we left things. And then I meet his eye and, no, it’s there. The war blazing between us.
I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, the way his neck cords with tension. Tension and strength. I felt that strength first-hand four days ago, when I’d explored him in my office—and, damn it all to hell, that ache swells at the juncture of my thighs, my body reliving that scene in one vivid sweep.
Oh, fuck. Swallow.
He lifts his brow.