A Baby on Her Christmas List (8 page)

‘I know you had a hard time, Georgie. And that’s why I’m here now. So our child doesn’t have to go through what you went through.’

‘You have no idea. You don’t know what it means to be alone. To make up a pretend family because you don’t have any. To watch others being chosen. To wish that someone, anyone, would choose you. And to try to be, oh, so brave when they didn’t, when inside every part of you is crumbling.’ She would never crumble again. This child inside her gave her twice the strength and three times the resolve. ‘This is your last chance to decide, Liam. I’ll hold you to whatever decision you make now. This is it. No going back. No coming to me in three years, six, twelve and saying you made a mistake and you’ve changed your mind again. You have to be in or out—for ever.’

* * *

This was something Liam could answer. Because this was the one thing he knew. He would not let his child down. He’d known that with every damned fibre of his being since the moment he’d seen her carrying his child. Since he’d seen that scan of a real living being. His child. Their child.

Every single mention of a baby, every thought of who was growing inside her, brought back the crushing pain again. And with that hurt still beating against his rib cage he knew he’d make every effort to make his child safe. Because that was his job. A father did that.

But he was also going to keep any emotions out of it. Because, hell, he needed to keep his heart safe, too. He would provide from a distance. He would have visits but he wouldn’t—couldn’t—put any of them at risk by allowing himself to care for them. He would treat his child with the same compassion and consideration he treated his patients, no more and certainly no less.

‘I know what I said. I didn’t think it through. But this is my child and my responsibility and I will never shirk from that. I don’t want your experiences for our child, or mine either. This child will know he’s always wanted.’ This was not how Liam had imagined this scenario playing out, but he had to go with it. He’d already stumbled too far along without saying what he felt. Although he’d been shocked by the ferocity of Georgie’s reaction. He’d seriously misjudged her. She was growing braver and stronger and more independent every moment she carried that baby. ‘I am in it for ever.’

‘How can I be sure?’ Her hands were on her hips while her dark eyes blazed.

‘So tearing up the contract isn’t enough for you?’

‘No. Actions speak, Liam. I want actions—and not dramatic hollow ones like those shreds of paper.’

Now this was well and truly out in the open he knew there could never be any more kisses. He needed to keep a good long distance from her, too. Anything else would make things far too complicated. They could both be good parents if they were a team, a
platonic
team. Messing with that, opening a whole potential for destruction, would be a recipe for disaster.

He knew how much pain a child suffered when their parents couldn’t bear to look at each other. Knew how destructive it was, watching arguments unfold, always calculating when the bomb was going to drop. Always being on guard. Always feeling, believing,
knowing
that every single ounce of friction was his fault. He couldn’t put his own child through that, so if there was no intimacy there would be no chance of that damaging scenario happening. ‘You’ll know, Georgie, because I’ll damned well prove it to you.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Three months ago...

‘I
T
’
LL
KEEP
ME
busy for weeks.’

Ha. He wished.

By Liam’s reckoning it should have been finished months ago, but whenever he turned around this tinpot wreck of a house threw another job at him. Georgie had been wrong about the roof. With the winter came high winds that blew off and cracked more than enough tiles for the whole thing to need replacing.

Then there was the floor in the kitchen. Weathered and abused over seventy years, it took four consecutive weekends to sand it down enough that it was even and usable. Then three coats of varnish. A perfect parquet floor it was not, but it was now an acceptably usable one. All done on a tight budget, and fitted in between exhausting twelve-hour shifts at work. It had taken a lot of coercing Georgie to even allow him to do that.

Climbing down the stepladder from where he’d been fixing the new light fitting in the flash living area, he huffed out a long breath. He had to admit she’d had a point about knocking the wall down, the open-plan space was amazing. With the renovated floor and antique white walls it was impressively large and light, with a good flow from one area to the next. She’d managed to find, on the cheap from a trading website, a set of elegant French doors that opened the kitchen out onto the small deck. Beyond that was a riotous garden, overgrown and dingy. But he had no doubt she had plans for there, too. The woman clearly had a gift for renovation.

A loud bang and a very unladylike curse came from above him. Liam was up the stairs and in the bathroom in two seconds flat. ‘You okay? What the hell was that?’

‘Just a little contretemps with a tin of paint. And...damn, I was so nearly finished.’ From her crouched position on the floor she grimaced up at him as a pool of off-white gloop seeped across stained dustsheets. A paintbrush stuck out of her denim dungarees pockets, her face was splattered with paint and she wore a plastic carrier bag tied round her hair. She dabbed at the ever-increasing seepage with a rag, huffing and puffing a little. ‘I’m going to have to nip out to the hardware store and get some more paint now. Do we need anything else?’

His eyes flickered from her to the stepladder, back to her.
Unbelievable
. ‘You were painting the ceiling?’

‘Um...yes?’

‘After I specifically told you it was next on my list of jobs?’

‘Um...yes.’ This time there was no hint of apology. ‘It needed doing and it was next on
my
list. I was free to do it, so I made a start.’

‘Why can’t you accept more than the slightest bit of help without a row? You are slowly driving me crazy. No—make that rapidly driving me crazy.’ There was only so much independence a guy could take before it became downright stubbornness, and then it made him really mad. ‘You were supposed to be taking a break.’

‘Breaks are boring. There’s nothing more satisfying than seeing the instant difference a coat of paint can make to a room. Look, isn’t it great?’ She gestured at the white over the dirty green and, yes, it looked good. That was not the point.

‘And risk a broken collarbone...or worse?’ He didn’t allow his brain to follow that train of thought. Already she was showing signs of discomfort with her growing bump—all it had needed was one wrong step. ‘These ladders are unsteady, and those trainers have a slippery grip. You said so yourself.’

‘I was fine.’

‘Oh, clearly. So fine that you dropped the paint can?’

‘No one likes a smartass.’ With an irritated groan she whipped the plastic bag from her head and stuffed it into her pocket, then gripped the side of the bath to assist her to transition from sitting to standing—flatly refusing his outstretched hand. Once up she rubbed her back, which pushed out her stomach, fat and round and very obviously pregnant. Her face had filled out a little too, her long hair, which she’d piled on the top of her head in some sort of fancy clip, was glossy. Man, was it shiny, and it took him all his strength not to pull her close and inhale. Somehow the more annoying she became, the more he wanted her. Seemed he was hard-wired to protect her too.

But he’d never contemplated giving her this job and hadn’t thought she’d be so hell-bent on doing what she wanted. How much did he need to do to show her he was invested too? She’d taken him at his word and had never referred to the contract again, but he knew she watched him and wondered. Every day. And every day he tried to prove to her he was up to the father job.

He just hadn’t contemplated how hard it would be to keep his emotions out of the agenda.

‘How about you sort out the cupboards in the kitchen instead, like we talked about earlier? I’ll do this when I’ve finished the lights downstairs.’

And, yes, it was like this every week. She had a problem or, more usually, the house had a problem and he had an insatiable, irrational need to fix it. Except the biggest problem was that he shouldn’t be here at all. The baby wasn’t due for months, so in theory he could let her get on with it. But, well, he couldn’t.

Her voice had a sudden edge to it. ‘You can’t bear to be in the same room as me for five minutes, can you?’

‘Sorry? What on earth are you on about?’

‘It’s just that every time I go into a room you leave it. It’s been going on for weeks, it’s like there’s a revolving door. Me. You. Me. You. I’m getting dizzy.’

‘Ridiculous.’ Truth was, he couldn’t bear to
not
be in the same room. Being with her was killing him. A long, drawn-out agonising death of lust. He was doing this for the sake of his child, making sure they had everything they needed. At least, that was what he told himself, and not because he didn’t want to wake up every morning and not have the prospect of seeing Georgie’s smiling face or inhaling her scent that pervaded everything in the house.

‘Is it me? Is it seeing me like this that you don’t like?’ She paraded in front of him, laughing, sticking her tummy out—there was a bubble where her belly button protruded. ‘Because I happen to love it.’

He laughed. ‘Or maybe it’s a coincidence, ever thought of that? Perhaps I just always happen to be about to leave when you come dashing in. Bad timing, maybe, and you’re looking for it so you have confirmation bias?’

‘Yeah, right. Never try arguing with a know-it-all doctor. I notice it because it happens, matey. And don’t deny it.’

Avoiding the wet paint, he took her hands and faced her, putting a serious tone in his voice, ignoring the immediate sharp jolt of electricity that ran through him as he touched her. ‘Okay, yes, Geo, you’re right. I’m sorry to have to break it to you, but you do look terrible, hideous, unsightly. In fact, I was going to ask you to cover up with that dust sheet. But now you’ve spilled on it I’ll just have to put up with you as you are.’ He laughed at her tongue sticking out of her mouth. ‘Yeah, really, I can’t bear being with you, and that’s why I spend every spare hour here, doing your bidding.’

If only she knew how partly true those words were. It was seeing her, full stop. Seeing Georgie carrying his child, seeing her turn this dilapidated wreck into a home for her family. His family.

Every time he turned around there was something else: the piles of gifted baby clothes; the stockpile of nappies for newborns. The baby scans on the fridge—the most recent one at twenty weeks, where he could see every finger and toe. Where the ribs encased his baby’s fast-beating heart. Its chubby belly. The MacAllister nose.

Liam’s heart swelled, then tightened. The memories threatened to swamp him again. He rubbed his chest, but the pain wasn’t physical, it was psychological. And every time he saw Georgie it got worse.

And still he kept on coming back. Because he couldn’t not. Because he couldn’t contemplate an hour of his life when he didn’t see her.

She dropped her hand from his grip and began wiping a paintbrush on the rim of the can. ‘I am grateful, really. You don’t have to give up all your spare time...’ Her hand went to her belly and she made a sharp noise. ‘Oh!’

He knew that look. He knew most of them now, thank God, because she never complained about any of the changes she was experiencing and he knew a few of them must have taken some getting used to. A rise of eyebrows and a gentle smile meant baby movement. A frown but determined-not-to-show-it stubbornly stiff jaw meant she had backache. A fist against her chest meant heartburn. He’d never been so aware of anyone in his whole life. ‘Kicking again?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t hurt, it just makes me jump. It’s weird. though, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it—it’s like a whole crowd of butterflies stretching their wings. He’s a little wriggler, this fella. I think he might be a martial arts expert when he grows up.’

He nodded towards her belly, his heart suddenly aching. ‘She might be a dancer? Cheerleading? Gymnast? Scottish country dancing? That has kicks, doesn’t it?’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘The ones I learnt at school had a lot of skipping in circles and peeling off. I don’t remember kicking. Apart from hot sharp prods to my nine-year-old partner’s ankles. He had no clue what he was doing and was far happier pulling faces at his friends than swinging me in a do-si-do.’

Then clearly the boy had been a prize idiot.

Clearing the paint pot and mess out of the way, Liam stood her in front of him. Goddamn, she was beautiful, all flushed and smiling. He had to admit that being pregnant suited her. She’d never seemed so content. Apart from the odd moment when he’d catch her staring out of the window into the distance, or looking at him with a strange expression on her face. ‘Show me?’

‘What? Scottish dancing, in a tiny bathroom? Are you nuts? Silly me, of course you are.’

‘Probably.’ He took her hands in his and twirled her round. ‘Like this?’

‘Not even remotely.’ Her head tipped back as she laughed, and for the first time in for ever things were back to normal between them. There was no baby, no contract, no tension, just two old friends messing about, like they’d done hundreds of times before. He twirled her again, faster, and caught her in his arms and she squealed, ‘Stop! I’m covered in paint, my hands—’

‘Are fine. Now, show me what to do. Like this?’ He made a woeful attempt at a highland jig that had him stumbling over the stepladder. ‘Clearly this needs practice.’

‘And a lot more space.’ She sucked in air, and again, doubling over with laughter. ‘You are a lot worse than David Sterling.’

‘David?’

‘My nine-year-old partner. Broke my poor innocent heart when he kissed Amy Jenkins at the Year Four social, but at least he had rhythm.’

‘I have rhythm.’ And Georgie’s heart was too damned precious to be broken again. Although Liam had a feeling that when all this was done, he’d be no better than David-bloody-Sterling.

‘Oh, yeah?’ She prodded him in the stomach, and he wondered whether that was a step up or down from being kicked in the ankle. ‘I’ve seen your rhythm, mate, at Indigo, late at night, when you’re filled with booze.’

‘Bad, huh?’

‘Actually, no, not at all. You’re a good dancer, probably better than I am if I’m honest. But I’m not exactly going to want to admit that, am I?’

‘You, my lady, are such a tease.’ Feeling suddenly way out of his depth, he gave her a smile and it was pure stubborn willpower that stopped him from kissing her again.

‘Really? You think so? I haven’t even started.’ She smiled back and the air between them stilled. Her hand slipped into his and squeezed, and she peered up at him through thick dark eyelashes. And he was sure she was just being Georgie, but that kiss hovered between them again, in her words, in the frisson of electricity that shivered through him. In the touch of skin on skin. Her voice was raspy. ‘Is it just me or is it very hot in here?’

‘Hmm. You want to try peeling off? That might help. I could give you a hand. That is one thing I am very good at.’ He rested his palm on her shoulder, toying with her T-shirt sleeve. Her pupils widened at his touch, heat misted her gaze and he knew then that she was struggling too. That just maybe she wanted the physical contact that he craved.

But, goddamn, he knew that was the most stupid thing to say, especially when they’d agreed to go back to situation normal between them—but it was out there now. He was tired of fighting this...and absolutely sure he shouldn’t have said those words.

Time seemed to stretch and he didn’t know what to do. Apologise? ‘Georgie—’

‘Oh. There it is again. It always takes me by surprise.’ Shaking her hand free from his, she pressed her hand to her belly again watching his reaction, eyes wary now. She gave her head a little shake as she stepped away. ‘And don’t look so worried. I won’t ask.’

‘No.’ She wasn’t talking about his faux pas. Once she’d asked him if she wanted to feel the baby kick and he’d refused. Point blank. And she’d never asked him again, but sometimes made a point of telling him when it was happening. And, by God, he wanted to, but he knew he couldn’t, that with one touch of her, and of their baby, he’d be compelled to want more. And that didn’t fit in with the emotionless parenting idea. Or the platonic parenting either.

The atmosphere in this minuscule room was reaching suffocation point, he needed to cut loose. ‘Okay, so break time. You go put your feet up and I’ll pop out to the hardware store. We need more sandpaper anyway. I’ll get more paint, and I’ve got to get the right bulb for the light fitting—you got screw-in instead of bayonet.’

‘Oops. Sorry. And when you come back, do you think we could spend more than two minutes in the same place? You won’t run out on me?’

The ten-million-dollar question. ‘This house is throwing us so many problems we have to divide and rule if we’re going to win. Now, get that kettle on and I’ll bring back biscuits for afternoon tea.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Buying biscuits isn’t exactly a difficult task. Of course I’m sure.’ And, yes, he knew that wasn’t what she’d meant. Dodging bullets seemed the aim of today. ‘Chocolate? I know, white chocolate with raspberry. Two packets.’

She threw him a huge grin. ‘Oh, Liam, I do like it when you talk dirty.’