How To Love An Ogre (Island Girls: 3 Sisters In Mauritius Book 2)

by Zee Monodee

  Heaven help me.

  The little boy’s words rang in her head, bringing about an idea. “Josh, how about a deal? You eat the jam from the spoon itself, but you have to take a few bites of toast on the side.”

  Josh frowned, as if considering the proposal. Diya didn’t know what she’d do if he replied no. Shoot, was this what their father put up with every morning? No wonder the man spent his day totally irascible.

  Josh put out a jam-smeared hand. “Deal.”

  The rest of the meal went fairly without hitch.

  Diya received the surprise of her life when, after finishing his bowl of dry cereal, Matthew reached for the milk carton and filled a full glass, before downing it in one long gulp.

  “I thought you didn’t take milk.”

  Matthew paused for breath after putting the glass down. “Wrong. I don’t take milk with my cereal.”

  ***

  “… and Cinderella and her prince lived happily ever after,” she said as she closed the heavy hardcover book of Classic Fairy Tales.

  She’d fished it from her place after the first night with the boys. Three nights into her stint as their nanny and their dad’s nurse, time during which she’d bailed out of work, she’d already recounted all the ‘boy’ tales in the big tome. Only the ‘girlie’ stories had been left for tonight, so she’d taken the plunge and started with her own favourite, Cinderella.

  Getting up from where she’d sat cross-legged on the rug between the two boys’ beds, she went to Josh’s bedside and pulled the quilt with the cheeky stars and moon design over the little boy. He was fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth. A wave of tenderness gripped her, and she quelled the lump in her throat.

  She stepped over to Matthew’s bedside. This guy was still wide awake. “Time to go to sleep now, Matt.”

  The boy frowned. “The story was okay, but you know, that prince is a real idiot.”

  “Really?” she asked as she sat down beside him. “Why do you say that?”

  Matthew sat up straighter against his red and white Arsenal F.C pillow. “Like, he meets the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and he lets her get away? Not to mention how he didn’t even ask for her name or her phone number.” He shook his head. “He’s lucky he managed to find her again.”

  “True. But in those times, they didn’t have phones. Though I admit the name thing was stupid. But,” she paused. “It’s all to show that where people are fated to be together, they’ll always end up finding each other, despite all odds.”

  He narrowed his grey eyes onto her. “You think so? This whole love business is weird.”

  How true. But discussions about the meanders of love with a twelve-year-old weren’t to be encouraged at bedtime.

  “We’ll discuss this some other time, darling. Sweet dreams, sleep tight,” she said as she pulled the dark red quilt bearing the Arsenal cannon logo over his shoulders.

  With light steps, she walked out of their room, shutting off the light behind her.

  Diya reached the main bedroom. Resolve seeped into her when she glared at the settee that had been her bed for the past two nights. Her neck had grown used to the quirky sleeping angle, and she almost couldn’t feel the pain anymore. Lucky she was small and could thus fit quite well onto the chaise longue. If it weren’t for her neck, the surface could almost pass for her bed. She tried to convince herself of it while she settled against the thick, plump cushion she’d brought in from her flat.

  After a glance at a sleeping Trent, she closed her eyes and let her mind wander as she waited for sleep to claim her.

  Over the past forty-eight hours, Trent’s ramblings had decreased, and only the occasional “Crystal” escaped his lips.

  Who could this Crystal be? From the gist of what she’d heard, or managed to understand, that person had been part of his life in the past. Probably the children’s mother. More than once, she’d yearned to ask Matthew about their other parent, but wariness at broaching such a sensitive subject with him kept her grounded. For starters, she didn’t know how both he and Josh dealt with her absence, and then, too, the boys never spoke of her, even when their father wasn’t around. How strange, but there certainly had to be good reasons for their silence.

  Maybe their mother had simply upped and left one day, or had been reported missing. Maybe they still clung on to the hope that she might be back. Was Trent’s wife, if he’d even been married, dead or still alive? And where did he stand where the woman was concerned?

  A sound broke through her light dozing. The noise resembled a shuffle, accompanied by a few groans and an occasional curse.

  She sat up, and all her dulled senses sprang to full alert at the sight of Trent walking around the room. Or trying to walk. He held on to the furniture, and his whole body sagged against the doorframe when he reached the threshold.

  Before she could think, she ran to his side.

  “Trent?” She placed a gentle hand on his forearm. She had to proceed with caution. Was he awake, or walking around in semi-conscious delirious state?

  He snapped weary, confused eyes on her. “What … you … here?”

  His voice came out faint, not more than a croak, and she barely heard him.

  Reaching out to clasp his other arm, she drew closer to him.

  “Come on, you need to get back to bed. It’s not reasonable for you to get up in this state.”

  She’d helped him a few times to the bathroom, but he’d hardly been conscious back then, and she’d been doing her nurse duty. To have him awake, even slightly, was different.

  He stared at her and blinked a few times, before he edged towards the bed. He had to be half-asleep, and probably wouldn’t remember any of this encounter when he recovered.

  He stumbled with his first step, and she lurched along with him when he nearly fell. Lucky for her, his hand still rested on the doorframe, and he regained his balance.

  She led him to the bed, her steps careful and measured where his were mere trudges upon the cold, smooth marble. Diya loosened her hold on him and quickly straightened the crumpled heap of the fitted sheet over the mattress. After a few punches into the pillow, she sat on the edge of the bed and took hold of his hands. Gently, she pulled him towards her and scooted over to the middle of the bed while she helped him lower himself into a resting position.

  When his head lay against the pillow, she clasped his legs to bring them up and flat on the mattress. His eyes had closed when she next glanced at his face. Seconds later, his breathing grew even as he fell into a deep slumber.

  Diya remained where she sat, Trent’s body an inch away from her leg. If she moved just a little, they’d touch. She let her focus linger on his handsome face. Sleep had relaxed his features, wiping off the usual frowns and lines. His dark hair contrasted sharply against the pale beige pillowcase.

  Could the locks be longer than when they’d first met? Silly to think so, for his hair couldn’t have grown so much in three weeks.

  Had Trent Garrison walked into her life so recently? To her, their acquaintance seemed to stretch to ages ago. A lifetime.

  Diya couldn’t tear her gaze from the slumbering man. A strange need rumbled inside her, settling as an ache in her chest, tingling everywhere blood flowed into her.

  Strange desire too intense to ignore or dismiss. Her mind heard its call and blanked the chill of warning running along her spine. She watched herself, utterly powerless, reach out to touch his face.

  She let the tips of her fingers brush the smoothness of his temple, then moved onto his cheek, where the rough, scratchy stubble rubbed against her skin. When she connected with his jaw line, she let her touch linger there as she took in his naked upper body.

  She’d once wondered what the bronze expanse would feel like …

  So, she touched. As if free from any restraining command screaming from her brain, she let her fingers trail down his warm neck and throat, to the wide, strong chest. The springy texture of the dark hairs there startled her, a
nd she pulled back. But seconds later, she reached out again, and this time, settled her hand more firmly along his skin.

  Diya gulped. He was everything she’d imagined him to be. Strong, smooth, warm. Her right hand, the one that had been doing the roaming, rested onto his washboard-flat stomach, and curiosity-filled tingling settled like an itch into her left hand. She yearned to touch him, all of him, with every inch of her skin.

  She smoothed a lock from his forehead, and before she knew it, had her fingers running in his hair. To play with the slightly long locks struck her as wonderful, novel, unexpected, but the rush couldn’t compete with the thrill of exploring his warm body. She allowed her right hand to continue on its downward journey, and she stopped at the waistband of his shorts.

  In a moment of indecision, she moved her hand away from the elastic fabric.

  Immediately, a bell started ringing in her head, echoing with a cold splash on her mind.

  She jumped up from the bed to stand on the bare floor. The cold tickled the soles of her feet, the chill of icy marble sneaking up her legs and body.

  But Diya could only register the heat and shame flaming on her face. She’d been about to undress Trent completely. For her pleasure. She covered her mouth, which had opened in shock.

  What was wrong with her? Trent wasn’t a potential lover.

  Goodness gracious, he was nothing but a friend. Come to think of it, they hadn’t even mentioned any official friendship between them. Yet, here she stood, taking advantage of the situation to fulfil her fantasies about him.

  Worse—had she just molested him?

  She rushed back to the settee, where she fell into a heap. Was she deranged? She wanted nothing to do with Trent, at least nothing romantic. What was happening to her? First the boys, now Trent. Could fatigue be taking its toll?

  Guilt wedged its way into her heart. It bore a sinking weight, akin to heavy iron. Her chest squeezed under the clutch, the pain.

  She couldn’t afford to have such thoughts about Trent. She shouldn’t imagine touching his skin. Stroking his body. Running her fingers in his dark hair.

  She had to think of running her hands in thicker, honey-coloured hair …

  Gareth.

  Horror filled her. She was supposed to be going out with Gareth. Hadn’t she expressly told him to wait for her? She had no business having fantasies about Trent, when another man patiently waited for her.

  A dull throbbing picked along her skull. She couldn’t allow the pain to gain any ground. No place, or need, for a debilitating migraine on top of all her woes.

  Diya took a deep breath.

  Never a good thing to get into the dissection of her love—or lust—life, especially not at that moment. Not when she had another morning to spend with the children in a few hours.

  Chapter Nine

  The air smelled like toast—the light, elusive smell of bread turning golden under a grill. Trent’s stomach churned, and he opened his eyes.

  His body had sagged into the bed, his arms and legs limp. A sticky coating like dried sweat lingered on his skin, and he stank to high heaven of perspiration. Blimey. When he moved his head, a dull ache picked up behind his forehead. With extreme concentration, he struggled into a sitting position.

  Bloody hell, had he slept for days? And if the growl of his stomach was any indication, it was ages since he’d last eaten, too. He swore softly. Could he have a hangover? He didn’t remember drinking lately. He also never felt hungry with a hangover.

  The enticing smell increased his hunger, pain clutching his stomach. He rolled from the bed with superhuman effort, every muscle refusing to obey his command to snap into function. As he stood, his legs buckled under him, and he grabbed the headboard. How could he be so weak?

  He probably needed food.

  Faint sounds came from the kitchen. Who could be there? The toast couldn’t be grilling by itself, could it?

  With laboured steps, he made it into the corridor and proceeded towards the kitchen. Laughter trickled louder the closer he got; Matthew’s chuckle, Josh’s high-pitched squeal, and another light, tingling laugh.

  A woman? He didn’t have a housekeeper to make breakfast, so who could it be?

  He stopped in the doorway, more stunned and preoccupied by the sight in the kitchen than the need to regain his energy.

  His children were actually eating breakfast? Matthew was drinking a glass of juice, and Josh was actually biting into toast. Had a miracle happened last night?

  And that’s when he saw her.

  Diya. She stood at the granite counter, her back to the children as she kept up a cheerful chatter with them. Her moves as she put bottles of fruit juice in their gym bags were swift and efficient. Practiced, even. She then opened the fridge and pulled two small pouches from the door before she placed those, too, in the bags.

  She flowed effortlessly around the kitchen. His kitchen. How could she already be so at ease around his house after one night? Some unknown domestic female genome at work?

  And he sounded like a male chauvinist pig. He better clear the fog in his head right away.

  When she faced to the children again, her eyes widened as she took him in. A big smile spread across her face, lighting her features and the whole space around her.

  “Welcome back to the living world,” she said, almost singing the words.

  The boys turned, too, and grinned widely when they saw him.

  “Hey, Daddy! You’re awake.”

  Trent scrunched his face in a grimace. They made it sound like he’d come out of a coma. What was the matter with them? They’d probably been around Diya too much and had thus picked up her knack for exaggerating.

  The aroma of coffee wafted to his nostrils, and though he wasn’t really a coffee person, all his thoughts converged on the prospect of food. He took a step forward.

  Too quick, his mind shrieked as colours erupted before his eyes.

  The room started spinning, the pine furniture and sunny expanse distorting into another image, one of a dismal black-and-white tiled kitchen. In his mind, he saw two women in that room, and no longer his children. Before his eyes, the tall, strikingly beautiful blonde left the older, distinguished-looking lady who sat at the island and approached him. With a perfectly French-manicured hand, she reached out and settled her touch daintily on his arm, as if to lend him support after his bout of dizziness.

  But her concern was nothing but fake. Everything about Crystal was fake, except for her love of money. His money.

  He abhorred the sight of her, craved to push her out of his existence as soon as possible. Her overbearing, misplaced solicitude, he could sure do without. He couldn’t take this masquerade any longer, especially not in front of his mother, who sat watching the scene with an ominous frown on her pale face.

  He shrugged his arm with as much force as he could muster. Crystal stumbled back a few steps, her big, blue eyes darkening with the acknowledgement of his dismissal.

  “I don’t need your bogus concern,” he said.

  The mist that had surrounded him disappeared as his head cleared, and he took a step back. Deathly silence reminiscent of a graveyard surrounded him, and he slowly blinked. Confused and disoriented as the room stopped spinning once again, he squinted hard.

  The woman who stood before him was short and dark-haired. Her delicate face had paled, her deep brown eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. A small, faint moan escaped her, and she bit her lower lip as if to contain any further sound she might make.

  He blinked. Why did Diya appear so upset?

  Dismay rooted him to the spot when he realised he’d confused her with Crystal … and had spoken those spiteful words to her.

  Diya lowered her head and hurried to the counter, where she picked up both backpacks and urged the children out of their seats. Brushing past him on her way out, she didn’t glance at him again.

  “Diya ...”

  But she wouldn’t listen to him. He was too weak to run after her w
hen she ushered the boys out of the flat and closed the door.

  She would drop them off to school, and probably not return. Not after he’d behaved like such an arse. He had to apologize, by any means possible, but what if she didn’t give him the chance? She’d been so considerate when she’d helped him to bed after his dizzy spell the previous day. And this was how he thanked her?

  She was right. He was an arsehole.

  With heavy, dragging steps, he reached the sofa and dropped his body onto it. His shoulder blades hit something soft when he leaned back—he turned to find a plump velvet cushion bearing intricate thread embroidery motifs behind him. Since when did he have such cushions in his living room?

  He frowned as he glanced around. Was it a trick of the light, of his overwrought mind, or did the whole place appear brighter? He stopped his gaze upon the windows. The fabrics he’d used as curtains had been draped and tied to the side with tassels. The white marble floor stretched spotless. Not only could he see more than one tile at a glance, but there weren’t any toy soldiers or fire trucks in the corners.

  Diya had shaken the place up into such shape all in one night? Could she be some domestic goddess? She’d made the flat seem like a house. No, a home ...

  Not to mention that the children had been eating! As he stared once again at the front room, his gaze stopped on the digital clock on the TV table.

  The calendar section indicated Saturday.

  Saturday? Not possible.

  Bells rang in his head. Today had to be Thursday, not Saturday. He remembered leaving the office earlier on Wednesday because of a headache, and he’d felt strangely hot when he’d reached home. He’d then gone to bed, with Diya’s help, and had slept the whole evening and night away.

  Hadn’t he?

  He forced his mind to focus. What did he recall from after he’d gone to bed?

  Fleeting images, too ephemeral and blurry to make sense, came up. He could hear the voice of a man, speaking with a woman. Probably with Diya. The image sharpened. The bloke had a stethoscope on him. A doctor?