A Baby on Her Christmas List

by Louisa George

  ‘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 Davi
d 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.’

  * * *

  He could have been out for another few months and it wouldn’t have been enough to stop the need surging through his veins. In less than an hour he was back, trying to locate her, with his peace offering of her favourite biscuits. She wasn’t in the kitchen, and the contents of the cupboards were still in boxes in the same place on the floor.

  Wondering if she was actually doing as he’d suggested and taking a nap, or on that damned stepladder again, he mounted the stairs two by two, in total silence, glad that he’d fixed the creaking floorboards. The bathroom was empty.

  Intrigued, he walked along to her bedroom, heard the radio, a song he didn’t recognise, and she was singing along. It sounded ditsy and bright and he knew he should call out, make her aware of his presence, but something compelled him to be quiet as he approached her room. He told himself that he didn’t want to make her jump.

  She was standing in front of her closet, holding a black lace dress up against her body and looking in the mirror, turning from side to side, stretching the fabric across her belly. The work dungarees had gone, and now she was wearing flannel shorts and a baggy blue T-shirt. After a few seconds she frowned and threw the dress on the chair then shook her hair free from the hair slide. It cascaded down her back, a river of lush honey curls. Her breasts strained against the T-shirt. She was dusty and paint-streaked and fertile and ripe. She looked sexier than any skinny model on the front of the magazines, sexier than any woman he’d ever laid his eyes on. His heart stuttered. He took a step forward, paused.

  She still hadn’t heard him. Her humming continued. Taking a brush from the closet, she gathered a fistful of hair and started to brush rhythmically. And even though he knew he shouldn’t be standing here, watching her do this, knew he was breaking a zillion unspoken promises they’d made in the aftermath of the single kiss, he still couldn’t bring himself to speak. His throat was scratchy and raw, and his body was on fire. Each swipe through her hair was considered and resolute, her slender arm moving up and down, almost trancelike, what he could see of her face was calm and relaxed.

  She was lost in thought, and still singing the upbeat, happy song. The reverence with which she took each brushstroke made his heart contract. The glossy sheen of her hair, the ridges of her back as she moved and shifted from foot to foot. Her body swayed a little, her backside bopping to and fro; and maybe it was the heat from before, the soft light in the room, the smell of her, the intimate nature of watching her, but he struggled with a powerful urge to carry her to her bed and make love to her.

  He realised he was hard, that his hands were clenched against his body’s strain towards her. That he had to consciously control his feet and make them still.

  How could someone doing something as mundane as brushing their hair bring him to the edge of reason?

  After a few moments she started to coil her hair back up onto the top of her head again—and that was it—his control was lost. In a second he was behind her, hands on hers, whispering close to her ear. ‘Don’t. Leave it down.’

  In response to his sudden arrival she turned, shaking. Confusion racing across her face. And heat too. ‘Oh, my God, Liam. You made me jump.’

  ‘Sorry. I just...’ He curled a lock of her hair around his fingers, pressed it to his mouth.

  She placed her hands on his chest, that intimate gesture firing more need through him. ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘Can’t do what?’

  ‘I can’t keep away from you. Ever since that kiss I’ve been hiding out.’

  She let out a long breath and her face creased into a soft smile. ‘I knew it. I knew you were up to something. See. I told you. You are avoiding me. I was right. I’m always right.’

  ‘Intuitive, perhaps. Give a guy a break. I was doing the right thing.’ He touched her lips with the pad of his thumb, tracing the soft path, the delicate curve. They were pink and moist and kissable. He remembered how good she had tasted and suddenly he couldn’t wait any longer. Finesse lost, he dragged her to him. ‘Come here.’

  She inhaled a stuttered breath, her lips opening a little, her body trembling. And made a concentrated effort to calm it. She briefly closed her eyes, opened them again. ‘But I thought�
�’

  ‘Shh... Thinking is overrated.’ He reached his arms round her thickened waist, pulled her closer, spiked his hands through her hair and nuzzled right into it. Cupping the back of her head, he held her face close against his throat. Just held her against him until the shaking stopped. Until he could look at her again. He wanted to kiss her, but he wouldn’t, wouldn’t make things difficult. But he could hold her. Could feel her soft curves and taut belly pressing against him.

  Breathe.

  He prayed for the awareness and attraction to go, to be left here with just his old friend Georgie and nothing else, nothing complicated, because he knew that by taking those steps across the room he’d made things muddier than ever. But it was so compelling to hold her, to feel part of something so good. To be, for once in his life, actively looking forward, instead of just running from the past. To be accepted for the man he’d grown into.

  Only now he knew how it felt, he didn’t want to go back. Couldn’t go back.

  And then...the strangest of sensations. A tiny shiver against his hip, something almost ethereal...then it was gone.

  His baby kicking.

  Breathe.

  But there was no oxygen. His chest hurt as he tried sucking in air, there was no space for anything more, emotion had filled his chest. A hard core of deep affection, a protective need, a desperate ache. And pride. His baby was moving, stirring in her belly. The shaking started again, but this time it was his body that was on the edge of control. ‘Was that...?’

  ‘The Scottish country dancer?’ She pulled away a little and pressed a palm against his cheek. ‘Yes, Liam. It was. There it is again.’ She reached for his hand and pressed it against her bump. It was a flutter, not a whack. At least, not against his palm. The whack to his heart was mighty, though. And, God, no, he didn’t want to feel this. Not this ache. Not this wanting. He didn’t want to feel anything.

  ‘Wow.’ It was all he could manage. His throat was thick, his heart rampaging as all the pain came hurtling back. Pain, and yet something else, something profound that made his soul soar.