by Amy Andrews
Something to break the ice.
Decrease the awkwardness that she surely must feel as keenly as him. Something like What’s the weather like in Devonshire at the moment? Or How about those English cricketers?
Fletch stopped in the hallway just shy of his door and allowed an internal groan free rein.
How lame!
But anything was better than Take all your clothes off and let me make love to you.
Because a few lousy hours back in her company and the imperative to be with her, to peel off her clothes and bury himself inside her, was raging in his blood like a fever. It was a bad time to discover she was a habit that he’d never managed to shake.
It had been ten years and he wanted her as much now as he ever had.
Guilt, hot and fierce, rose in him and he squeezed his eyes shut to dispel the images of their intertwined bodies.
He didn’t deserve her.
He had proved himself unworthy.
He took a deep, steadying breath, shaking off the tug of dark memories and guilt, and stepped into the bedroom. But whatever pithy comment had been on the tip of his tongue died before even a syllable was spoken and he sagged against the jamb as a knot of tension released like the strings of a marionette.
Tess was asleep.
Sound asleep if her soft snore was any indication.
She lay on her side, knees tucked up, sheet anchored beneath her arms. The bedside lamps threw shadows that darkened the hollows of her cheeks and the smudges beneath her eyes. Even in slumber she looked like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.
He watched her for a long time, keeping his distance. Knowing he’d do anything to erase her burden. Wishing that he could go back to this day ten years ago and fix the damn lock, take away her migraine, remove the bucket, stop the overnight deluge, make the ambulance come faster.
Feeling again the rage and the helplessness. His complete impotency that when it had counted most, he hadn’t been able to protect his family.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing his thumb and forefingers hard into the lids, blocking the images. God, he was tired. So very tired.
He needed perspective.
He needed sleep.
He pushed away from the jamb and drew level with the bed. Slowly he eased himself onto it, being careful not to disturb her, sticking close to the edge and lying as stiff as a centuries-old mummy.
After a moment he slowly turned his head to look at her. Or her back anyway. Once upon a time he would have reached out and stroked his hand down the notches of her spine, drawn her in closer. Instead he turned away and reached for the lamp switch, extinguishing both with one action, plunging the room into darkness.
She stirred and he held his breath. She muttered in her sleep, rolled over, settled again. She was closer now. And facing him. He could feel her breath fanning his shoulder and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could make out the outline of her mouth.
Great.
Fletch rolled his head back until he was staring at the ceiling. There weren’t that many more hours left in the night. But he had a feeling he was going to see every one of them.
* * *
He did finally fall into an exhausted sleep just as dawn was spreading its first blush across a fading night sky. After lying tense and unmoving for a couple of hours, listening to her breathe, his body finally succumbed to its baser dictates and slowly relaxed into the folds of slumber.
Unfortunately, thanks to those baser dictates, it didn’t last long. They didn’t seem to mind that he’d had less than four hours’ sleep all night. All they cared about was that it was morning, something warm, soft and female was snuggled into him, his hand was full of a smooth, clad buttock and a certain part of his anatomy was wide awake.
Fletch’s eyes flew open as every muscle contracted in painful unison. His heart pounded in his chest as, for a brief moment, total disorientation reigned.
Then Tess moved a little, readjusting her head against the ball of his shoulder, murmuring something nonsensical, her lips grazing his skin, her hand skating close, too close, to his painfully tight erection.
And he was suddenly one hundred per cent orientated.
His first instinct was to leap out of the bed like the mattress had caught fire. He doubted Tess would appreciate that they didn’t have control of their bodily functions while under the influence of sleep and he had no desire to have her accuse him of taking advantage of the situation.
He’d realised yesterday just how hard this was going to be, but with her draped all over him, this was a whole other level of difficult. Too many mornings like this and he might just forget the reason she was there. Forget that this was fake and they were only pretending for his mother’s sake.
He had to be careful they didn’t cross a line—even in their sleep—because emotionally he didn’t think she was up to it.
And he knew for sure he wasn’t.
But right at this moment she was hard to resist. Her head was tucked into his shoulder, her breath was warm on his bare pec and she was all soft and supple against him. And his nostrils were full of her—passionfruit, honey and something else distinctly feminine.
He drew in a deep steady breath, sucking her deep into his lungs, savouring her.
Tess had always smelled so good.
So he didn’t move. Not yet. He would—soon.
But not yet.
* * *
Tess woke slowly through myriad layers of a heavy sleep surrounded by a feeling of heat and solidness, a powerful malaise infecting her bones. She chased the last vestiges of a dream she couldn’t quite remember across the fading edges of her sleep like a child would chase the tail of an escaped balloon as it rose in the sky.
She murmured a protest—her dreams were
so rarely good and she fought against the sticky fingers that were trying to drag her away from the tail, back into the world of the conscious.
A hand curving around her bottom was comforting and she wriggled into it, bending her knee higher, revelling in the hairy bulk of a leg under it. Her lips brushed against firm, warm skin and an earthy aroma, very male, tickled her nostrils.
Hmm. Fletch had always smelled so good.
Beneath her hand, a solid slab of flat muscle undulated and tensed as if it was agitated. She smoothed it absently, stroking it lightly. Her fingers brushed something hard, something familiar and it twitched against her hand.
She frowned. Something very familiar.
The last strand of sleep fell with a loud clang like a metal shackle.
Fletch?
Her hand froze. The breath hitched in her lungs. Her eyes opened with a start. She was instantly awake, instantly aware of her situation.
She pushed away from Fletch abruptly, scrambling back to her side of the bed like an epileptic crab until her back hit the bedhead and she yanked the sheet up to her chin.
‘What the hell?’ she demanded, glaring at him.
Fletch glared back as he too boosted himself up against the bedhead. Okay, he was guilty of not separating from her earlier but no way was she going to make him the big bad wolf when she was the one draped against him with her fingerprints all over his belly.
‘It’s the morning,’ he said defensively. ‘It happens.’
Particularly if a woman is rubbing herself against me like a great big tabby cat.
Tess fought the urge to blush as she remembered how many times his biological wake-up call had led to a little morning glory. He looked so virile with his tousled hair, his big bare chest and his frown but, still, she couldn’t believe she’d been…pawing at him. She dropped her gaze.
Fletch wasn’t satisfied. ‘You were the one touching me,’ he reminded her downcast head for good measure.
Tess nodded, mortified at her behaviour. He was right.
They were divorced, for crying out loud!
‘Yes.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’m so sorry, I was…dreaming and… God! Sorry.’
Fl
etch sighed at her obvious embarrassment. He should have known this was going to happen, that their bodies would naturally gravitate towards each other. That they’d subconsciously seek affection.
He rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘No…I’m sorry. It’s just… I don’t know, Tess. It was probably inevitable. Our bodies were just reverting to type, I guess…in sleep…’
She knew what he was saying was most likely correct but it had still been a shock. She’d known last night when she’d felt the heat of his gaze on her thighs that they were on shaky ground. The fact that he didn’t look any happier about it than she helped.
She grimaced. ‘Maybe we’re going to need that roll between us in the bed after all.’
Fletch was momentarily taken aback by her glum observation. Then he chuckled, tension slowly oozing from his muscles. ‘Maybe we just need to realise that we can’t control what we do when we’re asleep and not get ourselves in a tizz about it when we wake up.’
Tess look affronted, crossing her arms. ‘I did not get in a tizz.’
Fletch chuckled again as he threw back the sheet and swung his legs to the floor. ‘Oh, you were in a tizz all right.’
‘You don’t have to leave, Fletch,’ she said as he stood and the mattress shifted a little beneath her. It was his bed, for crying out loud. ‘I promise no more tizzies in future.’
He looked down at her. ‘Are you sure? Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years it’s that morning hard-ons are part and parcel of being a man. Are you okay with that or should I buy myself a sleeping bag?’
Tess swallowed. She hadn’t had a single sexual urge in a decade. She doubted her libido, weird dreams aside, would be a problem. But he was giving her a choice. Which would be a lot easier to make if it hadn’t felt so good being pressed against him just now.
She thought she’d suppressed those feelings a long time ago.
Obviously not.
Still, she couldn’t let him sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag when there was enough room for both of them in the bed. She swallowed. ‘I’m okay with it.’ They just needed to be careful, that’s all. ‘As long as you keep them on your side of the bed.’
Fletch nodded. Fair enough. ‘I’ll check on Mum.’
Tess watched him go. Watched the strong lines of his bare back as he disappeared out the door. She shook her head to clear it. To try and grasp the rapid events that had led to her being back in her ex’s bed.
Yesterday morning her life had been on track. It hadn’t been rock-’n’-roll exciting but she liked it that way. Today she’d been sucked back into her baggage-laden past. Not a place she would ever have volunteered to visit.
But she’d told Fletch she’d do it for Jean and she’d meant it. And if that meant she had to be on her guard, even in her sleep, well, she guessed she could hack it for two months.
Determined to divert her thoughts, she sank down into the bed, thinking about her mother-in-law, already planning a schedule and thinking of ways things could be made a little easier.
‘Still out to it,’ Fletch announced as he re-entered the room a minute or so later. ‘She usually sleeps late the morning after a disturbed night.’
Tess nodded. ‘I’ve just been thinking about that,’ she mused, surprised to feel the urge to check out his naked chest. ‘I may have something that could help.’
‘Oh?’
‘What does the lease say about pets?’
CHAPTER FIVE
AFTER the embarrassment of their early-morning start, the day flew by. Tess took advantage of Fletch’s flexible working hours and went out as soon as the shops opened. Nothing to do with needing some breathing space—not at all—and everything to do with needing some clothes.
She spent a couple of hours bargain hunting to extend her meagre wardrobe and did a bit of a grocery shop. Jean had always liked to cook and there was no reason why she still couldn’t do so with Tess around to ‘help’.
So she brought some basics that were needed for the meal plan she and Fletch had worked out whilst trying to make awkward conversation over breakfast and extras for daily baking, which had always been a particular favourite of Jean’s. In fact, Jean had been a champion cake-icer in her day so Tess made sure she included those ingredients in the trolley. Hopefully this skill could be nurtured and retained for as long as possible.
So much about Alzheimer’s was focused on what the sufferer couldn’t do, couldn’t remember, instead of making the most of what they could.
She did not think about Fletch and their early-morning predicament. Or at least every time she did she stopped herself. Denial she was good at.
Denial she’d perfected.
And having to pretend they were happily married was something well worth denying.
When Tess got home Fletch went into St Rita’s for a few hours to meet with the ethics committee over the parameters of his study. It wasn’t his favourite part of the research process but a very necessary evil that not only protected trial subjects but also himself and the hospital from any potential liability.
When he was done he accompanied Tess and his mother to get the pet Tess assured him would help with Jean’s anxiety. He was still sceptical as they entered the animal shelter and were greeted by a cacophony of barking but when Jean’s face lit up he had to concede it might have merit.
Jean looked at them. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘We’re getting a kitten,’ Fletch said patiently for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes.
Jean beamed at him. ‘Really?’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Can I go and look?’
Tess laughed at Jean’s childlike relish, feeling vindicated. It had been a hard sell talking Fletch into flagrantly disregarding the lease agreement but she’d seen with her own eyes how much difference a pet could make in the life of someone suffering from dementia and had refused to be easily deterred.
When presented with the evidence, of which she could quote both anecdotal and scientific verbatim, Fletch had reluctantly agreed. She would have liked to push for a dog but common sense and apartment living took precedence and she’d suggested a house-trained cat.
‘Of course. Go ahead.’ Tess grinned. ‘We’ll just have a quick chat to the attendant and be along in a moment.’
When Tess and Fletch spotted Jean ten minutes later she was crouched down in front of a cage, talking animatedly to the animal inside. ‘Oh, look, darling.’ Jean waved at her son impatiently to move faster. ‘It’s Tabby.’
Tess quickened her steps, smiling at Jean’s eagerness. It seemed Jean had already chosen her kitten and named it!
‘Thank goodness you found her,’ Jean told the shelter attendant following closely behind Tess. ‘I didn’t realise she’d gone missing. Trish would be worried sick if she knew her beloved Tabby dog had wandered away.’
Tess frowned. Dog? They drew level with the cage and looked down at a chunky, white-whiskered, ancient golden Labrador.
‘You obviously haven’t starved while you’ve been away, have you, girl?’ Jean tutted. She poked her bony fingers through the cage wire to stroke the dog’s ear. The dog whined appreciatively and angled its head for Jean to reach the sweet spot.
‘Tabby?’ Tess murmured to Fletch.
‘Childhood dog of Trish’s. She thought she was getting a cat and already had the name picked out,’ he said quietly.
Tess pressed her lips together to suppress a smile, not game to say a word.
‘Yes,’ he said testily. ‘The irony is not lost on me.’
‘Come on, then, girl.’ Jean gave the yellow-grey head one last scratch and stood. ‘Let’s get you home.’
Fletch looked askance at the dog. Putting aside that he lived in a nineteenth-floor apartment, the Lab looked like it was going to expire any moment either from old age or a triglyceride-induced heart attack. Maybe both.
He shook his head and muttered, ‘Great,’ as he sent Tess a fix this glare.
A bubble of laughter surged into
her chest and Tess bit the side of her cheek to prevent its escape. It felt good to have the spectre of their living arrangements temporarily removed from the forefront of her brain by something so frivolous. ‘Er, Jean,’ Tess said, gently cupping Jean’s elbow and leading her towards the next cage. ‘We’re here for a kitten, remember? Let’s have a look around a bit more first, hey?’
And hopefully forget all about the dog.
Jean dug her feet in and looked at her reproachfully. ‘Tessa! We can’t leave Tabby here. Trish would be heartbroken. She belongs at home.’
Tess flicked a glance at the dog, which looked at her steadily with those big brown eyes, then at Fletch. He shook his head very firmly from side to side. ‘We agreed on a cat,’ he murmured in a low voice. Like a rumble of thunder.
Tess rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, sure,’ she soothed, turning back to Jean. ‘We can take her home but how about looking at some cats as well? Look,’ she said, pointing to a nearby cage containing a very playful kitten pouncing on a squeaky toy. ‘Isn’t that little fella cute?’
Jean turned to her son. ‘Fletcher,’ she admonished, wringing her hands, her voice high and worried. ‘It’s Tabby. We can’t just leave her here!’ She sank to the ground in front of the obese, elderly Labrador’s cage and rocked slightly on her haunches. ‘It’s okay, Tabby, I’ll get you out of here.’
Tess shrugged at him as Fletch rubbed a hand through his hair. His frustration wafted towards her in almost tangible waves.
‘Maybe I can help?’ the attendant, a middle-aged woman, intervened. ‘I know you had your hearts set on a cat but you came here looking for a companion for your mother who suffers from dementia, right?’
Fletch nodded and she continued.
‘Then you really can’t go past old Queenie here. She was brought in two days ago after her owner of fourteen years, an elderly lady, died in hospital. Queenie had lain next to her owner, who had taken a fall and broken her hip, all night and into the next day. The lady said that Queenie had refused to leave her side until the community nurse arrived. She’d be a perfect companion for your mother.’