Harlequin KISS November 2014 Box Set: Behind Closed Doors...Fired by Her FlingWho's Calling the Shots?Nine Month Countdown

by Anne Oliver

  But then Ivy took a step back, and ran her hands through her hair.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I haven’t pashed a boy on my mum’s front doorstep before.’

  Angus laughed. ‘I always knew you were a rebel.’

  TWELVE

  Ivy wasn’t sure how she felt.

  She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel.

  She hadn’t expected to feel like this.

  She felt...

  Okay, mostly.

  Not great. But okay. She’d spent so much time imagining what it would be like to tell her mother about her pregnancy that she hadn’t really thought about what would happen after.

  But she’d known it would be bad.

  But it wasn’t. It was...okay.

  Ivy leant back against the headrest as Angus drove her home.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she said. ‘I can order some takeaway when we get home if you like?’

  The question sounded like something she’d say if she and Angus were the couple he’d implied they were, and inwardly Ivy cringed a little.

  But although Angus slanted a look in her direction, he nodded.

  ‘You’re not going to faint on me before then?’ he asked.

  She smiled. ‘No. I had a pretty good idea we wouldn’t be eating dinner at my mum’s, so I had a snack before we left.’

  A fortifying most of a block of chocolate, actually.

  But by the time Angus stopped the car at her place, the atmosphere between them had shifted.

  At her mother’s house, it had seemed almost like they were a team—banded together against anything her mum could throw at them.

  Afterwards, she hadn’t thought twice when she’d flung herself into Angus’s arms. It had just been the right thing to do, her way of releasing some of that tension. And, wow, it had felt good.

  But really, her pregnancy announcement hadn’t solved anything. She was over the first hurdle, but there were a whole crap load of hurdles still to come.

  It had felt like a victory, but really it wasn’t. Her bravado had been false.

  Kind of like she and Angus were a team—but really, they weren’t.

  At the front door, in the pool of porch light, she paused as she fished for her keys in her bag.

  ‘Why did you let my family think we were a couple?’ she asked. She sounded more defensive than she’d intended.

  ‘I figured it was one less thing you had to deal with tonight,’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But what happens now?’

  ‘Nothing happens,’ he said. ‘One day you’ll just tell them we’ve broken up.’

  He made it sound so easy.

  She’d found her keys, and stabbed at the lock, taking a couple of goes before the key slid in.

  Then she shoved the door open, her movements stiff.

  ‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’ Angus said, remaining on the porch while she stepped inside. ‘Even right at the beginning? A fake boyfriend, to avoid the so-called scandal?’

  Ivy wasn’t sure why she was angry, but she definitely was.

  ‘A fake boyfriend who kisses me sometimes,’ she said.

  ‘You kissed me, tonight.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘This is confusing.’

  ‘Ivy, I can’t offer you any more than—’

  She held up her hands, her cheeks turning pink. ‘No. Stop. I don’t want this either, so no need to let me down gently.’

  No. She’d made this mistake before, with Toby—getting caught up in attraction and hormones. Letting her emotions lead her, rather than logic and common sense. A relationship with Angus was not a good idea. The way she lost control around him... No. She couldn’t risk losing herself in some crazy idea about love, again.

  But still...even if allowing anything serious—if allowing the hint of love—was not acceptable, maybe there was still an alternative?

  ‘Maybe what I want,’ Ivy began, searching for what she was trying to say, ‘is a fake boyfriend, with benefits.’

  A way to, once and for all, sate this thing between them. To get it over with. But with no false expectations. No risk.

  There was a long, long pause.

  ‘A fake girlfriend, with benefits,’ Angus said, as if testing the concept out on his tongue. His grin was wicked. ‘I think I can work with that.’

  This time, Angus kissed her.

  And Ivy kissed him right back.

  * * *

  For the first time in as long as she could remember, Ivy was late to work on Monday. She’d had no excuse—Angus had left before dawn for the barracks as he was back at work now that his wrist was fully healed. He’d woken her when he’d left, and kissed her gently on the forehead.

  Not long after, her alarm had gone off.

  But she hadn’t been ready to get up yet, so she simply hadn’t. She’d curled up beneath her doona and fallen asleep to the vague idea that she should probably reset her alarm—and fortunately the arrival of her driver at seven-thirty had later served as a sufficient alarm replacement.

  In the end, she wasn’t that late, not really. It wasn’t even nine a.m., but even so her staff seemed not quite to know what to do with her.

  Ivy didn’t know quite what to do, either.

  She wasn’t as bothered by her lateness as she would’ve liked, which concerned her a little.

  But then, today she was doing all sorts of unfamiliar things—confronting her mother being number one on that list. So yes, maybe tardiness was the least of her worries.

  Later that morning, Ivy took the lift to her mother’s office.

  It was on the very top floor, a floor above Ivy’s offices, and was a hive of activity. Ivy weaved her way past the network of open-plan workstations and glass-walled meeting rooms to reach Irene’s suite, separated from the rest of the floor by heavy, jarrah doors.

  But her mother’s assistant looked confused by Ivy’s appearance.

  ‘I have a meeting booked with Irene,’ Ivy said.

  Theresa shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘Irene has cancelled all her meetings for the rest of the week. She’s flown to a conference in Berlin.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ivy. ‘Of course!’ She shook her head, as if she’d just made a silly mistake.

  But this had never happened before.

  Ivy would never have described her relationship with her mother as perfect.

  For all they were the same, they were also very different—despite her mother’s insistence that Ivy was just like her.

  But in business, they were in sync. Together they’d run Molyneux Mining for nearly a decade, with Ivy’s role growing year by year.

  The conference in Berlin did exist, but they’d decided, together, that another senior executive could attend in their place.

  Irene’s sudden change of mind was not a business decision.

  It was extremely personal.

  For all her bravado last night in the face of her mother’s disappointment, it had been incredibly hard for Ivy.

  But, she realised now, some part of her had hoped for something different today. That after a night to sleep on Ivy’s revelation, Irene’s reaction would be different.

  After all, Irene had three children—surely she should understand?

  Surely some part of her would be excited to meet her first grandchild? Just as April had said?

  But no.

  Ivy had, for the first time in her life, put her own needs ahead of Molyneux Mining.

  Her mother didn’t like it. She would never like it.

  And that hurt.

  * * *

  ‘You’re counting again,’ Angus said.

  Ivy’s gaze shot up to tangle with his, her lips now pressed f
irmly together.

  Then she sighed. ‘I do that sometimes. Despite my best efforts.’

  They walked together from the car park to the front of the nursing home.

  ‘Nerves,’ she continued. ‘Stupid nerves. I used to do it all the time, and I thought I’d grown out of it, but apparently not.’ A pause, then a pointed look. ‘I blame you.’

  ‘Me?’ he asked, innocently. ‘I don’t make you nervous. Hot and bothered, maybe?’

  She glared at him.

  ‘But you don’t need to be nervous tonight. My mum will love you.’

  ‘And that’s the problem,’ she said. ‘I always know I shouldn’t be nervous. That’s the frustrating thing.’

  They stood outside the glass door of Reception. Ivy rolled her shoulders a few times, and took a deep breath.

  She was still dressed for work, in fitted trousers and a spotted silky blouse.

  Angus leant close. ‘You look gorgeous. You won’t say the wrong thing. And if you do, don’t worry—she probably won’t remember anyway.’

  Ivy’s jaw dropped open. ‘Isn’t that in terribly bad taste?’

  Angus grinned. ‘Trust me, my mum would’ve been the first to make that joke. Come on, let’s do this. I promise my mum won’t bite.’

  The nursing home was a small, boutique facility, made up of a collection of detached villas and a larger single-level building for the high-dependency patients, like his mum. Once through Reception, Angus led Ivy through the communal living and dining rooms to his mum’s room. It was spacious, like a generous hotel room, with a bed, a small seating area, and a separate en-suite bathroom.

  His mum sat on the couch, watching the ABC news.

  ‘Angus!’ she said, smiling at him as they entered the room.

  This was a good start. On the very worst days—for both of them—Angus needed to remind her who he was.

  ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘this is my friend, Ivy Molyneux. Ivy, this is my mum, Hillary.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Ivy said. She held out her hand, which Hillary shook firmly.

  Hillary glanced between the two of them. ‘And?’

  ‘We have some news,’ Angus said. ‘Can we grab a drink, first?’

  Soon they were all settled with cups of tea, seated around the small coffee table.

  Ivy was fidgeting. Subtly—by twisting her fingers in her lap—but fidgeting none the less. It made Angus smile.

  Such a powerful, polished, woman.

  Yet so...Ivy.

  ‘So, Mum,’ Angus said. ‘Ivy and I are having a baby.’

  Ivy’s eyes widened, as did Hillary’s.

  Then his mum’s eyes squeezed shut. The older woman twisted to face Ivy. ‘I’ve forgotten you, haven’t I?’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I do that a lot, now.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Ivy said. ‘You haven’t met me before.’ When Hillary raised an eyebrow, she added, ‘I promise.’

  Hillary’s gaze zipped back to Angus. ‘I feel I’ve missed something here.’

  Angus smiled, and then—briefly, and significantly censored—told his mother how he and Ivy had met.

  She smiled, and nodded, as he spoke.

  Angus was relieved. He’d asked Ivy to come tonight because when he’d called the nursing home earlier, he’d been told his mum was having a good day. But that was never a guarantee.

  And it was important to him that Ivy met his mum. Stupid really, but somehow, given he was beside her when she told her family, he felt it should be the same with his.

  His mum would never be as she had been—the woman who would’ve put Ivy instantly at ease and talked her ear off about all manner of random things.

  But at least tonight she was a reasonable-strength version of his mum—not a version so diluted by dementia that he felt as if he was interacting with the disease, and not the mother he loved.

  Now Hillary asked Ivy a bit about herself, but Ivy was talking too much, and over-explaining. Not Ivy’s fault—he should’ve warned her—but he saw Hillary’s eyes lose focus as all the words began to overwhelm her.

  Ivy noticed too, and her sentence trickled out to nothing.

  She looked stricken, and Angus reached out to squeeze her hand briefly. ‘You’re doing good,’ he said, softly.

  Then he asked his mum about her day. Hillary launched into a detailed explanation, which might have been a true reflection of today, or an amalgamation of the last week or month—or have never happened at all—but regardless, his mum was animated again, her eyes full of life.

  Ivy slowly began to relax back into her chair, her tea cradled in her hands.

  ‘How is Scott?’ Hillary asked Ivy, suddenly.

  Ivy’s body instantly stiffened, and her gaze flicked to Angus.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Scott is Carise and Tom’s son,’ Angus said. ‘This is Ivy.’

  But his mum shook her head firmly. ‘No, no. I remember her. Long brown hair. Pretty blue eyes. Baby boy with a pink blanket because she believed in gender neutrality in colour schemes.’

  This was the frustrating, awful bit. That a snippet of conversation from years ago could be remembered, but not the person his mother was talking to right now.

  Ivy leant forward, placing her teacup carefully back in its saucer. ‘My name’s Ivy,’ she said. ‘I don’t have a baby yet. But when I do, we’ll bring him or her to visit you.’

  Another agitated shake of the head. ‘No,’ Hillary said. ‘I haven’t forgotten. I saw the wedding photos. Your husband is very, very handsome. Almost as handsome as my son.’ She paused, looking thoughtful. ‘But he got sick, didn’t he?’ Hillary balled up her fists, rubbing them into her eyes. ‘Why can’t I remember?’

  ‘Mum,’ Angus said gently, ‘it doesn’t matter.’

  His mum turned back to Ivy. ‘So, Carise, how is Scott?’

  Ivy sent Angus another panicked glance. ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Scott is well,’ Angus interrupted. ‘He’s walking now! Getting into everything. Tom is having to baby proof everything.’ He forced a laugh. ‘I guess I’ll find out all about that soon enough.’

  Hillary blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  Hell.

  It still hurt, every time.

  ‘I’m going over to help Tom out with installing latches,’ Angus said, improvising.

  He had, actually. Three years ago, when Scott had started walking.

  His mum seemed happy with that.

  She also looked tired. Impossibly tired.

  For the next few minutes he filled the silence, just as he always did. With bits and pieces about work, about things that happened years ago, things that happened today.

  Hillary soon finished her tea, and Angus called a nurse to help her get ready for bed.

  He kissed her on the cheek, and her hand reached up to curl into his hair and pull him close, just as she always had.

  ‘I love you,’ she said into his ear, as clearly and as firmly as ever.

  A few minutes later, as they stepped outside the building, Ivy once again threw herself into his arms.

  But this time it wasn’t a kiss. There was nothing frantic or desperate in her action.

  She simply hugged him. And held him.

  * * *

  ‘Who is Scott?’ Ivy asked. ‘And Carise and her husband?’

  She’d propped herself up against her pillows, the sheet pulled up over her legs. She wore a faded navy singlet and her underwear, while Angus wore only boxers. Tonight was the first night they’d climbed into bed even partially dressed.

  It was dark in Ivy’s room, the only light glowing from a bedside lamp.

  ‘Carise is the wife of an old friend, Tom,’ Angus said. ‘Scott is their eldest son, although they have a daughter now, too. Mayb
e more.’

  It had been too long since he’d been in touch. Appallingly long.

  ‘Were they close to your mum?’

  Angus shook his head. ‘No. They visited once to support me. I needed someone else who’d experienced my mum like that, you know? I had no family to come with me. To talk to about how I felt. I thought maybe if...’ Another shake of his head. ‘A stupid idea. It didn’t help.’

  ‘What happened to Tom?’ she said gently. ‘Your mum said he was sick?’

  There was sympathy in her eyes, and Angus realised what that meant.

  ‘He’s not dead,’ he said, very quickly. ‘He wasn’t that type of sick. I mean, he isn’t that type of sick—cancer type of sick. He had PTSD.’

  ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder.’

  ‘Yeah. We worked together.’

  Ivy nodded her head, as if that explained everything. ‘Ah. That doesn’t surprise me. You must deal with such awful, awful things.’

  This bothered Angus.

  ‘Why shouldn’t it surprise you?’ Angus said. ‘It’s what we train for. It’s what we’re built for. It’s what we do. Why should it be such a shock that we manage to deal with it okay?’

  His words were harsh, and far louder than he’d intended.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she said. ‘I just said I’m not surprised that some soldiers are impacted by PTSD.’

  ‘And what does that make the rest of us? Robots?’

  Ivy looked taken aback. She reached out for him, but he shifted a little so her hand fell to the sheet without touching him.

  He knew he was being unfair. This wasn’t about Ivy and what she’d said.

  It was about his guilt. For a lot of things.

  He slid from the bed, the thick rug beneath Ivy’s bed soft under his bare feet. Despite how little he wore, Ivy’s state-of-the-art climate-control system meant he wasn’t at all cold.

  Even that irritated him for some reason.

  ‘It doesn’t make you a robot,’ Ivy said, very softly.

  He had his back to her, but he could see her in the reflection of her ornate dresser mirror. She’d pushed herself up from the pillows, as if she’d been about to follow him, but had changed her mind.

  ‘This is what you meant,’ she said, after a while. ‘At the gorge. You said that maybe it should be harder for you to go back. To go to war, to leave your loved ones behind. I didn’t understand at the time.’