by Annie O'Neil
“And in that hospital he had a...stethoscope...e-i-e-i-o.”
Was Matthew singing a medical version of “Old MacDonald”? She pressed her fingers to her lips to stop herself from giggling. Tristan, from the sounds of things, found his version of the age-old song as hilarious as she did.
“With a tachycardia here and a pulmonary there...here a beat...there a beat...everywhere a beat-beat.”
When she heard her son’s peal of laughter chased up by, “More!” she could no longer resist having a peek.
She gently pressed the door open to see Tristan sitting in a chair opposite Matthew, who was standing up and beginning a rendition of “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” and getting Tristan to mimic him as he pointed out the body areas.
“Mummy!” Tristan virtually leapt off his chair and raced to her, putting his arms snugly and securely around her legs.
Amanda eased herself down into a squat and pulled him into her arms, eventually falling back onto the kitchen floor in a full-on cuddle session.
She looked up to see Matthew silently but warmly taking in the scene. It felt strange to have him watching something so...not intimate, exactly, but... Yes. It was intimate. Tristan had been hers and hers alone to protect, and yet after pouring her heart out to Matthew last night, and not feeling a moment’s judgment from him, this felt...natural. And still a little bit weird.
She tightened her hold around Tristan and sat up, holding him back from her so she could look at his cut. “You’ve put on a fresh dressing.”
Matthew turned toward the range. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. He woke up early and I wanted to have a look. Run some tests.”
“Tests?”
“Nothing serious, Mum,” he said gently, slipping his hands into her aunt’s floral oven gloves. He turned them into puppets when he noticed Tristan watching. “Just wanted to check everything was all right with Tristan.”
Amanda glanced at Tristan, who seemed enthralled by Matthew’s puppet hands. She traced her thumb along the edges of her toddler’s face. “Looks like he’s going to have a nice set of black eyes.”
“Yes,” Matthew said in a goofy voice, still using the oven glove hand puppets, “but nothing else to worry about except a bit of itching when that cut begins to heal.”
Tristan put his hands on his head, the same as Matthew. An entirely new swirl of emotions swept through Amanda. This was all well and good—the happy families thing—but if Matthew wasn’t going to stick around was it worth encouraging?
She picked up Tristan with a small groan. “Oof! You’re getting heavy, little one.”
“He’s a good-looking boy.” Matthew said, his attention on pulling open one of the range’s doors.
Amanda looked at Matthew’s backside and thought she’d be giving it a swat if she were close enough. Of course he was a good-looking boy. Matthew was absolutely gorgeous. Anything that sprang from his gene pool would be...
Screech!
Stop thinking like that. You will not be having more babies with Matthew Chase. Or anyone.
“Croissant, mademoiselle?”
Her eyes widened as Matthew revealed a tray of steaming hot croissants and slid them onto the counter alongside a pot of strawberry preserve she hadn’t remembered buying. “Where did you—?”
“Tristan and I went for a little shop after we popped into the hospital, didn’t we?”
Her son nodded obligingly, then reached toward the croissants.
“They’re hot, darling,” Amanda trapped his little hand in her own and popped a kiss on his knuckles, fighting the urge to tell Matthew off for kidnapping. “Why don’t you go climb onto your chair and Mummy will get you some milk while they cool down?”
She walked round the counter, mouthing Hospital? to Matthew, who shrugged.
“I just wanted to make sure.”
“Sure of what?” Amanda hissed, anxiety rising up her throat like a temperature gauge in a pot of boiling sugar. Tristan was her son. She’d looked after him for the past—
Calm, calm, calm. The man was a doctor after all.
“Tristan! Croissant!” her son called out, in a noisy campaign to get his groping hands on one of the warm pastries as soon as possible.
“Yes, darling, your fa—” She stopped again and looked at Matthew. “I don’t know what to call you.”
A flash of something she couldn’t put her finger on shadowed Matthew’s blue eyes. Pain. Regret?
Okay. Baby steps. This is all new to him.
“What have you had him call you this morning?” she asked.
Matthew shook his head. “Nothing, really. We’ve just been working on buying croissants and learning anatomy.”
“Matthew.” She threw him a disbelieving look. “He’s two.”
“I’m well aware of how old he is.” Matthew gave her a wicked smile. “Believe it or not, I remember the night he was conceived as vividly as you do. And, unlike Tristan, I can count.”
Amanda’s hackles flew up. “He can count!”
“Amanda, I am teasing. I know where a two-year-old should be on the developmental scale as well as you do. I went to med school. Remember?”
“You certainly don’t sound like you’re teasing.” Her hands flew to her hips and then she felt ridiculous, so she crossed them over her chest as if it would stop her heart pounding so hard.
He’s just trying to do his best. And he made it possible for you to have the best sleep you’ve had in years. In his arms.
Amanda’s stomach tightened against the complex emotions set loose in her mind. A whirling tornado of hopes and fears culminated in one question on a loop: How can I tell him I want him to stay? That I want Tristan to call him Daddy?
* * *
Matthew busied himself wiping up invisible crumbs, offering himself grim congratulations for not suggesting their son call him Uncle Matthew. It was the first thing that had popped into his mind, but he knew it wasn’t right. Amanda would see the moniker for what it was. A cop-out. A way to keep his distance. A means of walking away.
“Would you be all right with ‘esteemed paternal figure’?” he asked, only to receive a gale force glare. “Daddy?” That was even worse.
Tristan hadn’t heard as he had taken up singing the “Head, Shoulders” song again. Thank heavens. And a good sign he hadn’t received any additional injuries beyond the superficial.
Of course it had been excessive to sneak him into the hospital for another round of scans. He’d made sure the hospital charged him for the tests, but even so...was he already a helicopter father? Unable to follow his own medical advice? Wait and see. Watch and listen. Or was he a dedicated singleton who’d just found out he had a son and was climbing the steepest learning curve a man could climb?
Amanda was fishing enough for him to tell she was as confused as he was.
“Why don’t we go with ‘Matthew’ for the next few days?” he tried, ducking his head to try and see if he could get her to look him in the eye. “To make things easier.”
“How early did you go to the hospital, anyhow?” Amanda answered his question with another.
He felt a strange hit of relief that she was as discombobulated as he was. As if they’d both been hit by a tidal wave of information and were only just beginning to sort through the pieces, bit by bit, problem by problem.
“It’s ten o’clock. We’ve been up for hours.”
“Ten!” Amanda screeched, eyes widening, hands scrubbing through her hair. “We were meant to be at the hospital at seven. Why didn’t you wake me?”
Matthew laughed softly, reaching out a hand to rub her shoulder.
She shook him off with an angry shake of her head. “We’re meant to be at work.”
“It’s Saturday, love. We’re not rostered on.”
Amanda stopped, her expression frozen in place as her mind whirled and then rapidly put the pieces together.
Matthew was becoming more familiar with her little quirks now. Racing to conclusions. Stopping when she discovered things weren’t as she’d thought. Processing. Forming a tactical response. It was cute. She was cute. Hell. Who was he kidding? She was gorgeous and a brainbox to boot. It had taken his deepest reserves of willpower not to slip into bed with her when he’d carried her to her room.
“You just called me ‘love’,” Amanda snapped.
Okay. Not quite the response he was expecting.
“I call a lot of people ‘love.’”
“Well, then,” Amanda sniffed, giving him a little up-down wrong answer scan. “I think we’d better stick to ‘Matthew’ until we figure out how we’re going to work things out.”
“Tristan hungry!”
“Of course, love.”
Matthew smiled as Amanda flinched at her own use of the word and flew into action. Strangely, the moment confirmed that he was right to be here, right to try and work out how they would tackle things. Mistakes and all. Together.
As Amanda fussed about, getting a plate and a butter knife, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the warm range as she briskly picked up one of the croissants and brought the strawberry preserve over to Tristan.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said, once she’d set up his breakfast and a wobbly bottomed beaker of milk with a sippy top.
“You seem to be full of them this morning.”
“Hey, now...”
Even though Amanda tensed as he pulled her into his arms he continued to hold her, running his fingers through her hair, rubbing a hand along her back, until eventually she melted into him...a little bit.
“I know I’m the odd man out here, but we’ve got to sort out how we want to do things one day. Why not start with this weekend?”
She looked up at him, hair all tousled from sleep, eyes wide with equal washes of hope and disbelief.
“What do you say I go home and grab a few things and then, only if you’re happy with it, I stay here—or in one of the doctors’ rooms at the hospital—and we spend time together...as a family?”
Amanda bristled, wriggling out of his embrace. “I don’t think we can just leap into double-barreling our names, Matthew.”
“I am well aware of that. But I’m also aware that if you don’t spend time with family it’s easy enough to behave as if you don’t have one.”
“What exactly are you saying?” She glanced across at Tristan, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “My parents chose not to be part of our lives. I don’t think it’s fair to judge me for their decision.”
“I’m not talking about your family, Amanda. I’m talking about mine.”
If his childhood had taught him anything, it was that being part of a family, even with its intense, often painful emotional peaks and troughs, took work and stamina and bottomless wells of effort. And, while Amanda might not want him in their day-to-day lives, he was never going to let Tristan feel as alone as he had.
“Oh, well...” Amanda pulled back another step and began tracing figure eights on the marble counter-top. “Is this the part where I need to ask you about your past so we’re on even territory?” She tilted her head to the side and made a goofy face. “Should we have a Who’s Got the Nuttiest Family contest?”
“No.” Matthew bit off the word and turned away from Amanda’s shocked expression at his terse response. “Where do you keep your coffee? Or are you more of a tea girl?”
“Tea,” she answered cautiously.
After a moment he felt her touch her fingers to his arm.
“Matthew, do you want to speak about your parents? Not now,” she added quickly. “But it kind of sounds like you’ve got some cupboards that need airing.”
“No more than the next guy,” he responded, with a practiced cover-up-the-darkness smile. “Look. I obviously jumped the gun on the whole spending the weekend together thing. What do you say we spend the day together instead? Build up to a weekend. Maybe...”
He racked his brain for something a family with a toddler did.
“How would you feel about going to Hyde Park?” Amanda asked.
“The park? Sure. Sounds great. We can see the mounted brigade ride their horses. Tristan would love that—wouldn’t you, mate?”
Amanda shot him a sideways look, her teeth capturing her bottom lip as if she were trying to stop herself from commenting.
Mate? Had he just called his son mate? What kind of an idiot did that? A father? Luckily Tristan was too engrossed in a picture book with a clown nose he could honk on each page to notice.
“I was thinking something more along the lines of the Christmas village. There are all sorts of rides and ice sculptures.”
Amanda could obviously see the doubt in his eyes, because she’d put on her best sell-it-big voice.
“They have ice skating and mulled wine—”
“Oh, are you taking Tristan to see Santa?”
Florence appeared at the kitchen doorway, tugging the belt of her floral dressing gown tight and not looking the least bit surprised to find Matthew there in yesterday’s clothes.
“Does this mean our toddling hero, here, is all right?”
Grateful for Florence’s appearance, Amanda diverted her attention to her son and her aunt.
Matthew made cups of tea and wondered how on earth he’d gone from being a tried and true bachelor to almost baring his soul to the one woman in the world who had come closest to wrenching open the door to what remained of his tattered heart.
There was a part of him that hoped she would stick her foot in that door, demand he open it. Be as brave and honest as she had been last night. But there was another, more powerful part that knew when she looked in and saw all the pieces of history that made him whole she’d turn and walk away.
He would. But for this weekend he would suck it up. Put aside his hatred of Christmas and tinsel and twinkly lights. He was going to have fun. Even if it ate him alive inside while he was doing it.
“While we’re at it...” he handed a cup of tea to Florence, then met Amanda’s inquisitive gaze “...why don’t we get this house a Christmas tree?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“WAIT. HANG ON a minute.”
Amanda stopped and turned to Matthew, just about ready to step onto the ice rink with Tristan and his ride-on reindeer. She squeezed his little hand in hers as her she met Matthew’s gaze, her ankles wobbling just the tiniest bit in her ice skates. There was a softness in Matthew’s expression she wouldn’t have expected to see after a full day with a toddler. Particularly one who was refusing to take a nap.
“Mummy! Reindeer!”
Amanda heard her son. Felt the tug on her hand. But she stood completely bewitched by the beautiful blue of Matthew’s eyes. He was looking at her so intently.
“Just a minute, love.”
The blood rushing round her head was drowning out her own voice, and she barely knew if she was speaking to Tristan or Matthew. Their day of carrousel rides, gingerbread men, ice sculptures and even glimpses of the mounted cavalry in Hyde Park had passed in a whirl of adrenaline and laughter.
“Don’t move.” Matthew’s voice was low, reserved for the little bubble of perfection that was forming round them.
As if she could! She even had to reach out to the side of the rink and hold on to give her knees some extra support. Was he going to kiss her? In front of Tristan? The whole of London?
Her heart began thumping. No doubt her pupils were dilating. She felt giddier than she ever had. Like an innocent teenage girl about to receive her first kiss. Matthew’s eyes slipped from hers as the tip of her tongue swept the length of her lower lip.
Cringe! Now he knew she wanted it. Wanted him. Think.
Matthew reached out a hand toward her. Was he going to stroke the back of his hand along her cheek? Cup her face in his hands as he pulled her closer toward him?
Think faster!
How far could she let this whirlwind fairy tale day go? Far enough to let herself believe that in less than twenty-four hours she was tumbling head over heels in love with the father of her child? That the desire she’d felt for him all those years ago was burning more strongly than before?
“There,” Matthew said at last, swiping the tip of his index finger just below her eye, then pressing his thumb against it. “Eyelash,” he said. “Make a wish.”
Astonished to feel her heart plummeting from her throat to her toes at the absence of a Winter Wonderland kiss, Amanda gave herself a sharp telling-off and forced a smile and a laugh.
“Go on,” Matthew urged. “What would you most like for Christmas?”
You.
Amanda closed her eyes against the dream, sucked in a deep breath and did the only thing she could...wished for a Christmas miracle.
* * *
Matthew hardly recognized himself. He of Great Grinch status was merrily shouldering a seven-foot Christmas tree across a Bedford Square with a beautiful woman by his side and his son—his son—half asleep on her shoulder.
He’d noticed how quiet Amanda had become after the eyelash incident and wondered if she was beginning to have second thoughts about this whole “happy families” charade they’d been playing out all day.
The thought shifted and scraped against his conscience.
That wasn’t fair and it wasn’t accurate. They had been happy—had genuinely enjoyed themselves. They just weren’t a family. Not yet anyway.
He glanced over at Amanda, who was digging into her pocket for her keys.
“All right?”
“Yes,” she whispered, “Just trying to get the keys without disturbing Tris.”
“Here.” Matthew leant the tree against the side of the house, surprised to notice it was already gathering its own layer of snowflakes. “I’ll take him.”
“Are you sure?” Amanda’s brow crinkled slightly and her arm tightened ever so slightly against Tristan’s back.