Drawing Me In: A New Zealand Secret Baby Second Chance Romance (Due South Series Book 7)

by Tracey Alvarez

  Ford gave him a level stare, which Harley knew meant his brother had moved from the dopey, just woken up wrapped around my woman state, to wide awake and figuring some serious shit had gone down.

  “I’ll tell Holly to go back to sleep,” he said. “Pour me one. With ice, you pleb.”

  By the time Ford returned, the fire had dampened to a warm glow in Harley’s stomach, and he sat at the counter with another tumbler of scotch beside him. With ice.

  Ford slid onto a barstool, took a sip. Said nothing, nor did he draw attention to the dramatic drop of liquid in the glass bottle.

  The house settled around them, soft creaks and a rustling tap as the wind knocked a branch against a window. Harley closed his eyes, feeling Ford’s quiet strength, his solidarity as a physical thing. His brother would stay silently by his side—all night if necessary—until Harley chose to speak.

  “Bree’s pregnant.” Harley kept his eyes shut and his hand wrapped around the glass, the cool sides numbing his fingertips.

  Ford, who’d been crunching on an ice cube, ceased chewing. “Well. That was one newsflash I wasn’t expecting.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She tell you tonight? Out of the blue?”

  Harley blinked his eyes open, staring at the golden liquid glowing in the tumbler. He eyed up what remained in the bottle and swallowed another mouthful. “I knew something was wrong, so I pushed until she told me.”

  “She’s not happy about it then?”

  “Happy about me getting her pregnant a second time? Jesus, Ford.” Harley set his tumbler down a little too hard, and the bang of glass on the counter jittered through him. He rolled his shoulders forward. “Hell, I don’t know how the hell she feels about it. Shaye came in just after Bree told me and I…” His lungs locked up, emptying of air as if the power of Bree’s statement had sucked every last molecule of oxygen from him.

  “And you ran,” Ford finished for him. “Like a rabbit.”

  Indignation rose like a vicious black tide, but instead of finding condemnation in Ford’s eyes, Harley saw only understanding. And knowledge that out of any person in this world, Ford understood—at a gut-level—why Harley had run like a fucking scared bunny. The dark waters receded, and Harley slumped forward, resting his elbows on the counter and bracing his chin on the heels of his palms. “I prefer like a bat outta hell. It’s more manly.”

  “Nothing manly about turning your back on your woman when she tells you she’s pregnant.”

  Okay, so there was a little condemnation there. Ford was a black and white, no grey kind of guy—which was why he’d so effectively held on to the massive chip on his shoulder left by their mother. Which was why he’d nearly lost Holly, but Harley had dunked Ford’s stubborn head in the chilly waters of reality before he could totally screw up everything. Looked as if it was time for fair turnabout.

  “I’m not turning my back on her. I’m taking some space to figure out what the fucking hell I’m going to do. What she’s going to do.”

  “Don’t you mean what you’re both going to do?”

  “Didn’t I just say that?” At Ford’s narrowed gaze, Harley shook his head. “Give me some credit, man. ‘Course I’ll support Bree and her—”

  “Your.” Ford gripped Harley’s shoulder. “Your son, Harl. Or your daughter. Not just hers.”

  “Whatever. Splitting hairs.” Harley shrugged off Ford’s hand and nearly tipped sideways off the stool. He gripped the counter edge and straightened. “I’ll look after them.”

  “Financially. But will you get your hands dirty in a real relationship with her and your kid?”

  “You mean, stick around and fuck up Bree’s and the baby’s life?” Harley shook his head. “Stick around long enough to endure weeks of sleepless nights and post-natal depression, only to walk away without a backward glance like our father did? I don’t want to do that to her.”

  Ford’s jaw sagged. “Why the fuck do you think you would? You’re not Craig Fitzpatrick—you’re nothing like him. The man’s a loser. Probably ended up in prison or dead a couple of years after he left us.”

  “He’s not in prison. Or dead,” said Harley.

  And to prove how alive and kicking their stupid twinsy bond was, Ford’s eyes widened. “You found him?”

  Shit. Into the proverbial fire after leaping out of the frying pan. Damn whiskey. “He found me. Saw an article about my first Christchurch exhibition in a local paper and he tracked me down.”

  Harley wrenched his gaze from the stunned betrayal on his brother’s face. That meeting with Craig had carved out part of Harley’s soul, showing him a future image of himself that, even now, he couldn’t think about without cringing. “I didn’t tell you because he was an asshole when he left us, and he was a bigger asshole when I met him for a beer that night nearly ten years ago.”

  It was Ford’s turn to drain half of his scotch in one go. He set the glass down with preternatural care and without looking at Harley said, “Did he explain why he left?”

  How could Harley convey that twenty-minute conversation? Even as a twenty-year-old, pissed with the man who’d abandoned them, part of Harley understood the panic his father must’ve felt when confronted with screaming twin boys and a young woman he’d no real feelings for. Harley had sat in that Christchurch bar and grill next to the haggard-faced man, Craig’s grey eyes older and guiltier versions of Harley’s, and had listened in silence.

  “He didn’t love Pania and he couldn’t cope with the responsibility of two kids,” Harley said. “So he left. That’s all he said before I told him to go fuck himself and left him.”

  Did Ford need to know the rest of their father’s sordid story tonight? No. Not with all the other shit raining down around Harley. That could wait.

  “You and I aren’t done with this little fess-up of yours,” Ford said.

  Harley grunted, rattling the ice in his glass. “Figured.”

  “There’s more to this story than you’re telling me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I know this much.” Ford stood and made a get up motion with his hand.

  Figuring he’d gotten off lightly, Harley slid off his barstool, only to be wrapped in a bone-crunching hug.

  “The only thing you inherited from that man is the color of your eyes,” Ford continued. “You have more mana and integrity on your worst days than Craig ever had on his best. And you, brother, would be a great dad and the right man for Bree, if only you’d pull your head out of your nono.”

  Nice sentiments but in some areas of his life, Ford didn’t know Harley as well as Ford thought he did.

  “Thanks.” Harley patted his brother’s shoulder. “Can you ease up on the hugging?”

  “You want to fall on your ass?”

  Valid point.

  Ford sighed and eased back. “How about I dump your smashed self on my couch for the night?”

  Harley squinted at him. “I’m only seeing two of you, so I’m thinking I need another whiskey.”

  “What you need”—Ford wrapped an arm around Harley’s shoulder and led him to the couch, giving him a not-so-gentle shove, so Harley slithered into a boneless heap onto it. “Is to get some sleep and pray your body regenerates your balls by morning.”

  “Won’t happen. Think Bree’s got them stashed in one of her handbags.” With the room having a definite tilt to it now, Harley draped an elbow over his face. Something soft and warm landed on top of him—the fluffy blanket that had appeared on Ford’s couch when Holly all but moved in.

  “I’m so royally screwed,” Harley said to the empty room.

  “Yeah, you are.” His brother’s voice came from the other side of the living room. The lights went out. “It’s called L.O.V.E, dipshit.”

  “You’re the dipshit…”

  The denial slipped off his tongue and spun around his head like a mini whirlpool before sleep pulled him under. Love? Harley wasn’t capable of love.

  And he sure as hell didn’t deserve it.
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  Chapter 13

  Bree had a quick peek of the new baby, Michaela Claire, then she’d slipped away to let the family do what some families did best—love and support each other. Caught up in the excitement of the unexpected arrival, no one had paid much attention to Harley’s sudden absence.

  Bree unlocked the studio door and stood in the hallway, staring at the stairs leading to her apartment. Hope crushed her heart to a small, beating stone. Would Harley be waiting for her? In her bed, the covers pulled aside so she could slip in beside him, a heart-felt explanation of why he’d left on his lips?

  She caught herself tilting her head in the darkness, trying to differentiate between the sounds of the wind and house, desperate for any sign he’d been drawn back to her.

  Silence.

  Bree climbed the stairs and switched on the lights in her empty home. Her empty bedroom.

  She gathered up her laptop and the notebook full of exhibition plans and carried them into the kitchen. On auto-pilot, she made a pot of tea—because she didn’t see a restful sleep for her in the cards tonight—and sat down with her notes. This was something she could do… an action she could take. Confirm details with both local artists and those on the mainland who were eager to exhibit with Harley. Reassess the catering Shaye and Del had agreed to provide. Hope like hell that Harley wouldn’t go back on his word and refuse to provide a central piece of art for the whole damn thing.

  Hope. That word again. A little hope was a dangerous thing, they said. She could attest to that. She’d hoped Harley might not have taken the news so badly. That maybe, after spending time with Carter, a small corner of his heart had softened to the idea of fatherhood. But hope had to have some basis in reality. Believing, even when Harley had made his views brutally clear, wasn’t hope. It was wishful thinking.

  Bree poured another cup of tea and drowned that wishful thinking. Plan, don’t hope. That’d be her new motto. She should’ve learned by now the only person she could count on was herself.

  The knock came from downstairs just as the first ribbon of dawn appeared above the glassy horizon. She knew who it was. He wouldn’t go away, and she’d given him the studio’s spare key—so she stayed curled up in her favorite chair by the window overlooking the bay, with a throw rug snuggled around her.

  Less than a minute later, footsteps thudded on her stairs and down the hallway.

  “Bree.”

  The way he said her name felt like toothpicks under her fingernails, salt applied to an open wound. So many layers of meaning in that one syllable, emotions tumbling through his deep voice, each vying for domination. Apology, regret, guilt, sadness, desire, affection. A plea for understanding.

  She turned her head toward him. He sat on her sofa’s arm in yesterday’s slept-in clothes, his brown hair stuck up in wild tufts on one side of his temple and bloodshot eyes completing the I’ve got a hangover ensemble.

  “You look like shit,” she said.

  The corner of his mouth kicked up then smoothed flat. The fingers of his right hand resting pseudo-casually on his thigh tapped out a rapid tattoo.

  “Yeah. I’m aware. Just like I’m aware you should probably throw me out for running last night.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Bree.” Grey eyes met hers. “I should’ve stayed. Should’ve talked it through with you, but I panicked.”

  “A normal reaction for any man when faced with an unwanted pregnancy.”

  “Normal but cowardly.” He rolled a shoulder. “Ford kicked my ass after I’d finished pouring whiskey down my throat.”

  That he hadn’t corrected the “unwanted” part of her sentence didn’t come as a surprise, but it didn’t soften the additional sprinkle of salt in the open wound either.

  That stupid hope again.

  “Getting drunk helped you see things more clearly, I assume.” Sarcasm, just one of the many services she provided. “Would you care to fill me in on your conclusions? Or more relevantly, has your I don’t want kids stance changed since the last time we discussed it?”

  Harley’s chin lifted, a small smile ghosting his lips. Dammit, the man was aware that bitchiness was Bree’s last line of defence.

  “How about first we talk, all egos and one-upmanship aside? No wasabi challenge, just you and me, dealing with our shit.”

  “You talk a good game,” she said. “So, you first.”

  Harley slid off the arm and onto the sofa, propped his feet on her coffee table and dropped them again at her pointed stare.

  “You’ve heard the basics of my preschool years?” he asked. “Birth father bailed, teenage mum couldn’t cope with twin boys, so her brother and his wife raised us—the G-rated description Ford and I have always stuck to.”

  “Yes.” Bree kept her voice even and her expression locked in neutral, even though her heart clenched in an iron fist.

  Though she’d been late to the tight-knit group of Oban kids, there had always been something different about the Komeke brothers. A secretiveness. A wild animal caught in a trap glimmer in their eyes sometimes, a silent communication that passed between them. The way the two of them would fight like demons to protect the other or to defend kids younger and smaller than themselves from a couple of older boys who liked to tease and torment…and occasionally get physical.

  “I won’t bore you with the finer details of my unoriginal and shitty childhood. Let’s just say Ford and I survived with all limbs present and accounted for, mainly thanks to my aunt and uncle.”

  Harley’s flippancy at his story, which had so obviously scarred and molded a formative period in his life, crumpled the last of her resistance. She rose from her chair and slid onto the sofa next to him. He wouldn’t want her sympathy but too bad. Bree rested her head on his arm and laid her palm on the tense muscles of his thigh.

  “Aren’t you mad at me?” he said.

  “Yes.” But he was big and warm and in pain. And she was still the sucker who couldn’t stop, goddamn it, from caring. “What has that ever had to do with anything?”

  He chuckled softly, turning his face to kiss her temple.

  “You were mad as hell at me the first time we slept together, do you remember? Mad and embarrassed and then so determined to comfort me, even though I didn’t deserve you.”

  That night. When she’d gone to his flat, stripped to her infamous pink bra and panties and waited for him to come home. When he’d returned—edgy and wired-tight with repressed anger—he’d tried to do the gentlemanly thing of sending her home. She hadn’t let him. She’d shoved him into an armchair and had climbed onto his lap instead.

  Heat crept up Bree’s face at the memory of Harley poised above her in his double bed, the muscles in his arms cabled with tension as he’d held himself still. His handsome face for once so solemn, so intense, as he’d again asked if she was sure. Her answer had been a breathless moan. She’d been sure—sure she’d never wanted anyone the way she wanted Harley Komeke. He’d kissed her, taking her small cry of pain into his mouth as he’d pushed home.

  Bree rubbed the fingertips of her other hand along her cheekbone, trying to scrub away the heat gathering there. Not the time to go all nostalgic over her first sexual experience.

  “You’d come from a beer with your biological father,” she said. “And it didn’t go well. You asked me never to tell anyone about it. I never did.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’ve just been talking to Ford about him. Yeah”—he slanted a glance down at her—“I’m in the shit with my brother for keeping that information to myself. I thought I was doing him a favor by pretending I’d never met the man.”

  “Was he that bad?”

  Harley’s mouth tightened to a thin line. “Ford and I built him up in our heads as a monster—the same way we demonized Pania for a long time. Sometimes, as kids, when Mum and Dad had gone to bed, Ford and I would whisper about him. We’d invent these outrageous stories about why he’d left us—he was a spy on a secret mission, an astronaut, a kiwi version of Indi
ana Jones. As we got older and more cynical, the stories changed to alcoholism, drug abuse, doing time. But when I finally met him as an adult, I nearly walked past him. He was just a guy. An ordinary guy in his early forties with salt-and-pepper hair and a little gut pooching over his belt. Could’ve been an accountant or a manager or a bloody librarian, for all I knew. He was me in twenty-something years’ time.”

  “No,” Bree said. “You’re nothing like him.”

  Harley snorted and tipped his head back to glare at the ceiling. “Didn’t I leave you pregnant and alone, just like he left Pania? I’m not so different.”

  “You didn’t know about Carter, and we’ve been through this, you ass.”

  “Yet I’m still walking in the old man’s footprints. Anyway”—Harley waved a dismissing hand before she could argue again—“I thought I didn’t care why he’d left. Rob was my dad in every way that mattered. I was just curious enough to meet him, perhaps a small part of me hoping he’d had a crappy life since he’d walked away from his family. Turns out, we weren’t his only family.” He gave a bitter laugh and shook his head.

  “He told me he and his girlfriend had an on-again off-again relationship. They already had one kid together, but when she got pregnant with the second one he bailed. He hooked up with Pania soon afterward, and prince that he was, knocked her up, too. Trying to do the right thing—his words, not mine—he stuck with her during her pregnancy, but twin boys were his breaking point. After a few months of the reality of living with a girl he never really loved in the first place, he went back to girlfriend number one.”

  “Nice guy, leaving a sixteen-year-old girl with twins.”

  “Said he paid child support.” Harley shrugged. “Maybe he lied, but maybe he actually did, and Pania spent it on booze and cigarettes. It doesn’t matter. He and girlfriend number one and their kids moved out of Christchurch to live with her family farther up the coast. He got a job in a hardware store and fathered two more boys.” He gently removed Bree’s head from his arm and shifted so their eyes met. “He told me he was trying to be a good dad to them.”