Just Say Yes (Escape to New Zealand Book 10)

by Rosalind James

  No.

  He stopped and stepped away, and she said, “We’re not done.”

  “I’m done,” he said. “Go ahead.” He went and sat on the couch, took a sip of tea, and thought, You are not fifteen. Get it under control. He tried not to look at Chloe, tried not to think about how her hands had felt on him, and failed.

  He was such a bad landlord.

  She turned off the music and said, “There you are, Noelle. That’s better. Keep practicing. Just remember, tummy button in, tailbone down. Your straight back is more important than how far your feet turn out.”

  “Thank you,” Noelle said. “I could tell something wasn’t quite right, but I didn’t know what.”

  Chloe looked at Holly, then. “A bit harder than you thought, maybe?”

  “It doesn’t look hard,” Holly said. “It’s just getting all the little bits right.”

  “Ah,” Chloe said with a smile. “But then, ballet is all about getting the little bits right.”

  “Also like rugby,” Kevin had recovered enough to say. “The most spectacular bits of skill come back to the little things every time. Practice builds precision.”

  “It does,” Chloe said. “Keep practicing,” she told Noelle. “I’m glad you asked me, and if Jennifer corrects you on Saturday—correction’s what you’re there for. There’s no shame in it. And thank you for dinner, and, Holly—for reading to Zavy, too. It was very sweet of you.”

  “Which is a nice way,” Kevin said as he carried the chairs back to the table, “of telling us to bugger off.”

  Chloe held the door for the girls, then put a hand on Kevin’s arm and said, “Thank you.” Standing close yet again. And that wasn’t goodbye. He knew the difference.

  He was holding the door. He closed it. And this time, he slid a hand around her back and let it rest in the same place where she’d touched him, fingers splayed down toward her tailbone.

  It felt so right there, and he was hearing that indrawn breath again, seeing the lift of her breasts. He got a hand behind her neck, felt the softness of those feathery strands of hair, and looked down at her chestnut-colored eyes. She was rising on her toes again, and he bent his head and kissed her.

  It was gentle, and it was so much heat. He kissed her again, keeping it soft but letting it linger, and her lips parted. All that resistance, all that caution—they were gone. She was letting him in. Opening up.

  That was all it took. His fingers were entwined in her hair, her head was going back, and he was kissing her better. Harder, and deeper. Pulling her body against his, and her hands were on his shoulders now, holding on.

  She broke the kiss first. Of course she did, because if he’d had his way, he’d have been walking her backwards straight over to that couch. She didn’t pull away, though. She kissed his neck, which didn’t help matters one bit, breathed him in, and murmured, “I love the way you smell.”

  “If that’s supposed to make me not want to make love to you,” he said, “it’s not working.”

  He felt the shape of her smile against his skin. She gave him another soft kiss, and he held her against him and thought, I am not letting this go. I’m not.

  “Bad moment,” she said between those feathery little kisses on his neck that were destroying him, “when I corrected your form?”

  “Ah ... yeh.”

  “Good to know I affect you.”

  “You know you affect me, you witch.” She was pressed so close, she had to know.

  “I like you too.” Another smile, and she was stepping away from him. “You’re a very patient man.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m getting to be a pretty bloody impatient man, in fact. But I’ll be patient if I need to be. If you’re saying goodnight.”

  She stood there, poised like a nymph who was just about to dart back into her pool, and he wanted to grab for her, to keep her with him, to hold her tight and not let her loose, and he didn’t.

  She said, “I’m saying goodnight. But I’m also saying ... what’s next? I’m ready for something to be next. I should be taking more ... more responsibility, but somehow I’m not.”

  “Could be you’re tired of taking responsibility in everything.” His hand brushed down her cheek, he saw her eyes soften, and thinking was becoming a major effort. “Could be you’re ready to let some of that go, to let somebody else carry it. Could be you can tell I’d love to do it.”

  She turned her face into his hand, and somehow, she was holding his wrist now, pressing a kiss into his palm.

  There was no way that was erotic. Except that it was. Because he was dying.

  “Could be,” she said, and it was a whisper. “So tell me.”

  He tried to think. It wasn’t easy. “I’ve got a game on Saturday night, a match against the Chiefs here in Auckland. I can get you a ticket. Friday’s always out, because, you know, match the next day. But on Sunday, we could do it right. All of it, candles and wine and ... all. Or as much as you wanted. Every bit as much.”

  “Oh.” For some reason, her face had clouded. “Saturday ...” She took a breath. “I can’t. Zavy ... his ... his father is taking him. For the day. I need to be here.”

  He digested that for a moment. “You trade off, then?” He wasn’t sure why that should come as a surprise, but it did.

  “No. I ... uh ... he never ... he never has. Not since he was a baby.” Her hands were twisting, and he looked at those hands and thought, No. That’s not right. “He said, on Monday ...” She breathed again and started to move her feet. Restless, pointing, shifting, tapping. “That he wanted to start. And that’s the first. Saturday. The first time. So ... even if he brought Zavy back before then, I couldn’t be gone.”

  “Why Monday was a bad day.” He couldn’t stand her agitation, her distress. He put a hand on her face again, nothing but gentle this time. She looked up at him with those eyes, and his heart turned over.

  “Yes,” she said. “It was a ... hard day. It’ll be a hard day. Again, I mean.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  She said, “Thank you for making me feel like I could tell you. Thank you for that.”

  She was still poised like a bird ready for flight, and he said, “Do you want me to go? I’ll stay, if you like. If you want to tell me more. It doesn’t have to be more than that.”

  A shake of her head, decisive once more. “No. I’m ... a bit of a mess just now, honestly. I’ll be better after Saturday. It’s just ... this first time. It’s ...” More restless hands. “Hard.”

  “Right.” He wanted to sit on the couch with her, to hold her. Talking didn’t come easily to her, he suspected. Bodies meant more, even if it was just a hand holding hers, an arm around her shoulders, a chest she could rest her head against. “Sunday, then?” He smoothed the hair back from her ear. It was a pretty ear, nearly pointed. No surprise there. “You can tell me then, or not. Whatever you like. But we could try for a proper date. Babysitter and all. I’ll get one of the girls, if that works.” He went on, trying to make it easier, to make it better. “I asked my sister-in-law about that too, you see. She said, if you want to show her you want her, that you care, you pay for the babysitter. That tells her you want her company and you understand her complications. Which just about describes it.”

  “A babysitter,” she said, “would be good. Thank you. Your sister-in-law is wise.”

  He smiled. “Nah. Nosy, more like. Managing.” He bent and brushed his lips over hers once more, gentle this time. “But sometimes, she has good ideas. Sunday, then. You could watch me on TV, if you have a chance of it. If you liked.”

  “But would you watch me dance?” she asked, rallying a bit.

  “I already have. And I would again. I’d love nothing more than to watch you dance, because that’s a beautiful thing.”

  “Then,” she said, smiling a little at last, “I guess I should watch you play. I have a feeling I’ll enjoy it. I also have a feeling you’re good.”

  He kissed her once more. H
e couldn’t keep doing it, no matter how much he wanted to. “I try to be. And for you? I’d try even harder.”

  And then he opened the door again and left her.

  Not one bit satisfied. Nowhere close. But better.

  On Thursday evening, Chloe told Zavy about the upcoming day with his father. It was always better to give him advance notice. The next evening, she told him again.

  “Tonight,” she said in the car on the way home from Carolyn’s, “we’ll pack your things for the morning.”

  “Because the man is coming,” Zavy said.

  “Your dad.” The word still came with difficulty, but she needed to practice it. If Zavy was going to have to say it, so was she. And Zavy was going to have to say it. She’d called her lawyer to make absolutely sure, and she’d be getting the bill to prove it. There was no choice at all, so all she could do was make it easier for Zavy. “One more sleep, and then he’s going to take you all day. But you already saw him at Nana’s house, remember?”

  “Am I going to Nana’s house? With the man?”

  “No, love. I’m not sure where he’s going to take you.” Her hands tightened on the wheel before she deliberately relaxed them. “To his house, I’m sure, and maybe someplace else. Someplace fun.”

  “Does he have TV at his house? Does he have the pony show? Is there lunch at his house?”

  “I’m sure he has TV, and he’ll give you lunch, too. You’ll see what happens tomorrow, and then you can come home and tell me.”

  “OK.”

  She turned into the drive and saw Kevin in the motor court in shorts and a hoodie, rinsing his car off with a hose.

  Zavy said. “I want to go see Kevin.”

  “We’re going to see him. He’s right here.” Chloe’s heart had lifted to an extent she didn’t want to examine. She hopped out of the car, then opened the back door, where Zavy was already pressing unsuccessfully on the release buckle of his car seat. He climbed down and headed over to Kevin at a run, calling out as he ran. “Kevin! What are you doing, Kevin?”

  “I’m washing my car, mate.” Kevin set the hose nozzle into a bucket. “Hello,” he said to Chloe.

  That was all. Just “Hello.” But his smile was so warm, and it went all the way to his eyes. He looked at Zavy again. “How about giving me a hand, mate?”

  “I can help wash,” Zavy said. “I like to wash.”

  “Not what you said last night in the bath,” Chloe said.

  Zavy wasn’t listening, because Kevin had handed him a sponge and said, “Your job is to wash all along the bottom, then, and I’ll do the top. We’ll specialize by height, eh.”

  “Mummy can wash too,” Zavy said. “Because the car is very, very dirty, and Mummy likes to wash.”

  “She does, eh. Mummy can use the hose, then,” Kevin decided, handing it over.

  “Are you sure?” Chloe asked, the mischief sparking inside her just like that. “I could get carried away. I do like to wash.”

  “I’ll risk it,” he said, and there was that smile again. “If you get out of hand, I’ll just have to take your toys away.”

  How could she resist an “accidental” squirt or two at him after that? She waited until he was on the other side of the car, then said, “Let me get that spot,” sprayed over the roof, and caught him right in the T-shirt. He exclaimed and jumped back, Zavy laughed, and Chloe said, “Oh, dear. My aim is so bad. I didn’t even get the spot,” and did it again. And got him good that time.

  The expression on his face made her laugh, and then he was running around the car toward her, and she was shrieking and taking off, the water from her hose splashing wildly. She made it halfway around the car before he got her around the waist and pulled her back into him—and into his clammy T-shirt. When she yelped, he said, “Oh, is that cold? I’m so sorry.”

  “You are not.” She was shrieking again, because his arm was still around her, and his hand was over hers, wrestling the hose away and getting both of them thoroughly wet.

  She was running, then, with Zavy running after her. She picked him up, ducked behind the car, and told an advancing Kevin, “I have a child. You wouldn’t squirt a mother with a child.”

  “But she has such pretty legs,” he said, and, yes, she was jumping at the cold and squealing.

  “You wretch,” she said. “You are evil.”

  “Squirt me!” Zavy said. “Squirt me, Kevin!”

  Kevin looked at her, made a comical face, and said, “Sorry. No choice,” and jerked the hose so it sent a quick splash of water over Zavy’s backside. Of course, he didn’t pull it back fast enough to avoid getting Chloe’s lower body completely soaked, if it hadn’t been already.

  “You are a bad man,” she said. “Zavy, Kevin is a bad man. He soaks girls.”

  “Only if they soak me first,” Kevin said. “And only if I really, really like them.” He ran over and turned off the tap. Somehow, Chloe noted with satisfaction, he’d managed to get absolutely, thoroughly wet himself. His white T-shirt and blue shorts were clinging to him, which was a very good look indeed.

  When he picked up a cloth and started to rub the car off, she said, “Toss me a couple.”

  “Nah,” he said. “I always tell the girls I soak to go get changed afterwards. Especially if they’re little bits of things who get cold too easily.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him, and he laughed out loud. “I am not a little bit of a thing. Toss me two cloths right now.”

  Kevin raised his eyebrows at Zavy. “Mummy’s bossy as, eh.”

  Zavy had been giggling. Now, he giggled harder. “Mummy,” he said, “you’re bossy and wet!”

  “Good thing I like bossy, wet girls,” Kevin said. When she put a hand on her hip and tried to glare at him, he laughed again and threw two rags across to her. “Only because I’m scared of what you’ll do otherwise.”

  She was cold, and she was wet, too, but when he came around to help dry her side of the car, she wasn’t going anywhere. “This is what the big star does the night before the match, eh,” she said, her tone absolutely as saucy as she could make it.

  “This is it,” he agreed, stretching to dry off the roof and showing some completely satisfactory ridged midriff. “One of my pre-match rituals. I did it the first time because I’d had the car out pig hunting and didn’t want to embarrass myself next to the other boys’ flash rides. I scored a hat trick the next night, and after that?” He shrugged. “Shocking, I know, what a superstitious bunch we are.”

  “Dancers are the same.” She was cleaning windows, and Zavy was crouched down, industriously rubbing his cloth over the bottom of a door as if this were the best game ever. “With the rituals. Getting dressed the same way every time ...”

  “Touching the top of the door on the way out of the tunnel.”

  “Getting a kiss before they go on.”

  “Nah,” he said. “We don’t do that one. And our rituals aren’t usually this much fun.” He was close to her now, reaching out to rub a door handle, accidentally-on-purpose brushing up against her again. “My ritual may have just changed, eh. Could be rough when winter comes, but you can’t muck about with rituals.”

  “What’s a rich-ool?” Zavy asked.

  “That’s a silly thing you do the same way every time,” Kevin answered, “because it makes you happy to do it the same.”

  Zavy gave that some consideration, then said, “If you have your frog in the bath every time, it makes you very, very happy. And then you get in the bathtub and you squeeze your frog, and it makes a noise.”

  Kevin said, “Well, yeh. If you have a frog you can squeeze to make a noise, that would be a pretty good ritual. That would be it exactly.”

  “Ribbet,” Zavy said, and Kevin laughed.

  Chloe said, “We’re done, love. Let’s go get dry.” She was shivering, and even though she didn’t want to leave ... Kevin had a match tomorrow, and in a way, so did she. She took Zavy’s rag, tossed it and her own at Kevin, and he reached out and caught them both, s
omehow, in one big hand. His left hand. She raised her brows, gave him a sidelong look, and said, “You are good with your hands, eh.”

  “Oh, yeh,” he said, and there was that heat again, flaring right up and burning off every other thought. “Least that’s what they say.”

  The next morning, Chloe wasn’t thinking about love, or sex, or ballet, or rugby. She was thinking about Zavy.

  She’d been up since five, because she hadn’t been able to sleep, and had had to do Pilates plus a barre for an hour before she felt settled. Zavy had woken cross and contrary, or maybe he’d just picked up on her unease. He’d been fussy about his clothes, had accidentally tipped his cereal bowl over at breakfast, and now, she was helping him change again as the clock ticked ever closer to eight.

  “I don’t want the red shirt,” he said. “I want the blue shirt. I picked the blue shirt.”

  “Your blue shirt has milk on it, love,” Chloe said. “Red or yellow. You choose.’

  Zavy’s lower lip was trembling. “I want blue.”

  “Yellow, then,” Chloe said.

  “No. Red.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Red.”

  The doorbell rang as Zavy was pulling it over his head. Chloe helped him find the armhole, and as his head popped through, he said, “The man is coming.”

  “Yes, he is. Your dad.” The doorbell rang again, and she guided Zavy’s hand through the second sleeve, then got up and went to the door just as the bell rang a third time.

  Rich, trim and well-groomed as ever in a collared knit shirt and slim jeans, said, “That took a while.”

  “That can happen,” she said, then thought, Breathe. Make it easier for Zavy. She stepped back and said, “Please come in.”

  Rich looked around and said, “Nice digs you’ve got. Sea view and all. Good to see what my money’s buying you, I guess.”

  To give him credit, he couldn’t have thought up a more offensive comment if he’d tried. Well, maybe he could have, because he added, “Your mum says you have to move, though. Bit hard with your champagne tastes, I imagine.”