by Ashe Barker
Then, four summers ago, she had found herself on holiday in Spain with three single friends from the office. Somehow the normal rules hadn’t seemed so important there, and she’d ended up in bed with a rather charming Spanish lifeguard called Sebastien. And the rest was history.
After the first shock had worn off, when she’d discovered she’d come back from Spain with more than a stuffed donkey and bikini stripes to show for the adventure, Rachel had embraced this whole new life with a vengeance. She had never—not once—considered terminating her pregnancy. Indeed, she half wondered if she’d subconsciously done this on purpose—a sort of body clock taking over thing. In any case, Jacob was an absolute gift, she adored him, and she re-arranged her entire life around him. She had resigned from her job as soon as she’d known she was pregnant and had started her own business. Her reputation was such that she’d had no trouble attracting the first few clients, even without invoking the wrath of her previous employer by poaching their accounts. She had soon been bringing in enough each month to keep her afloat, and maybe she could step it all up a little later on, once the baby was here and she was settled again.
Somehow she hadn’t quite reached that stage yet, but she was content. She was comfortable. And she had her wonderful little boy.
And now, at least for the next few days, she had a rather wonderful big boy too. But best not to let him know she’d been watching him. It wouldn’t do to embarrass him, after all. Or herself.
* * * *
“Could you move your van, please. I need to get out.”
Callum straightened, wiped perspiration from his forehead as he turned to his client. She looked remarkably fresh this morning, and had a sort of slightly damp, just showered look about her. While he just felt minging. No hot shower at Kev’s place, no hot water at all since the electricity had gotten cut off. He so needed to move.
“Right.” He didn’t apologize for blocking her in, just groped in his jeans pocket for the keys to his battered old black Transit and strolled past her. She trailed him around the side of the house to the front, where Jacob was already strapped into his child seat in the back of his mum’s Ford Fiesta. Nice car, he mused, very serviceable. Like its owner. Except she wasn’t about to let him service her any time soon. Pity.
He smiled at the kid as he passed and hopped up into his own van. He backed it out of the drive, then waited in the road for the Fiesta to emerge from the gate. When she’d gone he maneuvered his van back into the driveway, tucked it around the side of the house out of her way, then got back to work.
The low growl of her diesel engine about twenty minutes later told him she was back. The crunch of tires on gravel as she pulled into the drive. The engine died and seconds later the car door slammed shut. Just one car door, so that meant she hadn’t brought the kid back with her. School? No, too young, surely. Nursery then. He shrugged and got on with piling soil into his, or rather her, wheelbarrow.
Chapter Two
“I’ve got soup.”
The quiet, feminine voice startled him. He hadn’t heard her approach, so she must have come out of the back door this time. Watching him when she thought he couldn’t see her, and now sneaking up behind him. She made him uneasy, edgy even. Truth was, he was itching to get his hands on her. His grubby, rough hands all over her smooth perfection. Not that he would. Well, not unless she asked very nicely.
She shifted, dropped her gaze again as she started to back away. Callum realized he’d been glaring at her. Shit—no good came of scaring his customers. But there was something about her manner, her shyness, that appealed. That seemed familiar. Surely she wasn’t…? Wouldn’t…? Would she?
“I’m sorry. I was miles away. What did you say?” He pushed his lips into a grin of sorts. The friendliest he could conjure up at short notice. But he was trying.
“Soup. Carrot and coriander. I made it. Lots of it. Too much just for me and Jacob. I wondered if you’d like some. For lunch or maybe you could take some with you…”
Her voice trailed away, and he pulled himself up short as he caught himself glaring again. Bad habit. But soup! Did he look like the carrot and coriander sort? He was about to refuse, as politely as he could manage, but something stopped him. Maybe her obvious nervousness around him—was she actually shaking? And he did like carrots at least. Occasionally.
“Thank you. Soup would be…nice.” Had he actually just said that?
Apparently he had because she smiled, her face lighting up before she dropped her gaze again. But not before he noticed she had green eyes, reminding him of a rather nice BMW he’d once nicked. Her hair was a definite red now he saw it up close, with chestnut highlights. He smiled back. A real smile this time, his pleasure genuine because she was sweet, nice, and he was beginning to think she might be so much more.
“Would you like to join me? Unless you’ve got other plans, of course…”
‘Other plans’ would have extended only as far as the fish and chip shop two streets away. He found himself accepting her invitation to lunch, and it was not until afterwards that he remembered he was filthy, hadn’t showered in days, and probably smelled like moldy cheese. Still, it was done now. And he could always have his soup outside.
Except she had other ideas. “Great. Lovely. Just come on inside then, when you’re ready. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
* * * *
And so she was, all homely and sweet and wholesome, folding freshly washed laundry into a pile for ironing, as he entered from the back garden. He estimated her to be around forty, almost twice his age, but shit, she was still hot. In a moment of weakness his unruly mind conjured up a distinctly graphic image involving Mrs Saunders, her ironing board, and maybe a couple of clothes pegs. She’d be naked, naturally, and draped on her back along the length of her ironing board, her hands secured beneath it. Her thighs would be spread wide, her pussy slick and glistening, open to his touch. The clothes pegs would be pressed into service as nipple clamps. Crude perhaps, but perfectly functional. Maybe he could even find another one for her clit…
His cock started to harden as he warmed to his theme so he stifled it, fast. He was here to eat. He cleared his throat, then, “I need to wash my hands, if that’s alright?” And the rest!
“Of course. Help yourself. I’ll get your soup.”
She drifted across the large kitchen to rummage in a cupboard, pulled out two pretty yellow and blue bowls then set them on the worktop next to the stove. A large pan sat there, wisps of steam floating from its surface. Mrs Saunders picked up a spatula and stirred its contents gently before ladling generous helpings into each bowl. She carried them carefully over to the table under the window then set them down. Moving up close to Callum as he rinsed his hands under the warm tap, she dug in the drawer next to the sink for cutlery. He was amazed—her closeness was doing nothing to help reduce his inconvenient hard-on. It might be just her, that pleasant, flowery smell perhaps. Not overtly and intentionally sexy perhaps but still, there was a distinct—something—about the alluring Mrs Saunders of the downcast eyes and inappropriately placed rockery.
He eyed her over his shoulder, strangely irritated at the effect she was having on him. She seemed oblivious to his growing discomfort, concentrating on sawing huge chunks of white bread from a fat, round loaf. He had a suspicion the bread was home-made too. Walking somewhat awkwardly he managed to seat himself at the table and grabbed the napkin she’d set out for him to drape discreetly over his lap.
The soup was surprisingly delicious. And the bread. He had two helpings of each. They ate in near silence, but Callum was acutely aware of her. It seemed to him intensely awkward that they should be sharing a meal, a table. And by the way she studiously avoided looking at him he suspected she was just as ill at ease. But still, here they were. In her kitchen. Eating together. Eventually, he was first to give in.
“How old’s your little boy, Mrs Saunders?”
“Three. And it’s Miss.”
“Excuse me?”
He wasn’t entirely sure either, in all honesty, but since they were being nice…
“I’m Callum. Callum O’Neill.”
She stretched out her hand politely. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr O’Neill. Callum.” She amended at his slight frown.
He took her hand, noticing once more its small perfection against his rough and, despite his efforts at her sink, somewhat grimy paw. Her nails were beautifully shaped and polished, a pale, pearly pink color, reminding him of seashells. Against his better judgment he allowed another stray mental image to form and focus, an image of those long, elegant fingers wrapped tightly around his cock—a mistake because said cock leaped straight to attention again. Shit. Now he wouldn’t be able to stand up without her noticing it. Still, he loved the softness of her palm against his, and maybe held onto it just slightly too long. She didn’t seem to mind.
He dug around in his rapidly scrambling, testosterone-flooded brain and managed to find something polite. “Me too. And you make nice soup. Rachel.” Lame, but polite.
She smiled, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. Clearly she appreciated his efforts. “Thank you. And you make nice rockeries. Callum.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m sure. How long will it take you to finish it, do you think?”
He shrugged. “If the weather stays decent, a couple more days. Then I’ll be out of your way.”
“Right.” She nodded again, studied her empty bowl carefully. “You’re not in my way. And I might have other jobs for you to do. If you’re not too busy, obviously. Do you have a lot of work on just now?”
Sensing her hesitancy, but knowing an opening when one leaped up and clouted him around the head, Callum glanced up sharply. “There’s always something. Let me know what you need and I’ll try to accommodate you.”
His gaze caught and this time held her emerald one. Neither spoke for a few seconds. Callum was considering all the possible meanings of that phrase, the wealth of potential, and he thought perhaps Rachel’s mind was exploring a similar theme.
“Yes, yes, I will. Definitely. Yes.”
Right, so she’d cracked first. He found a degree of satisfaction in that.
Flustered, she got up from the table and shuffled their empty bowls into a pile for the washing up. That done, she hurried back to the relative safety of her folding. Since his erection was showing no signs of diminishing he knew it was just a matter of time before neither of them could ignore it any longer. Still, he stayed where he was. On impulse, he decided to ask a favor.
“Rachel?”
She paused, a tiny pair of corduroy trousers in her hands, and looked at him nervously.
“Yes?”
“I wonder…” He hesitated. How to ask without it sounding weird? “I’m going straight off somewhere after work. Would you mind if I took a shower here? I’d knock something off the bill for the hot water, obviously.”
He couldn’t help noticing she sagged in relief—what on earth had she thought was coming?
“Yes, of course. You’re welcome. I’ll be going out at around five to pick Jacob up, but just help yourself. It’s upstairs, first door on the left. I’ll leave you some towels out.” She sounded distinctly relieved.
“Thanks. I’ll just be getting on then…” He took advantage of the fact that she was digging in her laundry basket for more stuff to fold, and sidled behind her heading for the great outdoors where he might be able to find a secluded corner in which to subdue his rampant cock. He was out of the door again before she had chance to spot the telltale bulge in his jeans.
Christ, he had an erection. My soup made him hard. Bloody hell.
She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or outraged, but settled for something in the region of quietly smug. The memory of that thick, long bulge stretching the front of those sexy jeans, and his determined attempts to hide it from her, kept a smile on her face all afternoon as she wrestled with the financial affairs of Mr Wright and Mr Hardisty, plumbers of this parish. He was still hard at it—pun intended, she thought wryly—as she left to pick up her little boy at the end of the day.
* * * *
When she returned twenty minutes later she saw immediately that his van was still there, under the trees at the side of her house.
Not that she cared, of course. Not that she was taking notice.
The sound of running water upstairs met her as he let herself and Jacob in the front door. Jacob needed a wee so she took him upstairs to the loo. Could have used the one downstairs, but still…
And that was how she came face to face with a bare-chested, absolutely beautiful young man on her landing, his hair dripping onto his sharply chiseled shoulders and torso, his bare toes curling in her shag pile. His jeans were zipped but unbuttoned, and he looked about as disreputable as anyone she’d ever encountered. Especially on her upstairs hallway.
Callum had emerged from the bathroom still thinking he had the house to himself. He kept a bag of clean, well, not too dirty, clothes in his van and had been on his way to find a different T-shirt to wear when he met Rachel at the top of the stairs. He noted she appeared rather more startled than she had any right to be—she knew he was here at least. Must have, his van was not exactly hidden under the doormat. He was the one taken by surprise.
Not so Jacob. “Hello,” said the small boy brightly, rushing past Callum on his way to the toilet, as though half-naked strangers appeared regularly in his home. Callum was irritated and more than a little surprised at his hostile reaction to that possibility, but decided it was none of his business. Still, it could be. Soon would be if she didn’t stop staring at him. Had he grown an extra head? Or maybe it was his dick with a mind of its own, once more threatening to poke its own head out of the top of his jeans. He hastily fastened the button, but that just served to draw her attention.
And she saw. And blushed. Bright crimson. Wow, he liked that. A lot.
“Mummy! Mummy! Need soap.” Jacob’s shrill little voice echoed along the landing.
For a moment Rachel looked confused, then, “Hold on, I’m right here.” Her eyes carefully averted she managed to pass Callum without actually touching him, and headed to the rescue. Watching her scurry along the landing Callum smiled to himself. Hell, he knew that look, knew exactly what was coming. Or should that be who?
Not now though, not today, with the little lad around. But soon. Very soon.
Chapter Three
The following morning he was at her house before eight o’clock. He noticed that the bedroom curtains at the front were still closed when he turned into her drive, and he purposely parked right in front of her car so she’d have to come and talk to him before she could go out. Assuming of course she was going out. There was no sign of life.
He unloaded his shovel from the van, admired his handiwork so far in the front garden then made his way around to the back where the wheelbarrow was leaning against the rear wall. Just a couple of more barrow loads, then he could start arranging the huge rocks he had stowed in the back of his van, courtesy of an early morning visit to a disused quarry. The barrow was only half full when he heard the click of the back door and turned, expecting to see Rachel emerging with his first coffee of the day. Well, first with her, anyway.
The door was open, but the doorway was empty. At least, it was until he dropped his gaze about three feet, and saw the tiny figure of Jacob, still in his Spiderman pajamas, peeping around the door. He looked to be crying. Callum groaned. He didn’t do crying kids. Not if he could help it.
“Morning, titch. Where’s your mummy?” He was careful to keep his tone friendly enough. Jacob was just a baby, after all.
Jacob sniffled some more, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. Callum shuddered.
“I want my breakfast. Mummy won’t get up. And I wet myself.” The plaintive little voice sounded s
o forlorn he almost smiled. Before the significance of the little boy’s words dropped into place with a solid thud.
‘Mummy won’t get up.’
His heart in his mouth, Callum went up to the small figure huddled in the doorway, and crouched low in front of him. “Is mummy still in bed?” He kept his voice low, not wanting to increase the flood of tears already flowing quite freely enough. The child was in dire need of a box of tissues too, but Callum didn’t feel quite that desperate. Not yet.
Jacob didn’t respond, just stood there sniffling and shifting ominously from one foot to the other. Callum couldn’t help thinking he might be on the point of getting his pants even wetter, but that was not his most immediate concern. He did not like the sound of mummy still in bed, not one bit. He straightened, stepped around Jacob and went inside.
The little boy followed him up the stairs then led the way along the landing to his mother’s room, stopping outside the closed door. Callum pointed to it, his raised eyebrow asking the question. In there?
Jacob nodded, and scuttled back along the landing, obviously of the view that his duty was done and he didn’t have to go in there again.
Callum could recall times when he’d entered a lady’s bedroom with considerably more enthusiasm as well, but he turned the knob carefully, pushing open the door. He peered inside, through the gloom. Despite the bright sunlight outside, the room was in near total darkness. He could just make out the bed though, and the huddled shape under the duvet. On autopilot, Callum strode over to the window and opened the curtain, to find his efforts at assistance greeted by a groan as the shape huddled tighter under the duvet. At least she was alive. Conscious even. That had to be good.