His shoulders dropped a notch. “There’s a difference?”
“I have no idea, but I hate seafood, so the flounder reference kind of creeps me out.”
“Noted. From now on, it’s flailing all the way.”
Her eyes were warmer now. Less wary. “Would you like something to drink?”
“That would be great, thanks.”
She rose, the movement unconsciously graceful. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Don’t suppose you have brandy?” he joked.
“I have wine.”
Even though he would kill for a soothing shot of something, he shook his head. Alcohol was not going to make this situation any better.
“Coffee would be great, thanks.”
She left the room, her bare feet silent on the polished boards. He pulled his tie free, removing it, and opened the top button on his shirt. He could hear her moving around in the kitchen and he stood and walked to the window. There was no view to speak of, only a corner of the neighbor’s roof and a bunch of treetops. He turned back to the room, his gaze once again skimming the clean, modern lines of Charlie’s furniture. This was nothing like his own place, with its mishmash of hand-me-down furniture and haphazard housecleaning. Charlie’s apartment looked and felt as though she’d put a lot of effort into making it just so, as opposed to his place, which was essentially a crash pad and a glorified walk-in wardrobe.
Charlie returned, carrying a small wooden tray with a single cup of coffee and a matching milk-and-sugar set.
“I wasn’t sure if you took milk,” she said as she put the tray on the coffee table.
“You’re not having one?”
“I’ve already had one today.” She made a gesture toward her stomach and he realized she was abstaining for the sake of the baby.
“I didn’t realize you can’t have coffee.”
“It’s one of those things the jury is still out on.”
They both sat again. He cast about for something to say. “How is work going? You were starting to set things up when we last, um, spoke,” he said.
“Work is good. I’ve signed up some more clients. Between new site designs and ongoing maintenance work I’m doing okay.”
“Yeah? That’s great. Really great.” He could feel himself sweating, his armpits clammy with nervousness. “This place is nice. I like your furniture. I need to get some new stuff, but I’ve been holding out till I move into a new apartment.”
Charlie frowned suddenly. “This is stupid.”
“Sorry?”
“You don’t know me. We’re not friends.” She waved a hand in the air to indicate how disconnected they were. “But we’re sitting here having this stupid polite conversation like two old ladies over tea and scones. There must be things you want to ask me. I know there are things I want to ask you.” Her expression was very earnest as she waited for his response.
“I have questions.”
“Good. Fire away. Anything you need to know.” She made an encouraging gesture with her hand, inviting him to speak.
“You go first. I’m happy to tell you anything you need to know.”
“Okay. Are your parents still alive?”
“Yes. Both of them. Still married, too. How about yours?”
“My mother died when I was born, my father last year.”
“Hey, I’m sorry.” Rhys’s parents sometimes drove him crazy, but he couldn’t imagine his life without their warm, steady presence.
She made a dismissive gesture and he was smart enough not to pursue the issue. They might be strangers, but he was starting to get a read on Charlie’s body language.
“What about brothers and sisters?” she asked.
“Two brothers, both older, and two younger sisters, who also happen to be twins.”
“Wow. I guess your house must have been pretty crowded when you were kids, huh?”
“Ah, yeah. I shared a room with Tim until he left home when I was sixteen, and there was only one bathroom between all us kids, so you can imagine the pileups in the morning. Especially when Kim and Becky discovered makeup. Any bathroom-hogging siblings on your side?”
“Nope. Just me. Are there any family illnesses I should know about?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Does being a smart-ass count? Because there’s a high degree of smart-assery in my family.”
She smiled, her first real one since she’d opened the door. Suddenly he saw a resemblance to the woman who’d captivated him so much that night at Café Sydney.
“As long as it’s not chronic or fatal, I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s anything on my side, either. So that’s good.”
They both fell silent. Rhys studied his coffee for a few seconds before asking the question that had been bugging him for weeks now.
“Why didn’t you wake me before you left? Or at least leave your number?” He glanced up in time to see her body stiffen.
“I thought I’d save us both an awkward morning-after conversation.”
“It might not have been awkward.”
She shrugged, her face shuttered. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”
“No. I guess not.”
They talked for another half hour, exchanging personal information, filling in the blanks. Slowly but surely, Rhys began to build a picture of Charlie Long, former army officer and present-day web designer, a picture informed as much by what she didn’t say as what she offered up to him. It didn’t take him long to work out that she was an introvert, and if the apartment was anything to go by, a bit of a perfectionist. She was smart, observant, honest and a little prickly when pushed into corners she didn’t want to explore. He suspected she’d been a good soldier—that she’d be good at anything she put her mind to—and that she probably worked many more hours than she ever billed her clients for. Slowly it dawned on him that given the circumstances of their meeting and the situation they were in, he’d lucked out big-time.
She was a good person, a decent person. Early days to be making that kind of judgment call, perhaps, but he’d always trusted his gut when it came to people and it hadn’t failed him yet.
“I want you to know that I’m up to this,” he said as Charlie finished describing the site she’d completed for her newest client. He’d caught her by surprise and her gaze was unguarded as it met his.
“I know I wigged out this morning, but I want you to know that whatever you want, whatever you need, we’ll work it out,” he said.
“I want my child to know he or she is loved. I don’t want him or her to suffer because of our mistakes,” Charlie said, her voice low and intense and very serious.
“Okay.”
She eyed him steadily for a moment. Then she nodded. “Okay.”
He checked his watch. “I have to go. It’s my nephew’s birthday and Mum is doing a roast.”
“How old is he?”
“Five, going on forty. Mum keeps telling me I was way more precocious than he is when I was a kid, but I don’t think it’s possible.” He stood, automatically collecting the tray.
“I’ll do that,” Charlie said, extending a hand.
“Sorry, no can do. My mother trained us with an iron fist. The Walker men always clean up after themselves.” He thought about his messy apartment. “When we’re in someone else’s domain, anyway.”
“Your mum sounds like a rare and insightful woman.”
“She has her moments.”
Rhys set the tray on the counter in Charlie’s small, neat kitchen. A cookbook lay there, the pages open to a recipe for tarte tatin. Charlie closed the book, a hint of color in her cheeks.
“Trying to teach myself how to cook,” she said with a self-deprecating shrug.
“M
ore power to you. I pretty much live on takeout and toast. Greg keeps telling me I’m going to turn into a fat bastard one of these days now that I’m over thirty.” He patted his belly.
Charlie’s gaze dipped to his waist before lifting to his chest for the briefest of moments. She frowned slightly, then turned away. “I don’t want to hold you up.”
He followed her to the door and stepped into the hall. The neutral expression was back, her eyes giving nothing away as she faced him.
He wondered where all that self-control came from, if it came naturally or if it was a result of her years in the army.
“How would you feel about having dinner sometime next week?” he asked.
She blinked. “I’m not sure…”
“The more we know about each other, the better. This is a pretty full-on situation we’re in, you have to admit.”
Her frown deepened, but she didn’t object again. He decided to take that as a yes.
“I’ll call tomorrow to work out a time and check in after your appointment, okay?”
“Okay.”
He offered her a small smile and started down the hall. He’d reached the top of the stairs when Charlie called out to him.
“Rhys.”
He glanced over his shoulder. She’d stepped into the hall and was fiddling with the top button of her shirt.
“Thanks for calling. And for coming over. I appreciate it.”
He nodded, then, because it seemed that they’d said everything they needed to say in the short term, he started down the stairs. He only registered how exhausted he was when he exited to the street.
It had been a big day. A huge day. This morning he’d been standing on the wharf in Woolloomooloo contemplating the purchase of a million-dollar-plus apartment. And now he was going to be a father.
It didn’t seem possible, or even probable. Even now, after talking to Charlie for close to an hour, a part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop—for something to happen that would allow him to keep living his life in the way that he’d envisaged it. For the second time that day a wave of pure, unadulterated anger washed over him as he contemplated the future.
From a very early age he’d always looked ahead, and he’d always had a plan to achieve the goals he spied on the horizon. As a ten-year-old he’d set his sights on occupying the bottom, rather than top, bunk bed in the room he shared with his brother, and he hadn’t stopped badgering Tim until he caved and accepted Rhys’s new bike in exchange for the lower berth.
When he was thirteen, Rhys had fallen hard for Sophie Goodwood and spent more than six months wooing her to the point where she finally allowed him to kiss her.
At eighteen, he’d looked around the world, decided that I.T. was an area where a determined person could still make his mark and set about gaining the education and expertise that would allow him to one day be master of his own destiny.
Maybe he’d been fortunate, but there had been precious few instances in his life when his ambitions and plans had been thwarted. He’d always found his way around roadblocks, and he’d never taken no for an answer.
But there was no way around a baby—apart from the obvious, and Charlie had already made that decision for both of them. There was no way he could negotiate with biology. This was one roadblock that could not be charmed, wined and dined, bulldozed or outmaneuvered.
He was stuck, whether he liked it or not, and—determination to do the right thing aside—it didn’t sit well with him. Not at all.
He unlocked his car and slid behind the wheel. In a perfect world, he’d head straight home and dig out a large bottle of scotch to drown his sorrows and quench his frustrated anger. In the real world, he was due at his parents’ place at six-thirty. For a few seconds he toyed with the idea of canceling, but he already had his nephew’s present in the car. Just because he’d screwed up didn’t mean Garth should miss out.
Rhys scrubbed his face with his hands, then reached to start the car. It wasn’t until he was pulling on his seat belt that he registered his missing tie and remembered that he’d left it on Charlie’s couch. He was tempted to leave it, but then he remembered the spartan neatness of her apartment.
He turned off the engine and got out of the car. As he climbed the stairs to the first floor, it hit him that this was probably the first of many times that he’d have to put Charlie’s sensibilities and preferences ahead of his own.
Something else he needed to get used to. Somehow.
CHAPTER SIX
CHARLIE tidied the kitchen, washing Rhys’s mug and the milk jug before drying everything and putting it away. She wiped down the counter, even though it was already spotless, then went into the living room and straightened the pillows on the couch.
She was aware of an insistent burning sensation at the back of her eyes and a heavy, tight feeling in her chest and throat, but she staunchly kept working, willing the unwanted feelings to go away. She was plumping the last cushion when she discovered Rhys’s tie crumpled between the arm and cushion of the couch. She picked up the striped length of silk and folded it neatly, placing it on the coffee table. The next thing she knew, tears were streaking down her face.
She used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe them away, but they kept coming. Her breathing became choppy, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to get a grip on herself.
She’d never been a crier. Her father had trained that out of her at a very young age. “If you want my attention, you earn it,” he’d said. And the army had reinforced the notion that tears were a form of weakness, a child’s way of expressing herself. Soldiers didn’t cry. Soldiers sucked it up and moved on.
And yet she couldn’t get the tears to stop, and for the life of her, she didn’t understand why. She’d had a perfectly agreeable conversation with Rhys. Things were looking far better than they had this morning. So why was there this desperate pressure pushing out from behind her breastbone? Why did she feel so fragile and frightened and forlorn?
A knock echoed through the apartment. She started, then used her sleeve to mop her face again as she walked to the door. She squinted through the spy hole, her whole body tensing when she saw Rhys, a small frown on his face as he checked his watch. It only took her a second to join the dots—he wanted his tie, of course. Which meant she needed to let him in.
She took a step backward. No way could she allow him see her like this. No. Way.
She raced to the bathroom, splashing her face with cold water before blotting it on a towel. Rhys knocked again as she exited the bathroom. She pinned a polite smile on her face as she unlocked the door and swung it open.
“Oh, hi,” she said, feigning surprise.
“I forgot my tie.”
She couldn’t quite make herself look him in the eye, afraid he’d guess that barely thirty seconds ago she’d been blubbering like a big baby. She settled for focusing on his left earlobe.
“I found it. I’ll grab it for you.” She pivoted and walked briskly into the living room. She collected the tie and turned, only to find that Rhys had followed her and was studying her with slightly narrowed eyes.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Of course,” she said too quickly.
“Look, Charlie, if I said something to upset you before, I’m sorry.” He sounded both confused and cautious.
“You didn’t. I’m fine.” She took a step toward him, expecting him to fall back and let her pass. He didn’t move, however, and he didn’t take his gaze from her face.
“If you’re fine, then why have you been crying?”
Her first impulse was to deny it, but she wasn’t in the habit of lying, not if she could help it. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
He said it gruffly, but there was an under
current of kindness in his tone that forced her to blink back a fresh bout of tears.
“Honestly, it’s all good,” she said, but she could feel her chin wobble.
“Charlie. What’s going on?”
She felt a tear trickle down her cheek, closely followed by another. Humiliation joined the many other emotions choking her throat. “I’m sorry. I never cry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”
Rhys reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Here.”
She took it and used it to wipe her face, but the tears were getting worse, not better. “I’m s-sorry.” She half turned away from him.
She clenched her hands around the handkerchief, willing her stupid body and emotions to obey her, willing him to get the hint and leave her alone.
“Here,” he said, and the next thing she knew he was pulling her close.
She stiffened and tried to pull away, but his arms were firm around her.
“You don’t have to apologize for being upset,” he said, his words vibrating from his chest through to hers.
She was about to push him away when she felt his palm smooth a circle on her back in an age-old gesture of comfort. Fresh tears welled as the fragile feeling washed through her all over again. She turned her face away from him and sobbed.
“It’s okay, Charlie,” he said, his hand moving in another one of those soothing, gentle circles.
“I don’t even know why I’m upset,” she hiccuped. “I mean, it’s not as though I have to do this all on my own. You turned up. You said all the right things. I should be relieved.”
He took a moment to respond. “Then maybe that’s all this is. Relief.”
She thought about it for a moment, remembering the dizzying sense of loneliness she’d felt this morning when she’d stared down the barrel of going through all this—pregnancy, childbirth, parenthood—on her own.
“Maybe.”
But it still didn’t explain why she’d suddenly turned into a watering pot. She pushed away and this time he let her go. She used his handkerchief to dry the worst of the tears, feeling more and more self-conscious with every passing second.
More Than One Night Page 9