Date With a Single Dad

by Ally Blake

  She saw Nick’s shadow before she saw him. He rounded the bend and stopped when he saw her. Lydia instinctively smoothed down the skirt of her layered sundress. She waited while he crossed the courtyard towards her. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ he replied. And then, ‘You’ve finished early. I thought you wouldn’t be leaving for another hour or so.’

  His words sharpened the suspicion that he’d been deliberately avoiding her. For a moment that hurt—and then she looked into his eyes and caught a glimpse of something that turned everything on its head. She saw a definite flicker of desire in their hazel depths.

  And then she remembered something else. He’d said she was beautiful. With sudden clarity she realised he’d meant it and now she saw it in his eyes.

  So why avoid her? That part didn’t make any sense. Unless he still thought she was the kind of journalist who’d sell any kind of story. Did he still think that? It felt very important that he shouldn’t still think that.

  ‘We’re going on a picnic.’ His hand rested lightly on his daughter’s head.

  Lydia tossed back her hair, which was lying heavily about her shoulders. ‘I know.’ She smiled down at Rosie. ‘And you’ve raided Christine’s cupboards and taken four packets of crisps.’

  ‘Do you think I’ve over-catered?’

  Lydia felt a smile tug at her lips. ‘Probably not.’ Small lines fanned out at the edges of his eyes. Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.

  On some level, somewhere, she had to believe there was a very good reason why he’d not worked harder on being involved with Rosie’s life. Seeing him with his daughter now it seemed incredible that he hadn’t.

  ‘Is Wendy tired?’

  ‘No. Well, not particularly. She’s gone for a sleep now, but we finished early because we’d got to a sensible place to stop.’

  In fact, they’d almost finished altogether. Did he know that? Wendy had already been more helpful than anyone had anticipated. One more visit would probably be all that was necessary—and then there’d be no reason to return here. She might never see Nick again. All of a sudden it seemed incredibly important that that shouldn’t be allowed to happen.

  Rosie tugged on her dress and signed for her to come with them. She pointed out into the garden and Lydia would have loved to simply nod. Instead she glanced uncertainly across at Nick, not even knowing whether he would have understood what his daughter was saying.

  His expression looked slightly rueful. ‘Would you like to join us?’

  Lydia bit nervously on her lip. Did he want her to join them, or didn’t he? Looking at him now, she couldn’t see the faintest trace of the desire she’d seen earlier and all her lovely confidence faded.

  As though he sensed her uncertainty, Nick added, ‘We’ve got plenty of crisps.’

  Lydia smiled and held tight on the young hand in hers. It was all the encouragement she needed. ‘I’d love to join you.’ She looked down at Rosie and nodded. She was rewarded with a sunny smile before Rosie shook free and tore like lightning across the lawn.

  ‘You’d think she’d be too hot to run like that, wouldn’t you?’ Nick observed beside her.

  She had to ask. ‘Do you mind me joining you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  His reply was just a little too automatic. It made her wonder what he’d have said if he wasn’t quite so ‘British’. What did he think of her? She really wanted to know. At least she did if he’d revised his first impression of her. If not … well, if not she probably didn’t want to know.

  Lydia clipped her keys on to her belt. ‘Do you want me to carry anything?’ she asked, looking at the backpack, rolled up picnic rug and a purple-coloured plastic box.

  ‘No. I’m balanced.’

  She nodded and turned to walk with him across the lawn. It took an almost superhuman effort not to ask him about Anastasia, or Ana as he called her. She wanted to know whether there was any possibility of Rosie living with her mother again or whether she was settled at Fenton Hall for good.

  Instead she asked, ‘Is it Rachel’s day off? I haven’t seen her today.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s a college day.’

  ‘But she’s happy here?’

  ‘So she says,’ Nick replied. ‘Rosie’s ecstatic.’

  Lydia nodded and wondered what to say next. She looked about her, taking in the formal rose garden near the house. ‘Do you have a favourite picnic spot?’

  ‘Not yet. This is a first for me.’

  Of course he wouldn’t have. Lydia watched her feet as they trod through the grass. He wouldn’t have gone on a picnic because this was his first summer with his daughter. Seeing him with Rosie it was difficult to believe—and another thing she wanted to ask him about, but really mustn’t.

  ‘My preference today is for shade,’ he said, looking down at her. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Shade’s good.’

  His smile twisted and then he asked, ‘What was it you wanted to ask?’

  Lydia gave a short laugh. ‘How could you tell?’

  He merely shook his head.

  ‘Am I really that obvious?’

  ‘To me.’

  She looked away at the warm expression in his eyes. It scared her, but excited her too. The juxtaposition between the two extremes made it confusing. She hurried into speech without stopping to think whether it was wise or not. ‘I was only thinking this must be your first summer with Rosie.’

  ‘Apart from the summer she was born,’ Nick agreed easily. ‘She was nine months old when Ana left me.’

  Anastasia Wilson had left him. That was a thought that was going to take a bit of getting used to. It didn’t seem possible that any woman would prefer the overly bronzed playboy she now lived with over Nick.

  But it was now or never. Lydia took a shallow breath. ‘Anastasia Wilson. Wendy told me.’

  ‘Did she?’ His expression was inscrutable. It was really unnerving not to be able to tell what he was thinking, particularly when he seemed to be able to read her perfectly well.

  ‘I—I asked her whether Rosie’s mother had died.’ She twisted round the gold bangle on her wrist.

  ‘Ana?’

  Lydia smiled. ‘That’s exactly what Wendy said. I’d not heard her referred to as anything other than “Ana”, so I didn’t know who she was.’

  ‘Did Wendy tell you anything else?’

  Lydia reviewed her options. She bit down on her lip. She could tell him Wendy’s views on marriage, which he probably knew. Or that she hadn’t liked his father, which, again, he probably knew. But that wasn’t what he meant and she knew it. ‘She said Anastasia isn’t a natural mother.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’

  Rosie skipped back and pointed at the ground before signing out the picnic mat.

  ‘Over by the trees,’ Nick said carefully, pointing a short distance in front of them. Then he looked at Lydia. ‘What’s the sign for tree?’

  Lydia made the sign, splaying her fingers. ‘It’s an obvious one. Use your hand to make the branches, your forearm is the trunk.’

  ‘I think I can remember that one. It’s more like charades.’

  ‘Most signs are fairly straightforward. The knack is to think in pictures.’

  ‘Such as?’ They stopped at the base of a mature oak tree. Rosie was ready to help unpack everything. Nick laid a restraining hand on the top of her head. She looked up and he mouthed the word, ‘Steady.’

  He slipped the backpack off his back and set it on the ground. Rosie undid the buckle and struggled with the toggle which kept the top tightly closed. She looked up at Lydia, who stepped forward to open it.

  Rosie reached in and pulled out a plastic box and unclipped the lid. Inside were tiny plastic Playmobile figures—a table, pram and assorted other things Lydia couldn’t quite make out in the time they were held up to her.

  Lydia turned round to find that Nick had spread out the picnic rug and sat down. ‘Won’t she lose the figures in the grass? Some of those pieces are
very small.’

  ‘I doubt it. She’s incredibly dextrous and very careful. That box is part of an enormous plastic dolls’ house she brought with her. She plays with it for hours. Far more than anything else.’

  Lydia sat down on the rug and turned to watch Rosie as she set out tables and chairs among the tree roots and carefully balanced people in all the crevices. Quickly it began to take on the appearance of a little community and she moved her people around it, obviously lost in a world of her creating.

  ‘It’s amazing to watch,’ Nick said. ‘It’s almost like she’s directing an epic movie.’

  Lydia turned back to look at him. ‘It’s very creative.’

  ‘That’s in her genes.’ He pulled out a bottle of wine from an insulated bag and glanced at the label. ‘Wine?’

  She nodded.

  Nick unscrewed the top and reached inside the box for a flask of coffee. ‘We’re going to have to drink from the flask cups, but since you’re the guest I’ll let you have the one with the handle.’

  He poured wine into the first cup and passed it over to her. ‘It’s Australian. I’ve no idea whether it’s a good vintage or not, but I like it.’

  Lydia accepted the plastic cup. ‘I would have thought you’d be a wine connoisseur.’

  ‘I’m reliably informed I have no palate,’ he said, pouring some into the second cup. ‘My father was passionate about his wines. He had a cellar built beneath our house which was kept at the optimum temperature. I thought it incredibly dull and cultivated a taste for everything he thought most contemptible.’

  ‘As rebellions go that’s fairly mild,’ Lydia observed, taking a sip. ‘This is nice. I wish I knew something about wines. I hear other people talking about it and they sound so educated.’

  The lines to the sides of his eyes crinkled. She loved the way they did that. ‘I’m sure you can make it sound like you know what you’re talking about. This one is “crisp and refreshing”‘. He held up the bottle. ‘It says so on the label.’

  Lydia smiled. ‘I’ve got no palate either. My dad used to make his own wine. We used to have oil-fired central heating and there was a boiler house just behind the kitchen. Dad used to say it was the perfect place to ferment wine.’

  ‘Was it good?’

  ‘Terrible,’ she said on a bubble of laughter. ‘If I’m honest, it all tasted a little bit yeasty. The absolute worst was parsnip, although he made a potato wine which was pretty unpleasant … but drinkable with cheese.’

  Nick’s eyes glinted across at her and she felt a burst of sheer happiness. She could get used to this. Lazy summer days, picnics with wine, Nick …

  She could get used to Nick.

  The way his dark hair curled at the back of his neck. The way he focused his attention on you when you talked and made you feel important. She loved his slow laughter and the easy way he moved. Lydia watched as he unpacked the food from the picnic box and laid it in front of the rug. It was companionable. Easy. There were so few days in her life when she did something for no other reason than it gave her pleasure.

  ‘Explain to me what you meant about thinking in pictures when you sign.’

  ‘Well …’ Lydia glanced over at Rosie, still playing in the shade of the tree. ‘Rosie might prefer you to use sign support, which would mean you’d follow normal speech patterns, but BSL is different.’

  ‘BSL being what the interpreters use in the bottom right of the television screen?’

  Lydia nodded. ‘British Sign Language. If you wanted to sign a story about a man standing on a bridge you need to build up a visual image with your signs. If you sign “man” first you’ve got him in a vacuum which doesn’t mean much.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You paint a picture. You start by signing “bridge” because that’s where it all happens. If it’s important where the bridge is you fill in what’s around it. Maybe put in nearby trees … or a stream. A castle, if that’s what’s there.’

  Nick smiled. ‘I’ve got the sign for tree.’

  ‘You place everything in your picture and only then do you bring in the man. He can be on the bridge or by the bridge, walking across the bridge or jumping off it. Everything is shown by where you place your fingers in the picture.’

  ‘Sounds complicated.’

  She shook her head. ‘It isn’t. It’s actually quite logical.’

  Nick watched the light play on the myriad tones in her hair. Streaks of gold, bronze, auburn and chestnut in a harmonious blend. Stunning. She was stunning.

  He’d known, since that day in the kitchen garden, that he was attracted to her in a way he’d never been to anyone else. He’d thought he’d be able to control it if he didn’t spend time with her, vanquish it. But he’d been wrong.

  Nick watched as she unbuckled her sandal and slid her foot out to let her toes wiggle in the grass. She was unconsciously sexy. Ana struck poses, but Lydia simply was. Her long elegant fingers played with the gold chain at her neck and he saw the small pulse that beat there.

  Avoiding her hadn’t helped at all. Trying to keep away from her had only served to heighten his awareness of everything about her. She pushed her hair to one side and then twisted it round and pulled it through into a knot at the back of her head. Her movements were swift, practised … and sexy. Nick looked away, almost unable to cope with seeing the long graceful curve of her pale neck.

  ‘It’s hot.’

  Nick glanced back. ‘Don’t you like the heat?’

  ‘I’m the wrong colouring. Izzy and I both burn easily. Mum was a true redhead. We both missed out on the hair, but got the freckles.’

  Nick looked closer and saw the fine dusting of freckles over her nose. Fresh, pale and beautiful.

  Rosie brought over a small figure and held it out to Lydia, her hands flying as she told her something.

  Lydia bent over the figure and then looked up. ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘What?’ The vibrant colour of her eyes almost stopped him from breathing.

  ‘The hat is stuck on too tightly.’ She held it out and Nick reached across to take it.

  He’d never believed it in movies when people seemed to imply a touch could be electric, but the merest touch of her fingers sent him into overdrive. Nick bent over the figure and pushed off the medieval headdress it wore, glad when the plastic moved. He looked up to see Rosie had settled comfortably in Lydia’s lap.

  Her beautiful hands lightly touched Rosie’s arms and her head bent and softly kissed the top of his daughter’s hair. Nick swallowed the lump that had settled in his throat.

  He was falling in love with her.

  Please, no. Never again.

  If a miracle happened and Lydia could be persuaded to stay for him, it couldn’t last. One day she’d wake up, just like Ana, and realise she was bored. There was no point pursuing something that couldn’t have a future. Particularly since this time, he had the strongest feeling, he would never recover.

  After a moment he held out the figure. ‘Here.’

  Rosie leapt up and quickly signed a thank you before taking the figure. It was unbelievable to him that he could recognise the sign as easily as if she’d spoken to him.

  And all that was because of Lydia. If she hadn’t pricked his conscience he might still have been locked in a completely separate world from his daughter. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Rosie doesn’t look like she burns,’ Lydia remarked, her face turned away to watch as Rosie carefully clipped on a different hat before balancing the figure. ‘I always wanted that kind of olive-tinted skin. I always thought it looked exotic.’

  Nick had to turn away. Lydia had no idea what exotic was. Exotic was the vibrancy in her hair, the mystical depths of her eyes, the way the layers of her ethnic skirt swung about her long legs. It was the tiny Celtic toe-ring she wore and nails painted in an extravagant shade of copper.

  ‘She doesn’t seem to burn, but I ought to put some more cream on,’ he said, settling on the prosaic.

&
nbsp; Lydia swung back to look at him. ‘So should I. I never do remember and then I suffer later.’

  ‘Use ours.’ Nick reached into the backpack and pulled out a bottle of sun protection. ‘It’s got a factor of forty.’

  Lydia took the bottle and squeezed a little out into her hand; it shone green in her palm. ‘Is it supposed to be that colour?’

  He felt his mouth twitch. ‘It’s so you can see where you’ve applied it. It fades.’

  ‘So if I put this on I’m going to be green?’

  ‘In the short-term,’ he agreed.

  Lydia looked at him doubtfully, as though she knew how near he was to laughing. Gingerly she smeared green streaks up her arm. ‘You’re sure this fades?’

  ‘It’s a brilliant idea when you have a wriggling five-year-old.’

  ‘I’m not five!’

  No, she wasn’t five. Nick watched as she gently smoothed the lotion up her arms, across her shoulders, up her neck.

  Gingerly she dabbed a faint smear across her nose and blended it in. ‘Have I missed anywhere?’

  Nick moved closer and reached out to touch her face. His thumb moved lightly across her cheekbone. ‘There’s a little bit …’ And then his voice dried up. He couldn’t think what he’d been about to say. He only knew how it felt to be touching her. Really touching her.

  Her eyes were wide, flecked gold and stunningly beautiful. He saw her lips part softly and heard her sharp intake of breath.

  God held him. He felt as if he was being drawn in as surely as a fisherman brought in his catch. It was inevitable. No escape.

  He’d been fooling himself thinking there was still time to save himself from hurt—he already loved her.

  And he wanted to kiss her. Make love to her. He so desperately wanted to make love to her.

  There was no choice any more. He would settle for whatever she could give him for as long as she could give it.

  ‘You’re so beautiful.’ He murmured the words against her mouth as his lips closed against hers. His hand twisted in through the soft knot at the back of her head and dimly he was aware of the cascade of hair that fell like a curtain about her shoulders.

  Her lips trembled beneath his as though she was uncertain and then she relaxed into him. And for one moment all he could think of was her and how incredible it felt to hold her.