Just one kiss (The Ashcrofts Book 1)

by Anderson, Poppy J.

  “Damn it, Patrick!” Peter bellowed. “You spent more than a month in Chicago, and now you’re—”

  “Peter,” he growled, before taking a deep breath. “Shut up now.”

  “I know! I know your … daughter was very ill,” he griped. “But that’s not a valid reason for letting business slide. Even less so if she’s better now. You should come into the office, Patrick.”

  There was only one thing for Patrick to do: give his friend a kick in the ass and make it clear that this was still his company, not Peter’s. Just because Peter was his oldest friend, that didn’t mean he could make all the rules, or even berate him for making his daughter a priority. If Peter didn’t understand that, it was his problem, but Patrick wouldn’t listen to him judge him or his relationship with Audrey, least of all in such a condescending, overbearing manner.

  “It’s none of your business what I do,” he said coldly. “My daughter is my top priority, and I’ll return to the office when I decide I should!”

  He hung up without waiting for an answer.

  Throwing his phone on the bed, he marched into the bathroom to shave. He’d barely grabbed the shaving cream and looked at himself in the mirror when Audrey shyly stuck her head in and gave him an inquisitive look.

  He could feel his face brighten immediately. “Good morning, love. Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well, Daddy,” she whispered, holding on to the doorframe with her small hands and absentmindedly swinging one bare foot across the floor. Like her father, she was still in her pajamas. Only, he was wearing long pajama pants, and she was in a nightdress with pink polka dots.

  He smiled and tilted his head to spread shaving cream on his cheeks. “Are you checking on me to see what’s taking so long?”

  “Mm-hm,” she said, blinking up at him.

  He almost laughed at the way she studied the shaving cream on his face in speechless fascination. “I need to shave before we have breakfast. Go tell your mommy I’ll be right down. Or do you want to stay and watch?”

  That must have been what she was waiting for, because she let go of the doorframe and climbed onto the chair next to the sink.

  While Patrick shaved with silent concentration, Audrey stared at him, no less focused. She was frowning, her mouth twisted in deep thought. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Is that whipped cream?”

  He almost cut himself guffawing. “No, not whipped cream,” he said, still laughing as he turned his head the other way. “It’s shaving cream. I need it to shave off the stubble in the morning.”

  “What happens if you don’t shave, Daddy?”

  “I get a long beard,” Patrick mumbled.

  “Like Santa Claus?”

  “Sort of, yeah.” The urge to laugh out loud returned, stronger than ever. He cleared his throat. “My beard wouldn’t be as white as Santa’s, but after a while, it’d be just as long.”

  “I like you better without a beard,” Audrey declared with great sincerity, only to inform him in the next instant, “Mommy doesn’t shave her face and she doesn’t have a beard. But she shaves her legs. Do you shave your legs, too?”

  Patrick shook his head, fighting back a memory of Rome. Six years ago, he’d stood in a tiny bathroom with a defective faucet, shaving in front of an old mirror, while Amy had lain in the tub behind him.

  That seemed like such an incredibly long time ago, like a different life altogether. So much had happened since then. He could hardly believe he’d spent those carefree weeks with Amy.

  “I don’t shave my beard or legs,” Audrey prattled on. “But I need to wash my feet every night, because Mommy says you can’t go to bed with dirty feet.”

  “She’s right,” Patrick confirmed in a serious voice and wiped off the rest of the shaving cream. Then he turned on the water, rinsed his face, and grabbed a towel to dry himself off. “Dirty feet don’t belong in bed. Show me your feet! Are they dirty now?”

  “Daddy!” Audrey squealed happily, trying to hide her feet from him. “Don’t! My feet are clean!”

  He laughed and tickled the sole of her right foot.

  Remembering her recent surgery, however, he kept the messing around to a minimum. Scooping her into his arms quickly, he made as if to grab her feet again and carried her into the adjacent bedroom.

  “My feet are always clean,” she claimed, letting him put her down in an armchair.

  “That’s good to know.” Patrick grabbed a T-shirt and slipped it over his head. His voice was muffled as he chuckled. “Little girls with dirty feet aren’t allowed in this house.”

  “Daddy?”

  He stuck his head out of the tee, ran a hand through his hair, and met Audrey’s inquisitive gaze. “Yes, honey?”

  “Do all men have hair on their chests?” She pointed at his chest, which was now covered by the T-shirt. “Mommy doesn’t have any, but you do.”

  Scratching his forehead, he tried to come up with a way around this conversation. It could lead to him having to explain the differences between boys and girls. No, Amy would be better suited to that job. But just then another possibility formed in his mind … This conversation could lead to some good info. But he had no idea how to bring it up in such a way that Audrey wouldn’t go chattering about it to her mother.

  Ambling to his dresser, he thought about it and grabbed a pair of socks. “Most men have hairy chests, yes.”

  Audrey looked at him thoughtfully. “Why?”

  “Uh … so they won’t get cold,” he improvised. Then, trying to sound as casual as possible, he asked, “Have you asked anybody else about this stuff? Maybe a friend of your mommy’s? Does, uh, does your mommy have a male friend?”

  “A friend?” Audrey piped up excitedly. “Mommy has lots of friends! Mr. Michaels is my favorite. Mommy and I sometimes bring him cake, when we bake. He’s in a wheelchair, and he lives one floor down from us.”

  “Mm-hm.” Patrick kept rummaging through his sock drawer. “That sounds nice.”

  “Mr. Michaels is very nice! Once he even sent me a postcard, when he went to Florida on vacation. There was a palm tree on the postcard. Have you been to Florida?”

  Patrick nodded and closed the drawer with a snap. “But does your mommy have a friend who stays at your apartment for the night and kisses her sometimes?” He didn’t know what had come over him, but it was too late to take it back now.

  Audrey frowned as she pondered the question, but then she brightened and admitted, “Yes, Malcolm sometimes sleeps over.”

  Patrick stiffened. “Malcolm?”

  Audrey nodded triumphantly. “Sometimes he can stay overnight on a weekend, if Mommy says yes. But sometimes he’s grounded and can’t come. The last time he was there, Mommy made us a blanket fort on the floor, and we watched cartoons. And when it was time to sleep, she kissed us both good-night.”

  “Audrey,” Patrick asked, suppressing a chuckle, “how old is Malcolm?”

  “He’s five, but he’ll be six really soon,” she said seriously.

  And that’s what he got for trying to manipulate his five-year-old. Patrick laughed and picked up his daughter. “Let’s go downstairs and have breakfast before you starve.”

  ***

  They’d barely finished their breakfast when Patrick’s mother entered the dining room. “Audrey, honey?” she asked cheerfully, and Patrick saw Amy tense the tiniest bit. She’d spent the entire breakfast sitting next to Audrey looking visibly uncomfortable. Eleanore didn’t seem to notice, though, because she continued addressing the little girl. “Your aunt just called me and asked if you’d like to visit her in a little bit. She wants to meet you. Your cousins are with their dad today, but she’d like to have us for tea.” She glanced in Patrick’s direction. “Girls only,” she added in a stage-whisper.

  Patrick made a face. On the one hand, he disliked his sister meddling in his affairs and stealing precious time with his daughter. But, on the other hand, he knew Barbara’s penchant for elaborate tea parties, so he thankful no
t to be invited.

  “Tea?” Audrey looked up, confused, from her empty plate, which had been heaped with scrambled eggs and bacon and pancakes shortly before.

  “Well,” Eleanore said with a conspiratorial wink, “I suspect there’ll be hot chocolate for you, too.”

  Audrey didn’t raise any further protest. Amy, however, looked tensed with misgivings as Eleanore addressed her.

  “Of course, you’re invited as well, dear.”

  Amy ventured a shaky smile, but it told everyone in the room—except maybe the five-year-old—that she knew full well that Barbara’s invitation had not really included her.

  “Thank you, Eleanore, that’s really kind, but I’d rather stay here and rest a little. I can still feel the stress of the last few days in my bones. So if you don’t mind taking Audrey with you …”

  “Are you ill, Mommy?”

  “No, sweetheart.” Amy shook her head and smiled. “I’m just a little tired. You go have fun with Grandma and your aunt, and be good, okay?”

  During the ensuing discussion about what dress Audrey should wear to the tea party at his sister’s, Patrick remained silent. He studied Amy’s pale face, which had hollowed considerably in the years since they’d been together. Almost without his noticing, Audrey and her grandmother went upstairs to pick out a dress, and he found himself alone at the table with his wife.

  Their silence was uncomfortable, and they avoided each other’s eyes. Patrick leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee, while Amy stirred hers awkwardly, keeping her eyes down. He couldn’t deny it was a strange situation, sitting at the breakfast table with her again. And he felt like a fraud for acting like it was a harmonious, tension-free morning, for the sake of his daughter, while all he thought about was the giant secret Amy had kept from him all those years.

  “So, you’re tired,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

  She blinked. “Yes, I am.”

  “I would have thought you’d sleep rather well here, given this house used to be your home, too.”

  The clatter of her coffee spoon was ear-splitting in the quiet room. “Is that really necessary right now?” she whispered.

  Patrick shrugged one shoulder. “Is what necessary?” But, despite his pretending, even he couldn’t ignore that there was a hateful tone to his voice when he spoke to her.

  “Must we fight right now?” Amy insisted. “Audrey hasn’t even left the house, and she doesn’t need to hear us argue about this.”

  “Don’t worry, my mom’s distracting her,” he replied. “She won’t hear what I want to say to you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to hear it either, Patrick Ashcroft.” Amy pushed her coffee cup aside with a jerk and made to stand.

  “Ashcroft,” he repeated with a dry laugh. “That brings up one of my points of contention. When I was filling in some forms, I noticed you gave my daughter the last name Gibson. How does that make any sense?”

  “I gave our daughter my last name,” Amy said fiercely. “I think it makes a lot of sense.”

  “But your last name is Ashcroft,” he corrected her darkly. “I should know. I was there when you accepted it as yours.”

  She sighed and ran a hand across her forehead. “My mother’s maiden name was Gibson, if you must know. After I left, I assumed her name.”

  “Well, Audrey will have my name from now on,” he snapped. “I’m going to be registered as her father on her birth certificate, and I insist she have my name.”

  “Do what you want.” Amy waved a tired hand. “I’m not going to object.”

  For some twisted reason, her calm made him even more furious. “Why aren’t you accompanying her to Barbara’s party?”

  She leaned back with a sigh. “Because Barbara doesn’t want me to come, and you know that.”

  “Are you trying to avoid my sister because you’re scared she might give you a piece of her mind?”

  “No,” she snapped at him. “I’m avoiding her so Audrey doesn’t notice that we’re not on amiable terms. She’s five years old, and I want her to have a nice time at her aunt’s.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re taking the easy way out. But that should come as no surprise. I, of all people, know how you like to run away when the going gets tough.”

  She gasped, stiffened, and then stood, coffee cup in hand. “Fine! Now that we’ve established that—”

  “We’ve established nothing!” be barked at her, jumping from his chair so abruptly that it tilted backward and crashed to the floor. He rounded the table toward her. “I’m sick of this whole situation, Amy!”

  “Don’t you think I’m sick of it, too?” She shook her head. “How do you think I’m feeling, here in this house, with you, your brother, and your sister all treating me like a leper?”

  Patrick crossed his arms and stared into her stormy eyes. “Don’t tell me you want my compassion.”

  “I don’t want anything from you!”

  “Fine!”

  “Yes, fine!”

  “You may be here now,” he said, seething with rage as he loomed over her, “but that changes nothing!”

  She trembled with anger, too. “I came here for Audrey’s sake. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “If it had been up to me,” he growled, driven by a desire to hurt her, “you wouldn’t be here either.”

  Her blue eyes widened in horror, as if his words had actually hurt her, and she emitted a tiny cry.

  He felt a pang of guilt that struck him like lightning. Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed her by the arm. His voice was rough as sandpaper with regret. “Amy—”

  “Let go of me!” She fended him off, trying to turn her back to him.

  Patrick shook his head firmly. “Amy, come on—”

  “No!” she insisted, trying to pull herself free, which made him tighten his grip, shaking her involuntarily.

  She let out a piercing cry and dropped her coffee cup on the carpet.

  Only then did Patrick realize with alarm that the scalding-hot coffee must have splashed on her. Swearing loudly, he let go of her , and she staggered backward, grimacing with pain and cradling her injured hand.

  “Fuck!” He stepped toward her and leaned forward to examine her burn.

  “I-It’s n-nothing,” she stammered, trying to pull her hand away.

  He shook his head. “Let me take a look.”

  “No …”

  But he saw between her slender fingers the reddened skin on the back of her hand, and he swore again, this time under his breath. “That doesn’t look like nothing,” he scolded gently, nudging her toward a chair. “It looks bad. Wait here.”

  “Patrick,” she protested weakly.

  He rushed to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawer where they stored Band-Aids, bandages, creams, and salves. The nosy cook peeked over his shoulder, but he ignored her and kept his head low in shame. He felt like a total brute. What the hell had gotten into him? He normally didn’t treat people like that, least of all women. Least of all the woman who was still legally his wife and had birthed his child. He was not a brute.

  Guilt rose like a shadow following him.

  He hastened back to the dining room. Amy still sat where he’d left her, protecting her hand. When she saw him, she shook her head defensively. “No need to make a fuss. I got worse working in the diner.”

  He didn’t comment on that but pulled up a chair and gingerly took her hand, which made her gasp despite his careful touch. The burnt skin stretched taut over her knuckles. “Shit,” he murmured sheepishly. “I’m so sorry.”

  She flinched as he gently spread some ointment over the reddened skin. “I wasn’t paying attention. It’s my fault.”

  He put a small square of gauze over the thick layer of cream. “This is entirely my fault,” he corrected her bitterly. “I lost my temper. I’m really sorry.”

  “We were fighting,” she whispered. “I should have put the cup down. It’s not your fault.”
>
  He shook his head roughly. “No, that’s not an excuse. I’ve never turned violent on a woman. I have no idea what’s wrong with me.”

  Her tremulous intake of breath was loud enough for him to hear. He carefully bandaged her hand, so close to the delicate fingers he’d loved to study a lifetime ago.

  “You’re good at that,” Amy murmured softly. “I didn’t know you knew how to do stuff like this.”

  “I have a few talents you don’t know about,” he said, quiet amusement in his voice. His lips curved into a tentative smile before growing serious again. “Amy, I don’t know what to say to apologize. This won’t happen again. I promise.”

  “What,” she said, trying to make light of it, “does that mean I’m not getting any more coffee in this house?”

  “No, it means I won’t yell at you again. Ever.”

  She was silent for a long moment before murmuring, “You should only make promises you can keep.”

  “I will keep this one.”

  Chapter 9

  When Amy saw Barbara again for the first time, she noticed several changes in her sister-in-law’s appearance. First, she was wearing her hair in a short bob these days, and second, the man at her side was not her husband. And, of course, third, she looked at Amy with such hostile distain that Amy wanted to leave the decked-out table in the garden and spend the rest of the day in her room.

  If it hadn’t been for Audrey, who was utterly excited about playing with her cousins that Sunday, Barbara’s frosty reaction might have spoiled her mood completely. As it was, Amy decided to ignore her as much as possible and instead focus on studying her nephews, Hamilton and Scott, who’d grown immensely in the past six years. The lanky nine-year-old Hamilton struck her as a very sensitive boy, a little shy and reserved, but he conquered Amy’s heart when he took his small cousin’s hand and led her and his six-year-old brother to the swing set, which Patrick had had set up only two days before.