‘So Martin was dying?’ Chelsea asked.
‘I suspect he died for a few moments before you got to him and started CPR. He’s showing no signs of complications so far—other than the heart issues, that is.’
‘Wow,’ Chelsea said again and returned to the closest sofa to flop into because she felt unsteady on her feet. She looked over at him. ‘Is this how it feels every shift when you save somebody’s life? A massive high and an out-of-body experience all rolled into one?’
Tom placed his palms on the bench. ‘You get used to it. But the good feelings obviously keep you going, otherwise this job is tough.’
‘So tough,’ she said firmly. ‘Tougher than thirty preschoolers.’
Tom’s lips curled at the edges. ‘I don’t know about that, exactly.’
She flashed him a smile, then remembered the main reason for her staying up so late. Aside from the saving-a-person’s-life high, that was.
‘So, I talked Darren into giving me my money back,’ she announced, sitting up. ‘He promised to return it next week.’
Tom dropped his gaze and turned to get a glass from the overhead cabinet. ‘That’s great. Did he put up a fight?’
‘Just the usual lame excuses, but he couldn’t really argue with me after I’d saved a man’s life. He knows CPR, but was too chicken to do it.’
Tom cocked an eyebrow at her as he filled up a glass with tap water.
‘I know I have poor taste in men, but not anymore. I’m done with Darren.’ She bit her lip, then barrelled on because there wasn’t a less blunt way to say the next part. ‘I hope you didn’t think I was there with him on a real date or anything like that. Obviously, I didn’t expect you turn up tonight, but I would have told—’
Chelsea stopped speaking when he held up a hand.
‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You can see who you like.’
She stared at him.
You. You’re who I want to see.
Plus, they were currently seeing each other, weren’t they? But she didn’t say that, because she didn’t want to scare him. Their whole let’s-do-everything-but-have-sex situation was still on her mind, and she was treading carefully. There was obviously a reason holding him back, but she had no idea what it was.
‘That’s the thing, Tom. I don’t want to see Darren or guys like Darren anymore. I’m over it. Your nice guy experiment worked.’
Tom grimaced, the glass forgotten. ‘Nadia’s experiment, not mine. And Darren didn’t seem over you to me.’
Chelsea stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
Tom sighed. ‘You know what I mean, Chels. Darren seemed pretty keen to kiss you.’
She swallowed. Oh, no. Tom must have seen more than she’d realised. She cleared her throat and hurried to explain. ‘Tom, yes, he was keen to kiss me, but I wasn’t. As soon as he agreed to return my money, I got him to bring me home.’
‘After you kissed him.’ Tom’s voice was low. It wasn’t a question.
‘What? No! I didn’t kiss him.’ She shook her head at him. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Chels, you can kiss or see whoever you like. It’s not up to me.’ He gestured between them. ‘It’s not like this—us—was anything serious.’
Was?
Chelsea’s mouth dropped open so wide that she had to work hard to make it move again. ‘Why would you say that? First of all, I don’t make it a habit to sleep around or see more than one guy at a time. I thought you knew that.’
Tom shrugged. ‘How would I know that?’
‘Because I don’t!’ she cried like a child protesting her bedtime.
It was true. Despite Chelsea’s long list of failed guys, she could only deal with one useless boyfriend at a time.
Tom walked around the counter. ‘Nadia does.’
‘I’m not Nadia!’
‘You’re shouting, and it’s late. You’ll wake the neighbours.’
Chelsea glared at him. His calmness was really getting to her. She didn’t care about the neighbours right now or the fact that she was getting worked up, but she lowered her voice. ‘Do you think I’m the sort of girl who would see other guys while I’m seeing you? Because that’s not the case, Tom. I wouldn’t do that.’
He stopped in front of her, since she was blocking the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
He shoved a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know what I think, Chels. It’s late. Maybe we should just head to bed.’
‘Your bed?’ Chelsea suggested cheekily, then wished she could take it back. Now obviously wasn’t the time to be making jokes, because Tom’s shoulders stiffened and he stared hard at the floor.
His jaw twitched. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Actually, you know what? Seeing as you brought it up, why don’t we talk about it? Why is it that you haven’t slept with me yet?’
Chelsea didn’t know what had gotten into her. She knew that she was being belligerent and argumentative, and that now wasn’t an ideal time to press Tom about his nice guy ways. They were both tired, but Chelsea still couldn’t believe he’d assumed the worst about her. She knew she was an unlikely candidate for Girlfriend Of The Year, but that didn’t mean she’d go behind his back and see other guys.
Tom’s jaw stopped twitching and noticeably tightened. ‘Leave it, Chelsea. Now’s not the time.’
Chelsea.
Not Chels. But her full name hadn’t been said with affection. It was said with a firmness that only served to annoy her further.
Mr. Nice Guy was so damn nice that he couldn’t even get worked up about their relationship like she was. A perverse part of her wanted to get a rise out of him.
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Now’s as good a time as any, don’t you think? I’ve thought about it, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because you find me unattractive.’
She let the statement sink in. She could have been wrong, but she thought she saw a spark of lust in his eyes right before it was quickly replaced by a hard glare.
‘You know that’s not the case,’ he said softly.
‘Yes, that’s what I thought, too. So I figured it must be something else, like the fact that you don’t trust me. Do you?’
The question hung in the air between them, the early morning silence settling on them. A distant car drove past. The fridge hummed. The clock ticked.
Finally, Tom answered. ‘I don’t trust many people.’
He stepped around her and headed down the hall.
‘That’s not fair, Tom. That’s not an answer,’ she called after him in a desperate attempt to get him to stay and talk.
He paused outside his bedroom door. ‘What do you want me to say?’
Say that you trust me.
‘Tell me the truth,’ she said instead.
His hand came up to rest on the doorframe, like he needed it to steady himself. ‘I want to trust you. But I’m sorry, I can’t.’
He may as well have punched her in the gut, because she felt like was unable to breathe. Somehow, her survival instinct kicked in and she managed to whisper a few more words.
‘Is it because of her? Gemma?’ Chelsea whispered.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t look at her. He simply turned away and closed the door.
The soft click of the latch sounded as loud to Chelsea’s ears as if he’d slammed the door in her face.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chelsea could barely concentrate the next day, which was saying something, because it was normally pretty hard to ignore preschoolers when they were intent on getting your attention. Even Barb commented on Chelsea’s subdued mood.
Kendra’s eyes widened to the size of saucers when Barb asked for the second time that day if Chelsea was all right. Anything more than aloof disinterest in her employees’ lives outside of work was unusual.
Chelsea finally relented and told Barb and the team about the previous night’s events. Not the part when her housemate had told her that he didn’t trust her e
nough to sleep with her, but the part about saving a man’s life. This produced the expected “oohs” and “aahs” from her co-workers and an understanding nod from her boss.
‘An excellent example of how important regular First Aid training can be, girls,’ she’d told them.
After that, they didn’t question Chelsea’s mood again. Despite trying to put on her best happy face for the kids, many of them sensed “See” wasn’t her usual self today. Some of the clingier ones hovered near her legs whenever they could, trying to cheer her up. Chelsea continually marvelled at the kids’ perceptiveness, and found herself getting teary several times.
She told herself that it had to do with the aftershock of helping a dying man. She did her best to put Tom’s rebuff and distrust of her out of her mind. Like he’d said, they weren’t anything serious anyway. They hadn’t even slept together.
So why was Chelsea such a mess?
Because his lack of trust hurt, that’s why.
One of the good things about working in childcare was the hours passed quickly. Before Chelsea knew it, Barb was overseeing story time, and as Chelsea headed towards the break room, Barb ushered her over.
‘Matt will be picking Dylan up soon,’ Barb whispered in her ear. At Chelsea’s raised eyebrows, Barb added, ‘Tori has cleared it. For Dylan’s sake, let’s treat it as business as usual.’
This meant Chelsea should greet Matt and not Barb, as was their old routine. Half an hour later when Chelsea saw Matt hovering near the rear entrance, she rushed outside to meet him before he came inside.
‘Matt. Hi!’ She almost winced at her overly cheerful welcome.
Matt shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and looked down at his feet. Chelsea took the opportunity to take in his appearance. He was thinner than usual and his cheekbones appeared hollow, leaving him with a gaunt look. His skin was paler, too. But he was in one piece, and that was a good start, Chelsea reasoned.
‘Matt,’ Chelsea said less cheerfully, but no less firmly. ‘It’s really great to see you.’
Matt released a tight breath and met her gaze, which seemed difficult for him to do. His grey eyes swirled with emotion.
‘Thanks. Thanks for letting me come here to pick Dylan up.’
Chelsea stepped in close, keeping her voice down. ‘You’re Dylan’s father. You’re always welcome here.’ She reached out and touched his arm briefly to bring home the point.
He released another breath, like he had to remind himself to do so. ‘I got your card.’
‘I’m glad. I wasn’t sure . . . I didn’t know . . .’ Crap. She tried again. ‘We wanted you to know that we were thinking of you.’
‘It meant a lot.’
Chelsea wanted to ask him how he was doing. No matter how good her intentions were, it didn’t seem like an easy question for him to answer given everything he was going through. Instead she said, ‘If there’s anything you need, please let us know.’
‘Thanks.’ He reached behind him and took out an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to her. ‘This is for Barb. It’s the permission form for my mother to be able to pick Dylan up. It’s what we agreed on for the next little while. Until I’m . . . back on my feet, Tori wants Mum present. I’m living with her now. She’s out in the car if you want to come and check that she’s with me—’
Chelsea caught his wrist. ‘I trust you. We’ll wave from the window when Dylan’s in the car. That way the routine doesn’t seem too different for everyone.’
Matt dropped his hand to his side. ‘I don’t want you to think that I’d just run off with him or anything. I’d never ever hurt my kids.’ His lip curled in disgust, but it was directed at himself. ‘This is such a mess. I can’t believe how much worse I’ve made things for us.’
‘Life is messy, Matt,’ Chelsea said gently. ‘Thirty preschoolers is proof enough of that. And you don’t have anything to be ashamed about. Mental illness is tough.’
Matt nodded, biting his lip. ‘I didn’t realise I had a problem until . . . Well, you know. Until it all became too much.’
Hell of a way to find out, Chelsea thought, but decided the best thing to do was keep things as normal for Matt as possible.
‘How about we go find Dylan?’ she suggested.
Little Dylan lit up when he saw his daddy. Chelsea knew for a fact that Dylan was aware of and concerned about his dad, though Tori hadn’t told him about the attempt that he’d made on his life. She’d framed it in terms of how people can feel really sad sometimes and how it can be like a sickness.
Dylan knew that his dad’s “sad sickness” was something that took time to get over, and he had to be patient. Chelsea adored the fact that a three-year-old’s approach to depression wasn’t to try to cheer his dad up. Instead, he simply wanted to be near his dad and was happy to accept him for how he was.
Once they’d said goodbye at the window and confirmed that Matt’s mother was driving, Chelsea headed into Barb’s office to leave the permission note on her desk. Barb’s desk was an exercise in tidiness, and not for the first time, Chelsea hesitated about where to put the envelope. To place it in the middle of the desk would offend Barb’s sense of military style order. At one stage she’d had a tray for files that needed actioning, but she’d recently deemed that too messy and Chelsea hadn’t been made aware of the alternative system yet. Of which there would be one.
‘Damn,’ Chelsea muttered.
Maybe she’d just leave it between the keyboard and the computer monitor. At least that was somewhere safe but not in the middle of everything. Chelsea ducked behind the desk and set the envelope in the most inoffensive location possible, but accidentally knocked the mouse as she did so.
Chelsea blinked as the screen came to life, showing Barb’s inbox. For all of Barb’s fastidious ways, she still hadn’t caught up to the twenty-first century and didn’t appear to have a password on her computer. Chelsea should probably show her how to set one, but then that would involve making a suggestion regarding their mighty leader’s processes, and they all knew how that would go down.
Chelsea turned to leave, but the name of an email caught her eye.
RE: Chelsea Cartwright. From: The University Of Newcastle.
‘Oh, shit,’ Chelsea said.
The forms. The university application forms. How stupid was she? She’d listed Barb’s business as her employer in the section about gaining additional credit, but she hadn’t actually thought they’d contact her boss personally. Or at least not without Chelsea’s consent.
Chelsea collapsed into Barb’s desk chair.
Clearly Chelsea filling out the forms and signing them communicated her consent for the university to reference check her employer. It was probably in the fine print somewhere, which she was sure she’d read. However, by the time she’d finished the forms, her hands had been shaking and she couldn’t believe she was actually doing it, so it was completely possible that she’d missed that part.
What was she going to do?
Come clean, obviously. But this wasn’t how she’d wanted things to go. She’d planned to tell Barb at some stage. Some stage meaning the day she started her classes, most likely.
Chelsea quickly closed the email so Barb wouldn’t know she’d seen it. Her gaze involuntarily fell on the email after hers and she blinked.
It was something from John Hunter Hospital—Newcastle’s major hospital.
Don’t open it, Chelsea. Do not open it.
Of course, she opened it.
‘Oh, God,’ she breathed. ‘Barb, no.’
It contained details from a heart specialist about an upcoming surgery. Something related to cardiomyopathy, whatever that was. The patient was listed as Barbara Summers. Hand shaking, Chelsea closed the email.
Barb had heart problems? She hadn’t said a word to anyone here. Not a soul. Unless she’d told one of the other girls, but Chelsea seriously doubted it. Chelsea was the most senior here below Barb, and she couldn’t imagine Barb telling the younger girls be
fore her.
In a daze, Chelsea forced herself to stand. Barb was a widow. She’d lived alone as long as Chelsea had worked for her. There was the occasional mention of a sister nearby, and less common references to her deceased husband, who it sounded like she’d sort of loved. If sort of loved meant tolerating him when he was alive.
They’d never had children. Barb’s children were the Kinder Kids.
Chelsea suppressed the urge to sit down again and told herself to go back to the children, pretending like she hadn’t seen anything. Obviously, if Barb hadn’t told anyone about the upcoming surgery, it couldn’t be that major, could it? Except, according to that piece of paper, it had sounded rather major.
She was just rounding the desk when Barb strode in.
‘Ah, there you are. Kendra’s looking for you. What are you doing in here?’
Chelsea avoided her eyes and gestured to the desk. ‘I left the permission note for Dylan’s new pick-up arrangements on your desk.’
Barb saw the envelope and slipped past Chelsea to retrieve it. ‘Don’t leave it there. Look, I’ve got a new file management system over here now.’
Barb turned and nodded behind Chelsea to the top of the filing cabinets, but when she saw the direction of Chelsea’s gaze, her eyes narrowed.
Chelsea’s own eyes widened. She hadn’t meant to look at the computer screen, but the shocking news about her boss’s state of health was still swirling in her head.
‘Ah,’ Barb said, nodding again, but this time in recognition. ‘The email from the university. Yes, I did wonder when you were going to get around to telling me.’
Chelsea frowned. ‘I don’t care about that,’ she blurted. ‘What about the email from the hospital?’
She snapped her mouth shut and stared at Barb. Whether her boss was potentially dying or not remained to be seen, but for now she was very much alive and she looked furious.
Barb pointed to the visitors’ chair. ‘Close the door and sit down, Chelsea.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chelsea did as she was told and sat down, but in the meantime decided that no matter how angry Barb might be about Chelsea finding out, Chelsea needed to know more. Barb had three employees depending on her, not to mention thirty children and their parents.
Mr. Nice Guy (Pierce Brothers Book 1) Page 17