by Kate Hardy
‘Hey. You told me not to genderise.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, my mum’s favourite flowers are pink roses. Maybe I can make something for her.’
‘A motif like this—if you repeat it three times, it’d make a nice bookmark,’ she said. ‘I can give you a demo first, if you like, or you can just go straight in and I’ll talk you through.’
Talking it through. He had a feeling they weren’t just talking about sewing. Well, they were on the surface—but Rob knew it went deeper than that. And, if this was the key to understanding her more, he was all for it. ‘Straight in,’ he said.
She talked him through setting up the strip of material in a hoop and where to start working on the pattern. Putting a needle through holes that were already there in the material sounded simple. It was simple. And he picked it up quickly enough that Florence didn’t need to talk him through more than two rows.
He started to find a rhythm: and then it ground to a halt. The stitching didn’t look how hers did, all neat and flat and shiny. And he didn’t understand where he’d gone wrong. The more he looked at it, the less he could work it out.
She glanced over at him. ‘Problem?’
‘Yes. But I don’t know what,’ he admitted.
‘Let’s have a look.’ She peered at it. ‘OK. You’ve done a couple of stitches the wrong way round, which is why it looks a bit uneven, and you haven’t been entirely accurate with your needle placement—my guess is you’re trying to stitch as fast as you can. It’s not a race, Rob. It’s about finding a rhythm and filling your head. Unpick this back to where you went wrong, and try again.’
He did.
And he had to unpick things several times.
But then he started to get what she meant. There was a rhythm to this, like climbing. He had to concentrate on what he was doing, so there wasn’t enough room in his head for the frustration and impatience that had been overwhelming him. And he could see the simple shape of a stylised rose taking shape on the fabric as he worked, all pink and perfect.
Part of him would’ve loved to send a selfie of him sewing to his twin. But then he would have to admit both to the infection and to the fact that he was staying with Florence; and he wasn’t ready to pick his way through all the complicated explanations that would entail. So he concentrated on the sewing. Stitch by stitch by stitch.
* * *
This was surreal, Florence thought. If anyone had told her a month ago that she’d be giving needlework lessons to a man like Robert Langley—and in her own living room, to boot—she would’ve laughed.
But here they were.
She could tell how frustrated he was by the constraints of his health, and this was the second-best distraction she could think of. Her first choice of distraction was completely inappropriate; though it hadn’t helped when Rob had compared the rush of climbing to the feel of an orgasm. She could remember exactly what it had felt like when Rob had touched her or brushed his mouth against her skin, and the memories made her ache.
Right now, she was so aware of Rob. The warmth of his body. The scent of his skin. His height. Those stunning blue eyes.
And when she’d touched his hand earlier to guide him with the needle, it had felt as if she’d been galvanised.
Had he felt it, too? That tingle starting on the skin and running the whole length of each nerve? Did he want to touch her as much as she wanted to touch him?
Oh, for pity’s sake. The man was ill. The last thing he needed was for her to hit on him. She ought to treat him as a patient. Even if her body was urging her to treat him like a lover. Not to mention that he was the last person she should let herself fall for. If she was going to risk her heart again, it would be with someone who wanted the same things that she did: to settle down and have a family.
She supposed that was academic, because she didn’t actually want to trust someone with her heart again. She’d felt so worthless and unlovable after Dan’s betrayal; not only hadn’t she been enough for him, he hadn’t wanted to have children with her. She hadn’t been able to work out just what was so wrong with her that he hadn’t wanted her, and she’d closed in on herself over the last couple of years. To trust someone with herself again was akin to climbing a mountain. She didn’t want to take that risk.
Though she still wanted Rob.
It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have Rob without the risk. And there was no guarantee he wanted a relationship with her. He was here on a temporary contract; but she was pretty sure that he’d go back to his old life in Manchester rather than renewing his contract or looking for a permanent job here. He’d move on. And she’d be left behind.
Better to suppress the longings.
‘So is it helping?’ she asked, when she’d had to unpick a row for the third time because she couldn’t concentrate with him next to her.
‘Surprisingly, yes,’ he said. ‘If anyone had told me that sewing would be fun, I wouldn’t have believed them.’ He shook his head. ‘If Ollie could see me now...’
Even though he didn’t finish the sentence, she could guess what he meant. ‘Your brother wouldn’t laugh at you,’ she said.
‘No. He’s one of the good guys. And much nicer than I am,’ Rob said.
‘You’re hardly a bad guy, Rob,’ she said.
‘No? I’m the reason my brother’s wedding got cancelled.’
She stared at him, surprised. ‘Why?’ She was pretty sure it wasn’t because Rob had had a fling with the bride-to-be. Apart from the fact he was clearly close to his brother, he wasn’t the sort to lie and cheat. What you saw was what you got.
He sighed. ‘Because Ollie gave me a kidney. And Tabby—his fiancée—panicked that he’d become ill and she’d have to look after him.’
Florence frowned. ‘That’s a bit shallow, as well as very misinformed. The donee rather than the donor is the one who’s more likely to have problems after a transplant.’
‘Ollie says he can understand why she panicked. Her dad has chronic fatigue syndrome and her mum has had to give him an awful lot of support over the years. Tabby didn’t want that sort of life for herself. But I agree with you. I think Tabby was shallow and a bit on the selfish side, and she definitely wasn’t right for my brother.’ He sighed. ‘I just hate that Ollie got hurt when she called everything off. And that wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t needed a kidney.’
Guilt mingled with pain glittered in his eyes. But it wasn’t Rob’s fault that his brother’s fiancée had got cold feet. ‘Maybe,’ Florence said carefully, ‘your brother had a lucky escape. Because surely it would’ve been worse if they’d got married and he’d thought everything was fine, and then life threw a curveball and she walked away?’
‘I guess,’ Rob said. ‘Thankfully he’s met someone else now. Someone who loves him for who he is. Who understands him. Who cherishes him.’
Was it her imagination, or did Rob sound wistful? And, if she was right, was that wistfulness because he wanted someone to feel that way about him, too? Was that why he’d never settled down before—because nobody had made him feel like that?
Not that it was any of her business.
‘It’s good to have someone who always has your back,’ she said. ‘Someone who won’t let you down.’
* * *
That sounded heartfelt.
And Florence had said this morning that she was divorced.
Had her husband let her down? There wasn’t a nice way of asking, and the last thing Rob wanted to do was to make her feel awkward or bring back any bad memories.
Then, to his surprise, she said, ‘I owe you an apology.’
He frowned. ‘For what?’
‘For...’ She squirmed slightly, and her cheeks went very pink. ‘That Saturday morning. I...um...bolted.’
‘Yes, you did,’ he said, trying to make his voice sound as neutral as possible.
‘It wasn’t
a nice thing to do. And I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t need to apologise—’ though he was really gratified that she had ‘—and I’m sure you had your reasons.’
‘I...’ She dragged in a breath. ‘Baggage, I guess. You’re the first person I’ve slept with since I split up with Dan.’
Dan, he presumed, was her ex-husband. And Rob was the first man she’d slept with since the split?
That changed things.
Significantly.
Florence clearly wasn’t the sort of person who followed her impulses, the way he did. Spending the night with him had been out of character for her. What had made her do it? Had the attraction between them been strong enough to overcome her common sense? Did she regret it? Well, of course she’d regretted it, because she’d bolted the morning after. But she’d had time to think about it now. So what did she want? A fling to help her get past whatever had gone wrong with her ex? Or did she want something more—something Rob wasn’t sure he was capable of giving her?
Not that this was about him. It was about her.
‘Was the split very long ago?’ he asked. If it was recent, still raw, he needed to tread very carefully indeed. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt someone who’d been so kind and lovely to him.
‘Nearly two years since he moved out, and it took a while for the divorce to come through,’ she said. ‘We wanted different things. It didn’t work out.’
Rob was pretty sure there was a lot more to it than that, but he wasn’t going to pry. If Florence wanted him to know, she’d tell him. In the meantime, he’d respect her privacy. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never been engaged, let alone married or divorced, but I know from friends that it can be rough.’
‘Yeah. It was,’ she said. ‘But it’s past. I’m over it. Over him. And I like my life as it is. No complications.’
Which told him exactly where he stood. And it was pretty clear to him that she’d offered to let him stay because she’d felt guilty about the way she’d behaved after their night together. She didn’t want more. This was her way of making it up to him.
‘I agree. No complications is a good thing,’ he said.
‘But?’
He could bluff it.
Or he could tell her.
Because he was beginning to realise that Florence Jacobs was very clear-sighted. She’d see a problem the way she saw a bit of cross-stitch gone wrong; she’d understand the big picture, she’d untangle things and unpick them, and help him see the way forward. Was she the one who could help him adjust to this new life, the one without most of the things he loved? Could she teach him how to put down roots and not long to be elsewhere?
But he didn’t have the words. Not yet. ‘No buts,’ he said. And, even if she was prepared to help him, she needed to be clear about what she was letting herself in for. ‘I was born with itchy feet—and probably my brother’s share, too. So complications...aren’t helpful.’
‘I understand.’
The shutters went right back up in her eyes. Though that was probably a good thing. Rob didn’t trust himself to be able to stay away from Florence; he needed her to want to stay away from him, too. Keep herself safe.
‘Don’t stitch for too long,’ she said, moving back to her own seat. ‘Apart from the fact that sitting for a long while in one position isn’t good for you, stitching for hours will make your hand ache.’
‘Got you,’ he said. But he wanted to finish the bookmark. Prove to himself that he could do this.
Florence Jacobs was the domesticated sort. And that meant she was the last person he should let himself fall for. Rob wasn’t domesticated. He’d never been able to settle. He wouldn’t fit into her world. But the more he was getting to know Florence, the more he liked her.
Could he domesticate himself for her?
Though that was assuming that she wanted to be with him, when she’d already made it pretty clear she saw him purely as a colleague. It was an arrogant assumption: and Rob wasn’t arrogant. He was impulsive and fidgety, but he didn’t think that the world revolved around him.
But all the same, he thought about it.
Particularly during the evening, when he sat and watched a film with her. Unless it was a fast-moving action film, usually he didn’t manage to last through a whole film without getting bored and fiddling with his phone. But this time, even though it was the kind of costume drama that would normally bore him rigid within minutes, he discovered that he could actually sit still and pay attention.
What was it about Florence that made him able to do that?
And was it something that could last?
Was Florence Jacobs the person he’d never thought he’d needed by his side—but who actually made his world a much, much better place? Was she someone he actually wanted to commit to, the way Oliver was committed to Gemma? How did you even know when you met that someone? He’d never met anyone he’d wanted to commit to before. Not even Janine.
Was Florence the one?
The questions spun round his head, and he couldn’t work out the answer.
‘You look all in,’ she said quietly.
‘I...’ Yes. It was probably why he wasn’t thinking straight: he still had a fever. His brain was scrambled by the infection. And so was his common sense. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. Go and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Rest wasn’t something he was good at. But he’d try. ‘OK. See you tomorrow.’
CHAPTER SIX
WHEN ROB WOKE, the next day, he felt a lot more human. And it was a reasonable time for a Sunday morning, he was relieved to note when he looked at his watch: eight o’clock. He went into the kitchen, intending to make coffee, and saw a note propped against the kettle, with a door key sitting next to it.
On early shift. Hope you’re feeling better. Text me if you need anything. Help yourself to anything you want for breakfast and lunch, and I’ll cook dinner when I get home. Have left you spare door key in case you need to go out. F
She’d been so thoughtful. He wasn’t quite up to going out, but it was good to feel that he had the option and he wasn’t trapped.
But then there was dinner.
He didn’t want Florence to come home after a busy shift and feel obliged to cook for him. He wasn’t going to offer to cook a roast dinner or anything like that himself, because even when he was fully fit he knew his limitations; but he could arrange a delivery. A couple of minutes looking on the internet netted him the information he needed: the local pub did a delivery service, and the menu was excellent.
He texted her.
Thanks for note. Am feeling better. No need for you to cook tonight—it’s my turn to provide dinner. Not going to cook something, but could get dinner delivered from The Golden Lion, unless you know somewhere better?
He added a link to the menu.
Let me know what you want and what time, and I’ll organise. R
Should he add a kiss?
No. It’d make her uncomfortable, he decided, and sent the text as it was.
After he’d eaten some toast and had a shower, he tried doing some stitching, but it didn’t feel the same as it had when Florence had been there beside him. He flicked through the TV channels, but nothing caught his eye.
Sit and read a book, perhaps? He browsed through her shelves. There were a few medical texts and a scattering of classics, mixed in with some modern novels. He knew from the film last night that she liked costume dramas, and when it came to reading she clearly liked historical romances set in Jane Austen’s era. But there was nothing that grabbed his interest.
He looked at the photographs on her mantelpiece. He knew she was close to her family, so he wasn’t surprised to see framed photographs of Florence holding three different babies—he’d guess they were her nieces, and from the way she was dressed up it was fairly obvious t
hat it was their christening days—and as bridesmaid to a woman who looked so like her that she could only be Lexy, Florence’s older sister. There was a graduation photo with Florence’s parents and her sister surrounding her, looking thrilled and proud; an amazingly graceful photo of her sister on stage, wearing a tutu and doing some kind of leap, which he guessed must’ve been taken by the theatre’s official photographer; and a picture of what looked like Florence and Lexy as teenagers in a garden somewhere, laughing and clearly loving being together. It made him smile; he had photos of himself and Oliver like that, too.
He took a closer look at her fridge. It was covered with children’s drawings, held to the door by cutesy magnets—everything from acerbic Jane Austen quotes through to pictures of cupcakes. There was the ‘ballet-saurus’ from her oldest niece that he’d seen the other night, a cat with ‘Anna’ printed laboriously across the top which was clearly the middle niece’s drawing, and a scribble from the baby with ‘Darcey’ obviously written by an adult on the top. There were also a few group photographs, too; he recognised some of the people as their colleagues in the emergency department, so the snaps had clearly been taken on a team night out.
Others showed Florence posing with a woman he guessed was probably her best friend. Florence clearly liked stately homes and costume museums as much as his mother did. Rob thought for a moment how well she’d get on with his mum; Ollie would approve of her, and his dad would be charmed by her...
And what then?
They’d liked Janine, too. But Janine had wanted commitment he hadn’t been able to give. Rob hadn’t wanted to settle down with her—and he knew he’d hurt her. Just as he had the potential to hurt Florence. These photographs were proof of exactly who Florence was: someone with roots, someone who had sticking power.
Rob didn’t have that. He liked the buzz of new things, of exploring. Which made him the complete opposite of what Florence needed.