“It is lovely, isn’t it? My son hired a wonderful interior designer.” She chuckles heartily, and I can’t help but smile. “I doubt he knows the difference between an end table and a coffee table.”
She leads me further inside the house, smiling over her shoulder, “My son and granddaughter should be back any moment now. How about some tea while we wait?”
“That sounds perfect, Barbara,” I reply as I follow after her, my heels clacking loudly on the pristine tiles. “Thank you.”
We walk through to a stunning kitchen with gleaming countertops and a large farmhouse table. Barbara bustles about making tea whilst I take a seat and drink in my gorgeous surroundings. I smile softly when my eyes land on the refrigerator that’s covered in a multitude of crayon drawings,and excitement fizzles in my belly at the thought of meeting my newest charge in a few short minutes.
“So, Aurora.” Barbara smiles as she sets a cup in front of me. “How long have you been with Harrington Helpers?”
“Just over a year now. My previous placement was with the Fincham family—I was with them the whole time before they relocated to Dubai.”
“And you chose not to go with them?”
I hesitate, then decide honesty is best. “It was a difficult decision, but London is home now.”
Barbara nods approvingly. “Well, we're certainly glad you're available. My son tells me that Miranda speaks very highly of you.”
“That's kind of her.”
I'm taking a sip of tea when I hear the front door open, followed by a girl’s voice chattering excitedly.
My heart rate picks up—the mysterious father, the man Miranda warned me was “stringent.”
Please let him be reasonable. Please let this work out.
“In the kitchen, dears!” Barbara calls out.
I hear footsteps approaching, and a little girl's voice saying, “But Daddy, the doctor said I'm all better now!”
“I know, Princess, but you still need to take it easy today.”
That voice.
My stomach dips nauseatingly.
No, it can't be—
I turn toward the doorway, and my entire world halts.
Because walking into the kitchen, a toddler with dark curls in his arms, is Cole.
MyCole.
The man I spent yesterday with. The man whose bed—whose shower—I was in this morning.
Our eyes meet across the kitchen, and I watch the colour drain from his face as realisation hits.
EPILOGUE
Cole
Two Months Later
Two months.
It's been two fucking months since I looked Rory in the eye and told her we couldn't happen. Two months since I watched something die in her expression as I chose my daughter over what we could have been.
I grip my tumbler of Macallan tighter, the amber liquid swirling as I stand at my office window. Below, London glitters with late January rain, but I barely see it. All I can see is Rory's face that day—the shock, then understanding, then the careful mask sliding into place.
