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Before he realised where he was, he had crossed the room and was standing in front of the trio. Still, it took him a supreme effort to tear his gaze from Anouk and greet the two young girls still nestled so lovingly on either side of her, as though seeking protection from her metaphorical wings.
‘So we’re making reindeer chocolate jars, are we?’ he managed brightly.
‘We’ve just finished.’ Katie cast her arm over the full box solemnly. ‘Now we’re going to make beaded friend
ship bracelets for each other.’
‘Kruto! Wow, they look amazing. Can I join in?’ He felt Anouk’s sharp gaze but he kept his eyes fixed on the girls, gratified when they nodded excitedly and got to their feet.
‘We’ll go and get the beads and the thread.’ Libby grabbed Katie’s arm. ‘Why don’t we use all green and red, like a Christmas theme?’
‘Okay, but we should still have silver thread—that will make it brighter,’ Katie advised as the two of them hurried off, lost in the carefree happiness of the moment and oblivious to the undertones that swirled around Sol and Anouk.
He settled himself on the floor next to her leaving a decent foot between them, but he still noticed her pulse leap at her throat as she deliberately avoided eye contact with him, inching another fraction away, as though she couldn’t trust them to be so close to each other. It offered him a perverse kind of exultation.
At least he wasn’t the only one feeling undercut by the intensity of the last week.
‘Did you know this thing between Saskia and my brother is serious?’
He hadn’t intended to say anything, but Malachi’s revelations were still bubbling in his head and he couldn’t help but wonder how much Anouk knew.
‘Saskia and Malachi? No, how could I know?’ Anouk frowned. ‘I’ve been with you, and when I did return home she wasn’t there.’
There was no reason for his body to tauten at the mere memory, surely?
‘I hope he doesn’t hurt her,’ continued Anouk, obliviously. ‘Saskia isn’t as airy and tough as she might appear.’
‘Funny, I was going to say the same thing about Malachi.’
She arched her eyebrows at him, waiting for some punchline. But he didn’t have one. He was worried about his brother for the first time in for ever.
They weren’t prepared for this...thing. Whatever it was. He might not have a name for it yet but he knew it was powerful. It assailed him at the most inopportune moments. Punching through him like a fist through wet paper. Like when he’d seen the naked sadness in her eyes when Anouk had told him about her father, or yesterday when he’d caught sight of her caring for her patient from across the ward, or today when she’d been so caught up with the girls that she hadn’t even noticed anyone else in the room.
It wasn’t love, but Sol imagined it was something in that family. He certainly cared for Anouk. So if whatever Mal felt for Saskia was anything like it, then he pitied his brother.
‘Malachi won’t hurt her. He isn’t like me.’
The words came out automatically. Because he might once have believed them, although now he wasn’t so sure.
‘Because he isn’t a playboy like you are, you mean?’
Why was it that it sounded so...hollow, coming off her tongue? Especially after the conversation they’d had in his apartment that night. It occurred to him that she might be testing him, but he had no idea how he was supposed to answer.
‘You could say that,’ he conceded, shocked at how much it cost him to sound so nonchalant.
‘The Smoking Gun,’ she added, and she didn’t need to add a roll of her eyes. Her words spoke loud and clear all on their own. As if she was reminding herself of his reputation. Cautioning herself.
And it bothered him. Especially after their time together.
For years he had revelled in his reputation as a playboy, had been proud of the fact that he’d come out of his childhood with such a strong sense of self. He had never pretended to be something he wasn’t. He loved being with women, but he had always hated the idea of a relationship with them—how much more honest could a man be?
Yet now, something had shifted and the names sounded toneless, even uncomfortable. Like a familiar old jacket that no longer suited—or fitted—him, but that he’d been trying to hold onto nonetheless.
His head was unusually hazy. As if some of its connections had been unexpectedly broken and it was trying to rewire itself using different paths.
He still wasn’t quite sure what it meant.
‘Great nickname, wasn’t it?’ he challenged, but the words seemed to leave an unpleasant, metallic taste in his mouth.
