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There was no reason for him to feel so...so what? Slighted? Gabe sighed; he really needed to get over himself. One kiss did not equal any kind of relationship.
And if it did he would be headed the other way, right back to France.
It was just, if Polly Rafferty had really indulged in a night of meaningless, no-holds-barred, anonymous sex he wished she’d indulged with him.
He could be wrong, she might often go out prowling bars and clubs for one-night stands but he would bet the oldest bottle of wine in the vineyard’s formidably stocked cellars that this had been a one-off occasion. And pregnant or not she was unlikely to indulge again.
‘This doesn’t have to change anything. It doesn’t change anything.’ Her voice penetrated his thoughts. Gabe risked a glance across at his reluctant passenger. Polly had pulled herself upright and was looking straight ahead, her jaw firmly set. ‘The timing is awful but I could make it work.’
‘Didn’t you want children?’
There was another long pause. ‘I don’t know children,’ she said after a while. ‘I don’t know how families work, normal ones. Raff and I were raised by our grandparents and they sent us away to school when we were small. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about.’ She huffed out a small laugh. ‘Not every woman hits thirty and starts counting down her biological clock, you know.’
‘But your house, it’s begging for a family.’ Five bedrooms, the large garden full of hidden corners and climbable trees. Despite the low ceilings and homely furnishings it felt too big, too echoey for just two people. And she had been living there alone for three years.
‘It’s just a building.’ Her voice was dismissive.
Gabe shrugged. He was no psychologist but he had been through enough counselling—support groups, family therapy, grief counselling, chronic illness groups—to know a little bit about the subconscious. The cottage was a family-home wish come true.
‘If you say so.’
She shifted, turned to look at him. ‘How about you? Dreams of petits enfants clustering around your knee one day?’
‘I’m a good uncle,’ he said shortly.
‘Guys can say that, can’t they? No pressure to settle down, get married, churn out kids. You have all the time in the world.’
‘None of us know how much time we have.’ He meant to say it lightly but the words came out too quick, too bitter. He shot her a quick glance. ‘I had cancer in my teens, a lymphoma. It teaches you to take nothing for granted.’
Polly gasped, a loud audible intake of breath as she put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Gabe. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean...’
‘It’s fine.’ This was why he hated people knowing. A brush with mortality and they never treated you the same way again. It was as if you were tainted with the mark of Death’s scythe, a constant reminder that no one was safe.
‘Besides, I can’t.’ The words were out before he knew it, the darkness beginning to shadow the car giving it the seal of a confessional, somewhere safe.
‘Can’t what?’
‘Have children. Probably. Chemotherapy, stem-cell treatment...’ His voice trailed off; he didn’t need to add the rest.
‘Oh.’ Understanding dawned in the long drawn-out syllable. ‘Didn’t they freeze any?’ Her hand was back over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘They didn’t think it would have any long-term effects.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I was seventeen. To be honest it was the last thing I was thinking about—or my parents thought about. But it took longer, needed stronger drugs than they expected. It’s okay. I’d rather be healthy.’
Her hand had crept to her stomach. ‘Of course.’
‘They did say it can change in time but I have never been tested. There’s no point. I don’t want them anyway,’ he surprised himself by offering. ‘The worst part of being ill was seeing my parents suffer. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to put myself through that.’
‘I watched my father die.’ Her voice was flat. ‘That wasn’t much fun either.’
They didn’t speak the rest of the way there. Gabe was too absorbed in his thoughts and Polly had returned to jabbing furiously at her phone as if it could give her all the answers she needed.
Following the signs, he navigated his way around the roundabouts that ringed the old town, pulling off into an ugly development of warehouses and cavernous shops.
‘We’re here,’ he said.
Polly didn’t move, just looked out of the window at the neon orange streetlamps and the parking signs. ‘Okay.’
