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baby’s heartbeat sounded like a series of sonic booms in the background.
Tess scrubbed away the tear that slipped down her cheek in the darkened room, grateful that Nate had become transfixed by the clear, three-dimensional image on the monitor again and hadn’t noticed her loss of control.
But her fingers continued to cling onto his hand.
She’d persuaded herself she could do without him. That it didn’t matter if he came today or not. But the relief that he was here and that he seemed willing to share this much was overwhelming.
As he reeled off a string of questions to the doctor she tuned out the answers, happy to let him take point on this one. Her emotions too full, too close to the surface—but as his rational questions continued the panic returned.
Maybe she could do this alone, but she didn’t want to. The realisation stunned her. She forced the hollow, helpless feeling back and let go of Nate’s hand.
His gaze connected with hers in the darkness. The sharp planes and angles of his face cast into shadow by the fluorescent glow of the screen. She broke eye contact first, casting her gaze back to the sight of their baby, her baby.
She was glad that he’d come, glad that he was here, but she didn’t need him to be here, she told herself staunchly.
* * *
‘That was kind of mind-blowing,’ Nate murmured, still reeling from the sight of that detailed image of his child on the monitor. The baby wasn’t an abstract concept any more. Seeing those tiny limbs, the features in profile, suddenly made it all seem very real. He was glad now he’d come to the scan. This should help him get his priorities straight—keep his role in perspective.
He’d been a coward to avoid Tess these last three weeks. Had seen the accusation in her eyes when she’d suddenly released his hand—as if she regretted having turned to him for support.
The desire they both felt for one another was just a physical need, so why had he been so wary of giving in to it? Instead of running away from it, it made more sense to manage it and control it—because three weeks of denial had only intensified the longing.
She walked ahead of him as they left the doctor’s surgery but he could see the way her fist white-knuckled on the strap of her bag. He spotted the shiny new Beemer in the parking lot, the midday sun glinting off the glossy red paintwork, and his fingers closed over her elbow, preventing her stepping off the kerb.
‘Hold up, Tess. How about I drive you down to San Revelle?’ he asked. ‘I can catch a cab back.’
She sent him a level stare, irritation making her eyes sparkle. ‘Why would you do that?’
He hesitated, knowing the truth was probably going to cause an argument, but decided that he’d had enough of lies and evasions. ‘You look exhausted, and I don’t want you driving down the coast road alone.’
Okay, maybe that wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close enough.
Her eyebrows rose towards her hairline and her shoulders pulled up. ‘I’m perfectly capable of driving myself home without your help, Nate,’ she shot back, the implication clear—that she’d survived well enough without him for the last three weeks too.
He suppressed the tug of guilt. ‘Sure you are,’ he conceded. ‘But why not let me do it?’
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but he knew he had her when she glanced back at the car. Her shoulders sank and she gave a little sigh, then reached into her bag.
‘Fine, you drive,’ she said, slapping the car keys into his waiting palm. ‘But don’t think this means you’re forgiven for all those Very Important Meetings!’
He couldn’t resist a smile as she marched off ahead of him towards the car.
Tess needed him—but she was capricious and headstrong and determined to be independent too. So handling her with kid gloves was out.
* * *
‘The place looks great, but didn’t you want to have any of your own furniture here?’
Tess peered through the kitchen door and took a long and, she hoped, calming swallow of the ice-cold lemonade. Nate’s six-foot-plus physique seemed to fill up the cottage’s palatial living room. She stepped into the room, determined not to be crowded out by his dominating presence. And anyway, she didn’t want him following her into the kitchen—that table held a few too many memories.
She could be just as indifferent about pursuing that aspect of their relationship as he could.
‘I don’t have that much...’ She glanced round at the room’s bespoke Spanish furnishings. ‘And the furniture that was already here seemed to suit the place more.’
She handed him the glass of lemonade she’d poured for him. His eyes connected with hers as his fingers wrapped around the glass, brushing against her hand.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured, the sound rough.
