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“Can I…” I gesture toward the other end of the house.
“Of course.”
I walk back to the hallway and then through to the other end of the house. I pass a small gym, with a treadmill, an exercise bike, a rowing machine, and sets of weights. There are four bedrooms, all large, three opening up onto the patio that seems to run around the house, the fourth looking out to sea. I stop before the door and laugh. It’s decorated with a huge picture of the TARDIS, so when you go in, it’s as if you’re walking into the time machine.
“I saw it online,” he says with a grin. “I had to get it.”
“I can see why.” I go inside. I think this is his room, because I can smell his aftershave here. The bed’s huge, with lots of large pillows and a duvet that bears a sea-green, black, and white geometric design that somehow fits.
He comes in behind me. “Nice view isn’t it?” he says, undoing his tie.
“It’s magnificent.” I watch him toss the tie across a chair. “I’m amazed it’s so tidy in here.”
He laughs, undoing his jacket and sliding that off, then his waistcoat, both of which join the tie on the chair. “That’s Eleanor’s doing.”
“Eleanor?” I have the sudden crazy thought that he’s referring to a wife I haven’t met.
But he adds, “My housekeeper. She comes in every day, tidies and cleans, and keeps the cupboards stocked.”
“Wow, that must be nice…” My voice trails off as he undoes his shirt buttons and slips the shirt off. He scrunches it into a ball and throws it at the chair, but it misses and tumbles onto the floor. I stare at his naked torso as he opens the top drawer of a chest of drawers and rummages through the contents.
“Yeah,” he says, “she keeps me in order. You’ll like her, she’s in her fifties, and she’s quite mumsy. I—” He stops as he turns with a white T-shirt and sees me staring. He looks down at himself, then back at me, amused. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” He shakes the T-shirt out, tugs it on, and pulls it down over his muscular chest. “Maybe you’d like to look the other way, then, while I change my trousers?”
“I’ll wait in the living room.” I walk out hastily, hearing his chuckle as I leave.
I pass the en suite bathroom as I go, and my jaw drops. It’s bigger than my apartment, with a shower and a huge deep bath. Jesus.
I stand in the middle of the living room, looking around at the furnishings. I wonder how much of it he had a hand in? It’s all fairly neutral—whites and grays—and somehow I can’t imagine he bought the large cheese plant that adds a splash of green, or the fresh flowers on the table. Eleanor?
“So you do like the place?” he says, coming in behind me. He’s changed into a pair of black Adidas track pants with white stripes down the side and no elastic around the bottoms, and he’s barefoot. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in civvies.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, only half referring to the house. Oh my God, this guy… I rest my hand on my bump. I’m not supposed to be having sexy feelings. I’m going to be a mum. But I’d give anything right now to have his hands on me, his mouth on mine.
I mustn’t think like that, though. I know it’s the last thing on his mind. I’m here because of the twins, and they’re all that matter right now.
Chapter Thirteen
Saxon
“Kip and Damon live out in Brooklyn,” I say, referring to a suburb not far from the office. “Their houses are flash—they’ve both got a pool—but I wanted somewhere quiet and comfortable. I like going for a swim in the sea, or a run along the beach.”
I gesture with my head for her to follow me into the kitchen, and when we get there, I pull a bar stool over to the counter and indicate for her to sit. “I asked Eleanor to get me some steaks,” I say. “I thought you might need the iron.” I open the fridge. Oh yeah. I take out the two large eye fillet steaks. “What do you reckon with them? I think Cajun potatoes and spicy slaw.”
She just stares at me, so I take that as a green light and get the potatoes out of the cupboard. Taking my phone out of my pocket, I bring up Spotify and hand the phone to her.
“Put some music on.” I set the kettle to boil, then begin peeling the potatoes.
She scrolls through, chooses something, and leaves the phone on the counter. John Mayer starts playingQueen of California, a folk-rock song I know well.
“Nice,” I say, chopping up the potatoes and tossing them in a saucepan.
“He makes me think of you,” she says.
“In what way?”
“Dunno. You always ask me to explain myself. I’m not used to that.”
“Like I said, it’s how I was brought up. So you think I look like John Mayer?”
