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She scratches at a mark on her jeans. “I’m very flattered.”
Jesus. She’s going to say no.
“But I’m not interested,” she finishes, confirming my fears.
“May I ask why?”
“I’m not interested in having another relationship.”
My eyebrows rise. “Never?”
“No. It’s too hard.” Her brow furrows. “I’m not made to be with someone else.”
Now my frown matches hers. “That’s bullshit. Of course you are.”
“No, I’m not. My brain doesn’t work the same way as everyone else’s. People communicate in a different way than me, and I don’t understand them.” Her tone is sharp, her voice harsh. “And I’m done with being criticized for it. I don’t want the hassle. I don’t need a man. I like you, Marc, and I’m so touched that you’re interested in me, but you don’t know the real me.”
“I’d like to.”
“Thank you, but the answer’s no. I’m done with dating.”
And that’s that. She’s turned me down. I can’t force her to go out with me. I can’t make her understand that she deserves happiness, and if she were to be my girl, I’d make sure to wipe all thoughts of her ex from her mind.
She rubs her nose. “You should go,” she says. Her voice is little more than a squeak. “Before the weather gets any worse.” She thinks that now she’s turned me down, I’m not going to want to stay with her.
I gesture toward the bottle of whisky resting in the straw. “When there’s whisky on offer? I don’t think so. You’re stuck with me tonight.”
She lifts her gaze to mine, confused, a little tearful. “You heard what I said?” she confirms. “I don’t want to date.”
“I heard you. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. And I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
She looks away. Her bottom lip trembles briefly. I wish I could pull her into my arms and hug her, make her feel better, but I can’t. All I can do is sit here and talk. And wait. Who knows, maybe one day she’ll finally be over her ex, and when she is, I’ll be ready.
“Pass the bottle,” I say. “Let’s get drunk.”
She looks back at me and swallows hard. “You can stay if you like,” she says. “But you’re not sharing my sleeping bag.”
“Spoilsport.” I take the bottle from her and pour us both another shot. “To friendship.”
“To friendship,” she whispers, and we both have a mouthful of the whisky.
Chapter One
Four months later
Poppy
The little girl at the back of the group of pre-school children stays behind as the rest of them leave the rabbits and head outside. She gives me a hesitant smile.
“Hello.” I drop to my haunches and smile back. She’s holding a toy bunny under her arm, well-loved, its white fur now a dull gray, its left ear frayed where she obviously chews it. I gesture at it. “What a gorgeous bunny. Are rabbits your favorite animals?”
She nods and glances past me at the pen where six rabbits are chewing contentedly at their pellets—two English angoras, three New Zealand whites, and a beautiful French Lop.
“Would you like to hold one?” I ask her. While the rest of the class had passed the rabbits around, she’d sat at the back, too shy to come forward, but now she nods, her beautiful blue eyes lighting up. “Come and sit down,” I say, and then I pass her one of the whites, which sits in her arms quite happily as she strokes its back, her eyes sparkling.
I watch her, smiling, thinking how beautiful she is. She must be about four years old. She has the most gorgeous blonde hair that hangs like a shining curtain. I’d kill for hair like that. My auburn curly hair always looks as if I’ve stuck my fingers in an electric plug, and when it gets humid in summer it doubles in volume.
If I had a little girl, would she look like this? Or would she inherit my mad hair?
“Aimee,” the teacher calls out. “Come on, it’s time to go.”
Aimee gives me the rabbit back reluctantly and slips her hand into mine as I lead her out of the shed toward the bus parked in front of the petting farm. Oh, she’s so sweet. Her mother must be so thrilled to have such a beautiful daughter.
