turned on the oven, put the kettle on, braced his hands on the edge of the worktop and let his head drop.
He did not need this—this sudden and unexpected and unwelcome complication to a situation that was already complicated beyond belief. She was a widow, a vulnerable woman with a young child, putting herself out to help him. The last thing—absolutely the last thing—she needed was him turning weird on her. Protective he could cope with. Lust—no. Absolutely not.
He thrust himself away from the worktop, put the supermarket ready meal into the oven, then prepped the veg.
Not that opening a tray of pre-prepared sugar snap peas, baby corn and tenderstem broccoli took much prepping, but anything rather than go back in there while she was still feeding Zach. And that in itself was ridiculous. He spent his life surrounded by women in various stages of undress, was thoroughly familiar with their most intimate anatomy, saw new mothers breastfeeding on a daily basis. So why was he reacting like this now, and why with Emily, of all people in the world?
And there was no way—no way!—he was letting himself answer that question! It was a whole other can of worms, and he needed to get a grip. He wasn’t an adolescent exploring and exploiting his emerging sexuality, he was an adult, more than twice the age he’d been when he’d first met Emily. Surely to goodness he’d developed a little self-control and discretion in all that time?
Not to mention common decency.
With a low growl, he pulled two mugs from the cupboard, made the tea and went back in, studiously avoiding looking anywhere near her chest. Not that he could see anything, anyway. She was being incredibly discreet and she’d obviously got it down to a fine art—
‘I think there must be some kind of narcotic in breastmilk,’ she said with a smile that sent his resolutions into a tailspin. ‘It’s like he’s drugged, he’s so heavily asleep.’
He hauled his eyes off the sliver of smooth, pale skin he could see above the baby’s downy head as she tugged her top down. ‘Will you be able to sneak him into his cot, or will he wake up the minute you let go of him?’
She gave a wry laugh. ‘I’m guessing that was Matilda?’
‘Yup. Every time.’
‘Zach’s usually all right. I might go and try if you don’t think I’ll wake her?’
‘No, she should be fine. Go for it. The travel cot’s ready.’
She unravelled her legs and stood up gracefully, and he gritted his teeth and dragged his eyes off the smoothly rounded curve of her bottom as she headed through the door.
What the hell was going on with him?
He picked up his tea, cradled the mug in his hands and blew the steam away crossly.
He was better than this. If ever a woman was off limits, it was Emily, and especially now. He knew that. It was just getting his body to listen that was the difficult bit, and right now it seemed to have gone stone deaf.
JAKE WAS HUNCHED over his tea when she went back to the sitting room. He looked deep in thought, and the thoughts didn’t look happy from where she was standing.
‘Thanks for getting the travel cot ready for me, he’s gone down like a dream,’ she said, and he glanced up at her, his eyes unreadable.
‘You’re welcome. I didn’t know if you’d still want him in your room, but I thought it was better to be on the safe side as it’s a strange place. We can always move him, I’m not short of bedrooms.’
‘No, it’s fine. I keep meaning to move him out, but—I don’t know. I quite like knowing there’s someone else there with me. It wards off the self-pity a bit.’
She knew her smile was wry, and his eyes locked with hers searchingly.
‘Don’t you mean grief?’ he asked her, his voice gentle, and she shrugged.
‘Same thing, really, isn’t it? I miss Pete, but he doesn’t miss me, he can’t, and I’m sure he wouldn’t miss the pain he was in, or the dread of what was to come, or the worry about how we were going to cope without him. He’s spared all that now. It’s those left behind who have to pick up their lives and carry on, so in many ways grief is just a selfish emotion.’
‘Or an acknowledgement of the person he was, and the part he played in your life. It’s OK to grieve, Emily.’
She smiled. ‘I know, but I’ve done that. I did most of my grieving while he was still alive, because to be honest I never really dared to let myself believe he was cured when they gave him the all-clear, so when it metastasised there was a sort of horrible inevitability about it all. I think I always knew it was coming, and now it’s just juggling the things that need to be done with the lack of support and practical help. Things like cutting the hedge and putting up shelves in Zach’s room and all the other stuff that he used to do that I’m rubbish at.’
‘I’ve offered to help,’ he reminded her, but she didn’t need reminding. She dropped onto the sofa beside him, tucked her arm in his and squeezed it firmly.
‘And you have helped. You’ll never know how much you’ve helped me, Jake. I wouldn’t have got through it without you, but I need to toughen up now and get a grip. Time to return the favour, and I’m really sorry it’s because of Jo doing a runner and turning your life upside down, but I’m here, I’m not going to run out on you, and I’ll stay until you don’t need me anymore.’
She held his eyes for an age, but then something flashed through them and he turned away, as if he couldn’t look at her any longer, and shook his head.
‘I can’t ask that of you,’ he said gruffly.
‘Yes, you can—and by the way I rescued the supper. There was an interesting smell coming from the kitchen so I turned off the oven and opened the door a bit.’
He swore and leapt to his feet, and she followed him into the kitchen as he whipped open the oven door and stared into it.
‘Is it OK?’
He pulled the dish out and inspected it. ‘Debatable.’
He put it onto the hob and prodded at it with a fork, and she chuckled softly and peered over his shoulder at the bits of singed pasta sticking up out of a rather dark golden crust.
‘Will we live?’
He grunted. ‘Just about. There are one or two bits that might need ditching, but it won’t kill us.’
She tutted. ‘You’re a slow learner, Stratton. I taught you to use an oven timer twenty years ago. I would have thought you’d mastered it by now.’
He gave a low chuckle, and she slid her arms around him and rested her head against his broad, solid shoulders that were curiously comforting. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Jake. I meant what I said, I don’t know how I would have coped without you.’
She straightened up and slackened her arms, and he turned in them and gave her a brief hug, then reached for the kettle.
‘You’re welcome. Now go and drink your tea and put your feet up,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got to steam the veg but that won’t take long. I’ll call you when it’s ready.’
‘Don’t forget to time it,’ she said with a cheeky little wink designed to needle him, and took herself out of range before he threw something at her.
* * *
He watched her go, the feel of her still imprinted on his body, front and back, then he closed his eyes and swore softly and comprehensively under his breath.
What was wrong with him?
He plonked the pan on the hob, poured