to do wrong next, but she took pity on him.
‘Max, you’re doing fine. Here, look, use the inside of your wrist. It should feel comfortable—not hot or cold. That’s the best test.’
Hell. He was never going to survive this fortnight.
Never mind the rest of his life.
‘How can it be so hard?’ he grumbled gently, retrieving Libby this time from the loo brush and plopping her in the bath beside her sister. ‘Fourteen-year-old girls manage it.’
‘No, they don’t. They manage to get pregnant, but they don’t manage to look after babies without support and coaching and lots of encouragement. Having ovaries doesn’t make you a good mother, and not knowing how to run a bath doesn’t make you a bad father. You’ll get there, Max,’ she added softly.
And he swallowed hard and looked away, because they were kneeling side by side, their shoulders brushing, and every now and then she swayed against him and her hip bumped his, and all he could think about was dragging her up against him and kissing her soft, full lips…
‘Ow!’
Jules laughed and detached Libby’s fingers from his hair, and the scent of her skin drifted across his face and nearly pushed him over the brink.
‘Right, what next?’ he asked, and forced himself to concentrate on the next instalment of his parentcraft class.
Eventually they were washed, dried and dressed in little denim dungarees and snugly warm jumpers, and Jules declared that as soon as he was dressed himself they were going out for a walk as it was a lovely day.
‘Can they walk?’ he asked, and she rolled her eyes.
‘Of course not. We’ll take the buggy.’
Obviously. Of course they couldn’t walk. They could barely crawl. Except towards the loo brush. He put it on the window sill out of reach while he thought about it, and had a quick shower to get the baby breakfast out of his hair. And eyes. And nose.
Then he threw on his clothes and went down to the kitchen to join them. ‘Right, are we all set?’
She eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Jeans?’
‘You know I don’t own jeans,’ he said, and then gave a short sigh when she rolled her eyes. ‘What? What, for God’s sake? Is it a character flaw that I don’t own jeans?’
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘It’s a character flaw that you don’t need to own jeans.’
He worked out the difference eventually, and scowled at her. ‘Well, I don’t—either own them, or need them.’
‘Oh, you need them, of course you do. How are you going to crawl around the floor with the girls and the dog in your hand-tailored Italian suit-trousers?’
He stared down at his legs. Were they? He supposed they were, and, when she put it like that, it did sound ridiculous. ‘We could go and buy some,’ he suggested.
‘Good idea.’
‘And while we’re in town we can go to the Mercedes garage and talk about changing the car for something a little more baby-friendly.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my car, and, anyway, it’s John’s!’
‘Not yours,’ he explained patiently. ‘Mine.’
She swivelled her head and stared out of the window at his car. ‘But Max—you love it,’ she said softly.
He shrugged. ‘So? I need a baby-carrier, Jules. No matter what happens with us, I need a baby-carrier. So I might as well do something about it now. And there’s no room at the apartment for more than one car, so it’ll have to go.’
‘You could leave it here. Take mine when you have the girls.’
‘I thought it was Blake’s car?’
She frowned. ‘Oh. Um—yes, it is,’ she agreed. ‘So I can’t really let you have it.’
‘So it’s back to plan A.’
She looked at his car and chewed her lip doubtfully. She’d never driven it—never driven any of his sports cars. She’d had a little city car when he’d met her, and she’d hardly used it, so she’d sold it when they’d moved in together and she hadn’t bought another one.
But she knew how much he loved it. It would be such a shame if he had to get rid of it. ‘Or plan C,’ she suggested. ‘You buy another one, and leave it here for when you come up.’
He stared at her, then looked away to conceal his expression, because he’d suddenly realised they were talking as if she was going to be staying here, and he was going back to London without them.
And he didn’t like it one bit.
They bought the jeans and some casual shoes and a couple of jumpers in one of the high-street department stores, and he emerged from the changing room looking stiff and uncomfortable and utterly gorgeous. ‘Better?’ he asked, a touch grumpily, and she smiled.
‘Much. Right, let’s go and sort the car out.’
They did. It was easy, because they had an ex-demon-stration model which he could have instantly, and he held his hand out. ‘Phone?’
‘It’s at home. But I’ve got Andrea’s number in mine, if you want to call her to get the car on cover.’
He rolled his eyes and took her phone, made the call and handed it back in disgust. The negotiations complete, the salesman handed him the keys, and they headed back to the house in convoy, her with the babies, him alone in his new and very alien acquisition.
He followed her into the house and held out his hand again.
‘So—my phone?’
She smiled a little guiltily. ‘It’s fine. You don’t need it.’
‘I might.’
‘What for?’
‘Apart from calling Andrea just now to get the car on cover—emergencies?’
‘What—like contacting one of your business associates to set up a new deal, or checking that one of your overpaid and undervalued team is doing his or her job?’
‘They aren’t undervalued!’ he protested, but she just arched a brow and stared straight back at him until he backed down. ‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘So I have delegation issues.’
‘Hallelujah!’ she said, sounding so like Andrea that it made him want to strangle them both—or do something to ensure that they never spoke to each other again! ‘So, anyway, you don’t need your phone.’
‘But what if there is an emergency?’
‘Like what?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Like I set fire to the house or fall over on you all and squash you or drop one of the babies down the stairs—’
She went pale. ‘Use the house phone.’
‘What if we’re out like we were this morning?’ he pushed, the empty pocket in his jeans making him feel nervous and a little panicky.
‘I’ll have my mobile. You can use that. It’s always in my bag.’
His eyes slid to the bag, just there on the side in the kitchen. It hadn’t moved since he’d arrived last night, apart from to go to town with them, and, now he knew her phone was in it, the temptation to borrow it and sneak down the garden and make a couple of calls was overwhelming. Except, of course, he didn’t have the contact numbers.
‘Max, get over it,’ she said firmly, and he realised there was no way he was going to talk her round. He swallowed hard and told himself Andrea would ring when she needed him. Except that he’d forgotten to tell her…