always win.’ She put down ‘lathe’, and he added an ‘r’ to it and got another double word score.
‘Don’t sulk,’ he teased, and she glared at him, then laughed and threw a letter at him.
‘Don’t gloat, then! I was going to do that when I got an “r”.’
‘You should have hung on.’
‘No doubt.’ She shuffled her letters, grinned and hung ‘runcible’ on the ‘r’ of ‘lather’, getting a triple word score and a bonus for using all her letters.
‘Runcible? You can’t have that, it’s not a proper word!’ he protested.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Rubbish. It’s Edward Lear—he has a runcible spoon in “The Owl and the Pussycat”—“They dined on mince and slices of quince which they ate with a runcible spoon.” It’s just nonsense.’
‘And a runcible cat in “The Pobble Who Has No Toes”,’ she said, and quoted back at him, ‘“He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska’s runcible cat with crimson whiskers.” I rest my case,’ she said smugly.
He tried not to laugh. ‘It’s not in the dictionary.’
‘Oh, yes, it is.’
‘I bet it isn’t.’
‘What do you bet?’
He took a slow breath, his eyes locked with hers. ‘A kiss.’
She coloured, and then looked away and laughed a little oddly. ‘You’re on.’ And she handed him the dictionary.
Except he didn’t take it. He caught her wrist, gave it a gentle tug and toppled her towards him. She gave a little shriek and grabbed the back of the sofa with her free hand so she didn’t fall on him, but his nose ended up in her cleavage, and he turned his head and brushed his lips against the soft, shadowed skin.
She caught her breath and straightened, sinking down onto the edge of the sofa, and their eyes locked. Slowly, carefully, he leant forwards, stifling the groan as his ribs pinched, and touched his mouth to hers.
For an endless, aching second she was still, then she moved away. ‘Uh-uh,’ she said, her voice over-bright and her smile pinned in place. ‘You have to win a kiss, and you haven’t looked it up yet.’ And she stood up and moved back to the other side of the coffee-table and safety.
He found it—of course. She was never so definite if she wasn’t sure about something, and he’d bet she’d looked it up recently when they’d been doing Lear at school.
‘See? It’s a three-pronged fork with a curved edge on one side.’
‘Shame,’ he said softly, closing the dictionary, and her eyes flew up and met his, then slid away again, but he’d had his kiss. Sort of. And it had left him aching for more.
He wanted to drag her off to bed, kiss her senseless and drive out this reluctance of hers, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t and, anyway, it was as much as he could do to drag himself there, never mind an unwilling woman.
Besides, he didn’t want to. Not if it meant her going through hell again with another failed pregnancy somewhere down the line because of him.
He reached out, letters in hand, but she tutted and put another word down before him. ‘My turn,’ she pointed out. ‘You forfeited your turn when you looked in the dictionary.’
He gave up trying and let her win, as much as anything because he couldn’t sit there any longer and look down her cleavage at something he wasn’t able to touch …
Sophie came later, running into the sitting room with her eyes wide with worry and fascination. ‘Wow, you’ve got a proper cast!’ she said in awe. ‘Can I draw a picture on it?’
‘Sure—when I’ve had a hug.’
‘Mind his ribs, darling,’ Fran warned her. ‘He’s a bit sore.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Will I hurt you if I hug you?’ she asked, nibbling her lip, and he shook his head and pulled her up onto his lap, snuggling her close on his right side, the side that didn’t have the bruises. Well, not so many, anyway, and he needed a cuddle from his little girl.
She wriggled down tighter, burrowing under his arm, and then lay almost motionless, even breathing carefully in case she hurt him. It made him want to laugh and cry at the same time, and he hugged her gently.
‘So—are you all ready for your holiday?’ he said, and she shuffled round so she could see him, gently kneeing him in the groin as she did so. He grabbed her leg and held it still, and over her shoulder he could see Fran biting her lip and trying not to laugh.
‘Yup. I’ve packed my things already. I want to see Nessie again. Last time we went to Scotland we saw Nessie,’ she said. ‘Didn’t we, Mummy?’
Kirsten smiled. ‘Well, there were some ripples on Loch Ness that might have been caused by an animal, but they could have been the wind.’
‘It was Nessie, I know it was,’ Sophie said adamantly. ‘And we had haggis. I’m not eating that again!’ She pulled a face, and Mike chuckled.
‘Didn’t you like it?’
‘It was disgusting!’ she said. ‘All greasy and smelly and made of a sheep’s stomach! It was horrid. But we had lots of shortbread and I like that. Mummy says we can go back to the shop we bought it from and get some more. Oh, and we’re going up Ben Nevis again! We walked halfway up last time, to the little lake, and Andrew had to carry me down ’cos I had bendy legs, but I’m bigger now. Maybe we’ll even get to the top!’
He smothered the laugh and hugged her again. ‘Poor old Andrew! Let’s hope you make it both ways this time. Coming down’s always the hardest bit.’ He knew—he’d carried Sophie down his fair share of hills over the years, and it got your knees like nothing else. ‘Hey, how about some cake? I know Fran’s brought some over from the shop and I’m getting really hungry.’
‘Good idea,’ Fran said with a smile. ‘Come on, guys, let’s go and make tea for Mike.’ She held out her hand to Sophie, who slithered over his chest, grabbed her hand and cuddled up to her side.
‘Can I make him banana sandwiches?’
‘I expect so.’ Fran chuckled, and Mike listened to them making their way towards the kitchen and smiled at Kirsten.
‘Sounds like you’ll have a busy holiday.’
‘Well, we will if she has anything to do with it, but we all love Scotland and Andrew’s parents spoil her to death. So—are you OK to have her for the week when we get back?’
‘Fine. Make it Sunday afternoon, can you? I should be able to help out in the shop over the weekend by then, and I feel I ought to be pulling my weight.’
‘Sunday’s fine. It’ll give me time to unpack and wash her stuff.’ She stared at his leg. ‘I’m sorry about your accident.’
He shrugged. ‘I was being stupid.’
‘So I gather. And I always thought you were clever. Maybe we should get Sophie screened for the reckless gene.’
He snorted. ‘So rude.’
‘You asked for it.’ She stopped smiling and perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘Actually, I’ve got something to tell you.’
He looked up into her face, and his heart sank. He knew, before she opened her mouth, what she was going to say.
‘When’s it due?’ he asked.
She frowned, then said sadly, ‘Is it so obvious?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, don’t forget. So when is it? February? March?’
‘February—the