Ilean my forehead against the tiles of this very nice shower. Water thunders down my back and shoulders.
Oh God oh God oh God.
What the hell was that?
Could I have conceived of a situation that was any more mortifying?
No. Definitely not. You can’t make this shit up.
Clodagh is going to howl when I tell her. And Keeley and the girls are going to die—Miles Montague took off his top in front of me and then took offmytop.
I want.
To die.
When he peeled off his sweater and showed me what was underneath, I nearly lost it. His skin was golden—how? In the middle of winter?—and his chest and arms were so beautifully defined. Perfect curves and swells, and a smattering of light brown hair on his chest that being dampened with vomit didn’t even spoil.
And when he leant over to test the bathwater, I got a glimpse of his stomach and his happy trail down to his jeansbefore I hastily looked away again. So far, I’ve been existing on views of his gorgeous suits and coats and this evening’s casual glamour. He has great taste in clothes, and he wears them well.
But tonight’s ruined all that.
That man should never wear clothes again.
And he saw my boobs! Sweet Jesus. Well, not all of them, but enough. He saw me in a lace bra—probably got an eyeful of nipple, too. I groan and bang my head softly against the tiles. I will never live this down.
Never.
But it’s not about me. Or him. It’s about poor darling Bea, who must be feeling rubbish and miserable. And Miles is paying me very well to look after her. I need to get it together.
I finish showering quickly, washing the traces of vomit off my body and out of my hair under the blessed torrent, and dry off. I put my pants back on, but a sniff tells me the vomit went through to my bra. Yuck. I grab the thick velour robe and wrap it as far around me as I can, pulling the collar up to hide my entire chest area.
They’re still in the main bathroom. For a moment I’m not sure what to do, then I shout.
‘Miles? I’m done. I can take over with Bea, if you like.’
He shouts back. ‘Okay. Give me a minute.’
And then the bathroom door opens, and there he is. He’s wet, and just has a white towel wrapped around his waist, and it’s possible I have never wanted anything in the world more than I want to press myself up against him and pull that towel off.
My eyes dart to his face, and down his chest to his happy trail, and back up before I manage to get control over them. His eyes are doing a dance too, over me.
I mentally shake myself and flip into mother hen mode. I point towards his bedroom.
‘Go. I’vegot this.’
I busy myself with the little, sick girl who needs me. Who needs to be dried off and cuddled and soothed. Because there’s nothing more miserable when you’re little than being sick. It’s the absolute worst.
And it’s even worse when your mummy’s not here.
By the time I’ve put Bea in her nightie and laid clean towels over her sheets and pillow in case of more vomit, the little dote is practically asleep in one corner of the huge bed. I emerge into the living area and hover awkwardly.
Miles is sprawled on the sofa with his laptop. He’s dressed in a soft white t-shirt that caresses his pecs, and what look like grey flannel pyjama bottoms. He’s slicked back his damp hair, but some strands have fallen back down over his forehead. Someone up there really has it in for me tonight. This is too much.
I clear my throat. ‘She’s basically asleep. I’ll just go and clean up the bathroom.’
He looks up briefly. ‘Don’t worry. I have the cleaners coming up to deal with it.’
‘No, don’t make them do it. Please. I’m more than capable.’
