Unfortunately, I’m now going to spend the rest of the morning trying not to think about Saoirse’s beaver.
SAOIRSE
I’m still obsessing over mymortifyingbeaver comment as Miles puts CBeebies on the TV for Bea, pulls me into his bedroom— literally, by the arm—and shuts the door.
The room smells of him, expensive and herbal andmale, and his bed is unmade. Duvet cover thrown back. Sheets rumpled. One battered-looking pillow lies vertically along the centre of the bed. Almost as if he was hugging it.
Hecannotsleep hugging a pillow.
He cannot.
It’s too much.
I’ll die from an emotional overload.
My heart won’t survive this.
Just the thought of him lying in this bed—naked? Does he sleep naked? Or in those sexy pyjama bottoms I saw?—is causing me to have trouble breathing in and out. I turn away from the bed, but I can hardly look him in the eye.
What is going on? Has he pulled me in here to seduce me?That arm tug was quite… alpha, actually. Understated, but commanding. Likeyou know you want to come into my lair with me.Maybe the beaver conversation turned him on, or got his mind going in a sexual direction?
Oh, dear Lord.
I’m sweating.
He’s looking at me strangely, as if he’s reacting to what must be a weird expression on my face.
‘So, I need your help. I’ve got her lots of American Girl stuff for Christmas, but I don’t have much for her stocking, and despite my smart comment in there, I really have no ability to channel my inner four-year-old girl. I need you to go shopping for me. Please.’
Oh, thank God. Thank God.
The presents.
Doh!
Get it together, Saoirse. The poor guy has no interest in a post-breakfast, CBeebies-enabled quickie. He’s firmly in dad mode.
Presents. Right.
I’ll just ignore the disappointed, sinking feeling in my stomach.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Sure. I mean—no problem. But what about Bea?’
‘I’ve booked her into The Playroom after lunch.’ He brushes his hair out of his eyes and reaches up, opening the top door of the wardrobe. ‘They’re doing cupcake decorating. It’ll be good for her to hang out with some other kids. So you’re free to shop. Right’—he pulls down a huge bag; the muscles in his shoulders and upper back flex against the perfectly crisp cotton of his shirt, and my lady parts clench in sync—‘this is what I’ve got. Have a look through so you don’t duplicate.’
He dumps the bag on the bed and I waste no time riflingthrough. There’s a blonde American girl doll in full equestrian regalia. She’s gorgeous. Bea is going to lose it. And a horse! Bloody hell, an actual American girl horse. And several flat boxes containing an outfit each. A beach ensemble. A nurse’s outfit—adorable. A white diamante-trimmed dress.
‘Miles! This one’s the same as her favourite dress in The Playroom!’
‘I hoped it was,’ he muttered. ‘She’s gone on about it enough.’
‘They’re all amazing. She’ll love them.’
‘I just need’—he waves his hand around—‘bits and pieces for her stocking. I’m not so good at that stuff.’
‘Give me two hours on Oxford Street.’ I beam at him. ‘And your prayers will be answered. But are you really happy for me to channel my inner four-year-old? It won’t be a classy collection. As you know’—I point my thumb in the direction of the living room—‘her tastes don’t run subtle.’
‘I know.’ He nods his head. He looks pained. ‘I want her to be happy. Do what you need to do.’
