A few minutes later Alex came back downstairs, dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt. His feet were bare, his hair damp and spiky, and as Lucy looked at him, her mouth dried.
Okay, she knew what she wanted to happen. She wanted him to kiss her. A lot.
“Smells good,” he said with a smile, and reached out to ruffle Poppy’s hair. Poppy gave him a quick smile before running off and Alex watched her go, his smile fading.
“She’s woken up with night terrors since school started.”
“Night terrors?”
“She’s awake but not awake. Screaming and crying, and there’s nothing I can do to make it better.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Sometimes it feels like there’s nothing I can do to make anything better.”
“Losing their mother is a huge thing,” Lucy said quietly. “You can’t make that go away, or forget about it.”
“I know, but it’s been almost two years. I feel like we should all be moving on more than we are.” He glanced at her then, as if he’d suddenly realized just how much he’d revealed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be unloading this onto you.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know, but . . .” He stopped, swallowed. “Lucy . . .”
She tensed, afraid he was going to start in with the “I like you, but . . .” spiel, and that was a conversation she didn’t want to have just then. Not when his hair was damp and he smelled like soap and their dinner was bubbling away on the stove. No, he could tell her at school, when he looked stern and forbidding and they had a desk and a photocopier between them.
“I think the pasta’s ready,” she said, her voice too quick and bright, as she went to drain it.
The rest of the evening passed easily enough; they ate, they chatted, and Alex didn’t try to let her down gently, for which Lucy was thankful. Maybe she was a coward, but she wanted to enjoy being with him without being told there wasn’t going to be anything more. Surely they could save that conversation for another day.
After dinner the girls cleared off upstairs, and in what felt like a routine even though it had happened only once before, Alex made them both coffees, which they took into the sitting room.
Lucy curled up in the same place she had before, Charlie flopping at her feet, everything about the moment so perfect and poignant she didn’t want it to end.
“What made you decide to become a teacher?” she asked, simply because she wanted to learn more about this man.
Alex frowned slightly and took a sip of his coffee. “I had a good teacher myself, once.”
“Only once?”
“It was enough.”
“What year?”
“Year Six. I was on the brink of becoming a juvenile delinquent, and he pretty much saved me. Saved me from myself.”
Lucy’s jaw nearly dropped. “Youwere a juvenile delinquent?”
“Well, that might be exaggerating a bit. I was in and out of foster homes as a kid, and I got into a bunch of trouble. But my Year Six teacher, Mr. Benson he was, gave me a talking-to and basically scared me sh—senseless.” He smiled shamefacedly and Lucy grinned back.
“So why were you in foster homes?” she asked after a moment. “What happened to your parents?”
Alex shifted on the sofa, his gaze sliding away from her. “My mum cleared out when I was barely more than a baby, and my dad was a drunk. He’d get his act together sometimes, and I’d go back to him. Then something would happen, he’d fail to show up to a meeting or someone would report him, and it was back to the foster home.” He gave a little shrug. “She wasn’t a bad lady, my foster mother. Allison. She had four different foster kids to look after. She was run off her feet, but she had a good heart.”
“Still, it’s not the same as your own family,” Lucy said.
“No,” Alex agreed. “No, it’s not.”
Her childhood had been lonely, but she couldn’t imagine what Alex’s had been like. “And here I was,” she said, “feeling sorry for myself because I was called Boob Girl in seventh grade.”
“That’s quite a nickname.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
