It was only when we were at Nate’s house afterwards, Libbie and Zara in bed, that he told me how he’d felt inside, how he’d had that same sensation when he’d found his mother’s body.
We made love that night in a different way, for different reasons, and then we’d fallen asleep knowing that somehow, all was well and would be.
It would be if Jesse sussed out how to work a bottle warmer.
“You okay there?” I so wanted to laugh.
He glared at me. “Fine. I think this is working.”
Oliver gurgled again. He was such a placid boy, a replica of his dad in so many ways, apart from having Amber’s eyes.
“To be fair, I think he can skip a meal.” My nephew was weighty.
“Want me to take him and you can sort this bottle?”
There was Jesse taking the get-out.
“Absolutely. Go be carried by Uncle Jesse.” I eyeballed him as I said the title, standing up with the baby in my arms. Jesse came over and took him straight away, carrying him with ease, and for a moment I indulged myself with watching him.
I’d already told him he looked good with a baby, to which he’d gone all mumbly and shy, but then we’d had really good sex later, so I didn’t think he’d disliked the compliment.
He focused on the baby while I sorted out the bottle, most of it done already.
“Hey, Olly.” Jesse grinned. “What did you think of that goal against Spurs? Pretty decent, wasn’t it? Shame your daddy didn’t manage to keep a clean sheet.”
I smothered a giggle. The game had ended in a draw because Nate had conceded a goal, which had infuriated him. Jesse hadn’t stopped winding him up about it yet.
They’d come back from the World Cup, a long few weeks apart, full of the joys of life and confidence. Athletic were having a good season, and the players who’d had international call-ups had managed to stay relatively injury free. The club had a real buzz about it and had gone into the New Year as league leaders.
“Genny had an update about Rosie West today.” I’d been waiting for a moment like this to tell him, when he was distracted and getting high on that clean baby smell.
“Is it one I’m going to like?” He was too fixed on Oliver to look at me.
I fully suspected that Jesse’s biological clock would start ticking before mine did. “She’s been admitted for treatment in a hospital in Suffolk. She should get the treatment she needs and the care.”
Jesse muttered something that I knew would be to do with exactly what care, because he had very little sympathy for Rosie West. She had been behind the vile threats I’d received, and the attack on Keegan. After that first match of the season, the police had spoken to her but not had enough evidence to charge her. Two days later, she’d managed to break into the training complex changing rooms and hid in one of the lockers, jumping out at Jesse with a hammer in her hand.
Luckily Nate had been there with Nicky, and the changing rooms had CCTV installed, which was another story altogether. She’d been arrested and detained under the Mental Health Act, which had made Jesse and Nate finally relax some.
Jude had sent Jesse a hammer as a birthday present last month, which had gone down exactly as expected, but that was Jude.
“Still not lapsing the extra security.” He rubbed his nose against Oliver’s, which was cute to the extent an ovary melted. “So don’t bother asking.”
“Wasn’t going to.” I walked over to him with the bottle. “Dinner time. Then burps and bed.”
Jesse’s eyes darkened. “For Oliver or me?”
I laughed. “Both, if you’re lucky.”
He sat down, positioning Oliver so he could administer the bottle easily, something Uncle Jesse had become rather smooth at.
I sat next to him, not needing to help, enjoying the whispers of the man I’d fallen head over heels for as he talked my nephew through his dinner.
Tomorrow, I had another book release, my readership growing well enough to make the call that it was my career. In the summer, I’d probably move into Jesse’s. He’d asked at least once a week, and I’d found that various belongings had somehow found their merry way to his place without my help. I now had a bookcase in one of his downstairs rooms, full of romance paperbacks and cloth-bound classics that I would find in paper bags next to where I sat on his couch, because I now had my own spot.
I repaid the favour by sending him photos of things he liked: my boobs, screenshots of paragraphs I’d written, my hands making a heart.
Life was good. It was an adventure. And it was better for having Manchester Athletic’s target man by my side.
