Ruby nodded. “The first time was a lapse, granted. The second time we were using condoms and guess what? They’re only ninety percent effective and Elsie was the ten percent. Two children born within twelve months, without being twins.”
“You’re doing well.” She was. There was no question about that, but I wondered how often anyone told her that.
“It takes a village.” She gave me a sweet smile. “We didn’t plan for one at the time, let alone a very quick second. I think we’ve only just recovered from the shock. Sometimes I find Finn standing there staring at them when they’re asleep – them both being asleep at the same time is something to stare at though.It doesn’t happen often. Gully was amazing when Elsie was born.” Her look suggested she was assessing something. “Elsie had really bad croup and did not sleep. Elias was still a baby, not quite one and Finn and I were just surviving. Gully pretty much moved in and looked after Elias or Elsie so they had time with me or Finn and the other could sleep. He’s going to be an amazing dad. Your baby will be very lucky.”
I nodded, glad of the visual distraction right now, as Gully had finally lost his vest.
I picked up my camera and started to snap photos. Clutching at straws was probably the right phrase for saying any of this was connected to my project, but I was sticking with it as an excuse.
Gully was laughing as he held an saw, butchering wood into slim posts for the fence. Finn was working on more technical stuff, the finer detail, because he apparently did this as a hobby and had started making some furniture, such as toy boxes for his kids and a stool for Elias, although Elias rarely sat down.
It wasn’t Finn I was watching though. Our baby may not have been made the conventional way, but that wasn’t stopping the sorts of feelings I was having towards their father right now.
I hoped I wasn’t drooling.
That wouldn’t be fair. Gully was myfriend. A friend who I’d slept with on one occasion, but we’d agreed to forget about that.
I’d tried to forget about that.
I hadn’t been successful, if I was honest.
The sex had been mind blowing. He’d known exactly what he was doing and maybe it was the setting and all the pheromones knocking about because it was Mardi Gras in New Orleans and our final night together, but I’d never had anything like that before.
Never had again.
Maybe for him sex was always like that. I couldn’t say it was for me. Maybe I’d put that night on a pedestal and it hadn’t beenthat good, I just had hazy memories, but those memories were staying. Maybe I was a fool.
He’d been the sort of man-boy my sister had warned me about, only I’d never seen evidence of that. Since we’d been friends, he’d only been on dates that had materialised into short term relationships, rather than strings of one-night stands, unless he hadn’t told me about those. But in Puffin Bay, apart from during the tourist season, one-night stands weren’t easy to come about. The population was small and steady, and mainly older.
His gaze flicked over to me, a grin curving over his face. He lifted the axe again and chopped the stump of a tree into pieces, probably for a fire at some point in the future when the wood had dried out.
Axe down, he walked over to me. “Enjoying the show?”
“I’m getting some good photos. Want to see?” I somehow had an answer for everything.
He stood just behind me, looking at the camera screen from over my shoulder. I could feel his body heat even though he wasn’t touching me; I could catch his scent, aftershave and fresh sweat, without trying to find it and the whole scene was doing things to me that shouldn’t be allowed.
I needed some time alone.
An orgasm was well overdue.
Something told me it wasn’t going to take me long to get there.
“That’s a good photo.” He interjected when I got to an action shot, the axe raised above his head, his expression determined, his muscles flexed. “I should put that on my social media.”
“No.” I turned off the camera. “You don’t have the photographer’s permission.” There was no way his hoard of fans was seeing that photo.
His grin was devilish. “It’s of me. Surely I have rights over it.”
“It isn’t for sale. Property of the artist.”
His brows were raised. “You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be using that photo in an exhibition. About skin.”
“Skin?”
I nodded. “Touch, to be accurate.”
