‘Yes,’ he confirmed, trying not to ask himself why his cheeks heated at the admission. ‘Usually, I like the peace of being on my own up here.’
She peered at him. ‘You don’t have any kids?’
He couldn’t shake his head quickly enough, although he was amused by the direction of her thoughts after he’d insisted he needed peace. ‘I don’t imagine children are in my destiny,’ he said lightly.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.’
The lump in his throat wouldn’t go down, no matter how much he swallowed, so he took a sip of beer. ‘It’s for the best. I would have made a terrible father.’
‘Why?’
Simple and direct – and lethal in this case to his peace of mind. ‘I’m not built for that life: for family, responsibilities.’ He’d failed all the people close to him without creating more.
‘Nobody isbuiltfor these things. People grow.’
She was wrong. Sometimes, people just broke.
‘How old was your son when your husband died?’ He didn’t like putting the wariness back in her gaze, but he wanted to know.
When she answered him matter-of-factly, though, he wished he hadn’t asked. ‘Cillian wasn’t even born. He never met his father.’
Gabri couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound trite or melodramatic. ‘What happened to him?’
‘An enormous piece of ice fell on him during an expedition in the Himalayas.’
Porca miseria, how could she say that so steadily? His stomach turned and he’d never met the man.
‘He was a mountaineer,’ she explained. ‘Usually, people say I should have expected it.’
Christ, complicated didn’t begin to describe the edges and hidden planes of this woman.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said when the silence felt disrespectful, but his thoughts were churning too much to say it gently.
‘You don’t need to be. It was a long time ago. I don’t want you to be sorry, in fact. I’m content with my life. I have my job, my son, my friends. And now I have a week to explore paradise. I don’t need pity, do I?’
For a heartbeat, he wondered if her question was more than rhetorical, but she didn’t wait for an answer, looking away and taking another sip of her beer. He wanted to tell her no, she didn’t need pity. She was far stronger than he was.
‘What do you want to explore first?’ he asked her, changing the subject. ‘There is a lot of paradise to cover.’
Toni surprised herself by falling asleep instantly and staying asleep until the sun was pouring through the pale curtains and the air was heavy and sticky with heat, despite the ceiling fan. She seemed to discover a new scent every time she took a deep, appreciative breath. This time, it was lemons and a hint of the ocean.
An absent, tone-deaf whistle from the other room revealed she wasn’t the first awake and with a prick of guilt – and embarrassment and a quiver of anticipation she couldn’t quite banish – the revelations of the day before washed over her and she hauled herself upright. Without the brave face she had to put on every day for the sake of a little person whose well-being relied on her, the cocktail of concern and confusion and lingering attraction was sharper than she was prepared for.
Gabri wasn’t her first male friend – by a long shot. She’d always been close to Andreas, Miro’s best friend who sometimes took Cillian under his wing. Laurie, one of the regular guides at Great Heart, was a good friend too – and Rhys, the nature photographer, when he was in Weymouth. There would be no difference with Gabri.
The picture he’d made last night rose in her mind, feet propped up on the stone wall, hair carelessly tousled, an easy smile on his face. The sight of Andreas or Rhys had never caused a reaction under her skin before. Perhaps there was a small difference, but she wouldn’t let that stop her enjoying her week away.
The tiles were cool when she hopped out of bed, a relief against the heat that was already gathering. Her phone showed it was nine-thirty, a late morning for her even if she consideredthe one-hour time difference. Briefly wondering about getting dressed before making her way to the bathroom, she dismissed the idea. Her cotton shorts and T-shirt were perfectly presentable and getting changed might send a message – exactly what message, she wasn’t sure, but secret messages of all sorts were strictly off limits.
With that resolve, she warily opened the door of the bedroom – and froze.
He was standing by the scarred old table, which was covered in stems and blooms, carefully taking each one and snipping off the end with a pair of sturdy floristry scissors – wearing only an old pair of football shorts. He hadn’t noticed her, so she remained as still as she could, watching as he grasped a stem and removed the leaves from the lower part in a skilful move with his bare fingers.
The curling hair at his neck drew her eyes to the dark tan of his nape, then farther to his shoulders, the contours of muscle and bone. The expanse of his back was far more interesting than it should have been – and somehow vulnerable to study in such detail. When he turned to prepare another stem, she glimpsed his chest, compact and muscular and inspiring some sudden and very vivid fantasies – mostly about cuddling.
Her throat was so thick, she was worried he’d hear her swallow. Fantasies aboutcuddlingwere even more embarrassing than about sex. But perhaps these imaginings were sexual on some level. She could picture her body flush against his, her face tucked into that place near his shoulder, her nose in his neck and the tickle of his chest hair on her chin.
She should have dated more, if the sight of a shirtless man reduced her to this.
