Not now. Not that. There was no place for it here.
Ironically. For jumping him would be far easier than the rigours of fertility drugs, and risky timing, and the ache of implantation. She’d read all about it. Talked to people who’d been through it. Even joined a support group in LA when her doctor had given her diagnoses. Plural...
But falling into bed with Rafe would only make a mess of things. And she was not about to sabotage whatever slim chance she had.
The Chef’s enabling therapist would be so proud.
Sable didn’t breathe as the leaves skittered at their feet. Rustled in the trees above. As if even the wind was mirroring the restlessness surging through the both of them.
Then Rafe’s phone rang, buzzing in his pocket a moment before the sound split the heavy silence. It rang again and Sable flinched.
“Answer it,” she said.
Rafe slowly slid his phone from his pocket and answered, eyes not once leaving hers, as if afraid of what she might do if he didn’t keep an eye on her. “Rafe Thorne.”
Then, before he had the chance to ask her to wait, or tell her no, she walked away. As fast as she possibly could.
Rafe barely remembered getting off the phone with his Sydney team, and making it out of the park, for his brain was shooting sparks in every direction like a faulty firecracker.
A baby, he thought as he turned onto Laurel Avenue.
Sable wanted a baby. Not just any baby. His baby.
And it wasn’t some euphemism for How about we take up where we left off?
That he might have been able to get behind. For the attraction between them was thrumming so loud it was hard to hear over it. Chemistry had never been their problem. Only everything else that was against them: youth, family, the whole town, timing...
A baby. His baby.
No strings. Not a single one.
Was she out of her mind? Possibly. She’d lived in LA for years. Who knew what weird foods she’d eaten. Or substances she’d taken.
He might even have grabbed onto that notion and left it at that, had it not been for the fact that he knew her so damn well. The only thing they’d ever openly argued about was her dream to be a mother and his vow to never be a father.
He remembered one such time—or maybe it was several memories merged into one—wrapped up in an old blanket in the loft of his dad’s old barn, dust motes floating through the air, on the verge of sleep as her fingers traced the hairs on his chest, her soft voice going through the alphabet, listing possible names for their future children.
Annalissa with the blonde curls and obsession with kittens. Benjamin with the grumpy frown and kind heart. Carys who thought she could fly...
He’d never felt as torn as he did in those moments, soul-deep, right to his marrow. He’d been so deeply smitten with her, desperate to give her everything she could possibly hope for, but the thought of having a child to take care of made his head spin, his lungs squeeze to the size of raisins.
He’d had to tell her, time and time again, in the loudest voice he’d allow himself to use, to stop. That it was never going to happen. That he’d do anything for her, but he would never give her that.
For he’d still been a child himself, thirteen, and Janie no more than three, when his own mother had left, leaving the pair of them in the care of their father—a turbulent man who wasn’t to be trusted with his own welfare, much less that of two children.
So Rafe had raised his little sister as there had been literally no one else to do so.
That first couple of years had been the hardest. Keeping her fed with no money. Keeping her safe when she’d had a tendency to run.
As she hadn’t even been in school attending himself had been nearly impossible. They’d called him a truant, a brooding, troubled kid, when really he’d been doing his best, while his head had been constantly in seven different places at once. None of them good. How had his mother left them? What mood was his father in? Could he keep Janie alive?
But they’d made it, the two of them. A little rough around the edges, but thick as thieves. And while their lives were now solid, secure, safe, he had not forgotten a second of the hard work needed to make that happen. How sometimes even that wasn’t enough. That bad things happened—kids got sick, authorities intervened, life got in the way.
He had no intention of going through that again.
All of which Sable knew better than anyone.
His heart twisted, like a wrung-out rag, as he tried to understand what on earth had made her think he’d even consider the idea of having a baby with her—
Not what she asked, his subconscious piped up.
Rafe rocked forward. Looked down at his feet to find they’d stopped. He scuffed a boot against the footpath, dirt and decaying autumn leaves shifting under his sole.
Seriously, though. To come back here, after cutting and running, not speaking to him in years, where the heck had she found the nerve to ask him to father her child—?
That’s not what she asked.
What had she said, exactly?
That she’d found some kind of loophole? She didn’t want him to father her child. Didn’t want him to participate in the raising of the child at all. She wanted nothing from him bar his swimmers. Clinical. Safe. And quick. No support required, or wanted by the sound of it. And he’d never have to lay eyes on her—or presumably any offspring forged from the endeavour—again.
She’d left that bit till last. As if never having to see her again would be the clincher.
Rafe laughed out loud, the sound catching in his tight throat.
A day, he thought. She’s been home a day, and you can’t stand still. Nor can you move forward. And now—because
