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Within Reach
Sarah Mayberry


Being a single dad was never on Michael Young's agenda. Yet with the sudden loss of his wife, that's exactly the role he has. On his best days, he thinks he can handle it. On his worst… Luckily, family friend Angie Bartlett has his back, easily stepping in to help out.Lately, though, something has changed.Michael is noticing exactly how gorgeous Angie is, and how single she is. She's constantly in his thoughts and he feels an attraction he never expected. Does he dare disrupt the very good thing they have going? If they have a fling that goes nowhere, he stands to lose everything–including her. But if they make it work, he stands to gain everything!







Something more than friendship

Being a single dad was never on Michael Young’s agenda. Yet with the sudden loss of his wife, that’s exactly the role he has. On his best days, he thinks he can handle it. On his worst… Luckily, family friend Angie Bartlett has his back, easily stepping in to help out.

Lately, though, something has changed.

Michael is noticing exactly how gorgeous Angie is, and how single she is. She’s constantly in his thoughts and he feels an attraction he never expected. Does he dare disrupt the very good thing they have going? If they have a fling that goes nowhere, he stands to lose everything—including her. But if they make it work, he stands to gain everything!


Before Michael could think about it, he reached out to stop her from leaving

“Angie...”

She stilled, turning to glance over her shoulder at him with an uncertain look in her eyes.

He tightened his grip, anchoring her. “Stay.”

His gaze dropped to her collarbone, finding the give-away flutter beneath her skin where her pulse was beating wildly.

Racing. Out of control.

His own pulse was racing, too, because he was holding her arm, touching her, and they were alone.

He looked at her face again. All the want and lust and desire that he’d pushed down, down, down came rushing back up at him.

What self-control he had blew away like dust on the wind. He wasn’t sure who moved first, her or him. There was the thunk of her bag sliding down her arm to hit the floor, followed by the muted clank of her keys following a split-second later, then he was pulling her into his arms and she was lifting her face to kiss him and he was lowering his head to kiss her.


Dear Reader,

I think the seed for Within Reach came from some of the stories I read about post 9/11 romances in New York. I can remember hearing about rescue workers who took it upon themselves to “adopt” the widow and family of a fallen comrade and do all they could to help her and her children through a tough time. Not surprisingly, such intensity and intimacy bred another kind of intimacy and intensity—which, in a few cases, meant some marriages broke up. Difficult, sad stuff, on many levels.

But it got me thinking about feelings that develop between people under difficult circumstances. Feelings that neither party is looking for, but that are nevertheless powerful and undeniable.

Then Angie, Billie and Michael popped into my head. Angie and Billie might as well be sisters. The very best of friends, they have the sort of close female friendship that is incredibly precious. When Billie dies unexpectedly, Angie resolves to help Michael, Billie’s husband, face a world without his beloved wife and raise their two children.

I’m sure you can imagine some of what happens next. It’s not an easy journey for either Angie or Michael, but I’d like to think it’s worth it.

I love to hear from readers via my website at www.sarahmayberry.com (http://www.sarahmayberry.com).

Happy reading!

Sarah Mayberry




Within Reach

Sarah Mayberry







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Mayberry lives by the beach in Melbourne, Australia, with her partner (now husband!) of nearly twenty years. As well as writing romance novels, she writes scripts for TV, loves cooking and reading and shopping, and is learning how to be a good fur parent to her brand-new black Cavoodle, Max.


Every book is hard. No matter how much I plan in advance, I always make missteps and reach a point where I feel as though my head is going to explode. The people who stop that from happening are Chris, my real life hero, and Wanda, the best editor a writer could have. Thank you both for always having my back.

Also a big thanks to Shane Saw for my beautiful new website, Lisa for awesome Community Kitchen, and Joan for listening to me ramble and moan.

And tummy scratches for Max, for being the cutest fur ball under the sun.


Contents

PROLOGUE (#uf9196261-9971-5052-bed7-cff417b35673)

CHAPTER ONE (#u4c011e27-4e91-5de7-9011-1d8921107a7c)

CHAPTER TWO (#udd09838b-1749-5d90-9a26-6506755fa41a)

CHAPTER THREE (#ua3295979-bfbe-510c-95dc-58fea627816e)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u2db6a8d9-e286-5857-a36e-83d99cfd3de1)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EXCERPT (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE

ANGELA BARTLETT STRODE up the path toward her best friend’s house, very aware she was running late. It was a warm October day and only the screen door barred her way when she arrived on the front porch.

She rang the doorbell, then leaned close to the screen. “It’s me. Sorry I’m so late,” she called into the house.

“So you should be.” The voice echoed up the hallway, followed by the sound of footsteps.

A petite, pretty woman with pixie-cut blond hair appeared, a baby balanced on one hip. She was dressed in hot-pink capri pants, an aqua T-shirt and bright yellow sneakers with hot-pink laces.

She sounded grumpy, but her brown eyes were smiling and Angie knew she wasn’t really in trouble. They’d been friends long enough that Billie could easily forgive a few minutes’ tardiness.

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” Angie said, dropping a kiss onto her friend’s cheek as she opened the door. The baby stared at her with big, liquid eyes and she dropped a kiss onto his forehead, too. “Hello, Charlie-boy.”

“Shh. We’re pretending it’s any old party so one of us doesn’t get all maudlin about getting old,” Billie said.

“Thirty-two is not old,” Angie said, as they walked into the spacious country-style kitchen.

Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a deck. The adjacent open-plan living room was also flooded with light, the brightness accentuating the brilliant jewel tones of the furnishings. Like Billie herself, this was a house full of color and life and vibrancy.

“Where’s Michael?” Angie asked when there was no sign of Billie’s husband.

“Where do you think?”

Which Angie guessed meant he was in his study. An architect, Michael often brought work home with him, something Angie knew Billie sometimes resented.

“Auntie Angie.” A small body launched itself at Angie and Billie’s five-year-old daughter wrapped her skinny arms around Angie’s hips.

“Hi, Eva.”

Eva looked up at her, adoringly. “I thought you were never going to come.”

Angie sank onto a crouch. “I was late. Sorry about that.” She hugged her goddaughter close, breathing in the smell of berry shampoo and Barbie perfume.

“Don’t let it happen again,” Eva said mock-sternly. She was a cheeky little thing, funny and smart as a whip.

“I will make a concerted effort, I promise,” Angie said solemnly.

“Okay, time to get this party started,” Billie said, crossing to the sound system and hitting a button. James Brown’s “Get On Up” blasted through the house. Billie started dancing, holding Charlie out from her body and shaking her backside as only she could.

Angie smiled at her friend’s antics. “Here’s an idea—you could just ask Michael to come out of the study like a normal person,” she yelled over the music.

Billie simply grinned and kept dancing.

Eva giggled, thrilled to be part of the conspiracy to flush out her hardworking father. Angie grabbed her hands and they joined Billie, doing their best to match Billie’s moves.

A minute later, a tall, broad-shouldered figure appeared in the doorway. Michael Robinson’s dark, curly hair was ruffled. His feet were bare, his jeans old and faded, his white T-shirt well washed. He crossed his arms over his chest, the expression in his gray-green eyes equal parts amused and frustrated.

Billie sidled up to her husband and passed him their son before starting to dance in earnest, her small body moving smoothly to the beat. She shook her booty, jiggled her small breasts and wiggled her hips until Michael lost the battle and his mouth curved into an all-out grin.

“Okay, message received. No more work. What needs doing before everyone arrives?”

A flurry of activity ensued. Billie took Angie on a whirlwind tour of her birthday present from Michael, the small wooden studio in the backyard designed to give Billie the space to pursue her current passion for all things ceramic. They had barely returned to the house when a couple of neighbors arrived, along with a few other friends. Michael entertained them on the deck while Angie helped Billie put the finishing touches on the food in the kitchen.

“So… How are things with the hot Greek guy?” Billie asked as she mixed oil and vinegar for the salad dressing.

“Nonexistent,” Angie said.

“Don’t tell me it’s over already?”

“It’s over.”

“Angie, I swear. What are we going to do with you?”

Angie frowned, irritated by the despairing note in her friend’s voice. “Being single is not a disease. I love my life.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. A man does not happiness make. Sometimes, in fact, he makes unhappiness.”

Billie opened her mouth to say something, then obviously thought better of it. Angie was glad, since she suspected her friend had been about to say something about Finn, and that would have really pissed her off. They had talked Finn to death years ago. There was nothing new to be said, no new conclusions to come to. He was firmly in the past.

Where he belonged.

“I’m not giving up on you,” Billie said after a short silence. “There’s a new guy at Michael’s office. I haven’t convinced Michael to find out if he’s single or not yet, but if he is, I want you to meet him.”

Common sense told Angie to let the comment slide—Billie was like a runaway freight train when she got an idea in her head—but her own stubbornness demanded a response.

“Let me get this straight. You don’t know this man at all, haven’t even set eyes on him, I’m betting. Yet you want me to go out with him?”

“I’m only thinking of you.”

“I’m curious. What, exactly, is his qualification for being a good prospect for poor old Angie? Having a pulse? Walking upright?” She put down the knife she’d been using to focus all her attention on her misguided friend.

In the loaded silence after her speech Billie slid the knife out of Angie’s reach. “Just in case,” she said, poker-faced.

Angie laughed. Billie was too damn irreverent and likable and her heart was so obviously in the right place. “You are hopeless.”

“So are you.”

They took the salads outside and the next few hours drifted by in a haze of sunshine and white wine and laughter. Angie kicked off her shoes and sat back and listened to the others talk around her, occasionally pitching in a comment of her own, but mostly happy to watch Billie do what she did best—shine and sparkle and glow.

When it came time for dessert, Michael produced a white box sporting the logo of Billie’s favorite bakery and they all oohed and ahhed over the giant chocolate-and-coffee mousse cake inside.

Angie fished a small box from her handbag and handed it to her friend with a smile. “Something for your collection.”

“You spoil me, but I’m not going to say no,” Billie said.

Angie watched as Billie lifted the lid to reveal a delicate black-pearl necklace, the pearls suspended on hand-beaten gold wire that had been curved into delicate, impossible spirals. As always when she first revealed a new piece, there was a little stab of nervousness in the pit of her stomach. After nearly ten years of being a professional jewelry designer, she’d resigned herself to the fact that that small moment of self-doubt would probably never go away.

Perhaps, in some way, it was essential to her craft.

“Oh, Angie.” Billie pressed a hand to her chest, her gaze glued to the necklace. “It’s so beautiful… I don’t have the words. You’ve outdone yourself. My God.”

Angie smiled, pleased, and accepted her friend’s hug when Billie shot to her feet and rounded the table to embrace her.

“I love you, sweetie. Happy birthday,” Angie said, speaking quietly so only her friend could hear.

“I love you, too, String Bean. You talented hussy. I will treasure it always, I swear.”

Angie could see all the memories they shared reflected in Billie’s eyes as her friend drew back from their hug—the years at boarding school, the mistakes they had made, the highs, the lows. Unexpected sentimental tears burned at the back of her eyes and she blinked rapidly.

Billie sniffed, too.

“Do I need to go get the tissues?” Michael asked drily.

“We’re having an intense moment of womance here, do you mind?” Billie said.

Everyone laughed and the moment was gone. Angie helped clear the table while Billie played a game of tag with the children, running around the backyard until they were all breathless. Angie loaded the dishwasher and smiled to herself as she listened to Billie complaining about how she would have to retire from playing tag now that she was an old lady of thirty-two. Angie was rinsing out a salad bowl when Billie entered the house, red-faced, hands on her hips as she labored to catch her breath.

“Wow, you really are winded, you tragic fossil,” Angie said as her friend walked to the cupboard and reached for a glass.

“Don’t laugh. Your birthday is coming up soon,” Billie said.

She was genuinely out of breath and the smile faded from Angie’s lips. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just need some water.” But Billie’s hand trembled as she held her glass under the water.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

She waved an impatient hand, already walking away with her drink. “I’m fine.”

Angie shrugged and resumed rinsing the salad bowl. The sound of glass shattering had her spinning around. She was in time to see Billie press her hands to her chest before collapsing to her knees, the sound of bone hitting wood a loud, resonant thunk.

“It hurts,” Billie gasped, fingers pressing into her chest.

Then she hit the floor, unconscious, her body loose and lifeless.

Angie let the salad bowl crash into the sink.

“Michael!” she screamed. She rounded the counter, her bare feet slipping on the floor. She fell to her knees beside Billie’s pale, still body as Michael appeared in the doorway.

“What happened?” he asked, his face a stark, terrified white as he took in his wife’s body on the floor.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Call an ambulance.”


CHAPTER ONE

Ten months later

THE FAMILIAR HEAVINESS settled over Angie as she parked in front of Billie’s house. Every time she came here, she saw the same image in her mind’s eye: the flashing blue and red ambulance lights reflecting off the white stucco facade, the shocked neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, Billie’s too-still body being rushed to the ambulance, an EMT working frantically to keep her alive.

Angie reached for her purse and the bag containing the gifts she’d bought in New York and made her way up the drive, noting the mail crowding the letterbox. The lawn needed mowing, too.

A pile of shoes lay abandoned on the porch—two pairs of child-size rubber boots and a pair of adult sneakers. She hit the doorbell, checking her watch.

After what felt like a long time, she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. It swung open and Michael appeared, his features obscured by the screen.

“Angie.” He sounded surprised, but she’d emailed him three days ago to tell him she’d be coming by to see him and the kids once she arrived home.

“Hey. Long time no see,” she said easily.

He rubbed his face. “Sorry. I forgot you said you were coming over.” He pushed the screen door open. “Come in.”

His hair was longer than when she’d flown out six weeks ago, his jaw dark with stubble. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, both hanging on his frame.

“How are you?” she asked as she kissed his cheek.

“We’re getting by.” His gaze slid away from hers and he took a step backward, one hand gesturing for her to precede him up the hallway to the kitchen. “How was New York?”

“Good. Busy. Hot and hectic.” She’d gone to train with an American jewelry designer and show her work at an arty little gallery in Greenwich Village. She’d also gone to get away, because she’d needed to do something to shock herself out of her grief.

She blinked as she entered the dim kitchen and living space. The blinds had been drawn on all the windows, the only light coming from the television and around the edges of the blinds.

It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust enough to see that Charlie was ensconced on the couch, his gaze fixed on the flickering TV screen as Kung Fu Panda took out the bad guys.

“Hey, little man,” she said, crossing to his side and leaning down to drop a kiss onto his smooth, chubby cheek.

He glanced at her and smiled vaguely before returning his attention to the movie. She took in the stacks of books on the floor, the dirty plates on the coffee table, the clothes strewn over the couch.

“Eva should be home soon. She went to a friend’s place after school,” Michael said. “You want a coffee?”

She returned to the kitchen, her gaze sliding over the dishes piled in the sink and the boxes of cereal and other foodstuffs lined up on the island counter. Paperwork sat in a cluttered pile, and an overloaded laundry basket perched on one of the stools, leaning dangerously to one side. Everything looked dusty and ever-so-slightly grubby.

“Coffee would be good, thanks,” she said slowly.

The house had been like this when she’d visited before she’d flown to New York, but for some reason it hadn’t made the same impression as it did today. Then, she’d talked with Michael amidst all the dishes and laundry and not registered the darkness and the mess and his gauntness. It had all seemed normal, because in the months since Billie’s death it had become the norm as she did her best to help Michael any way she could.

Today, she saw it all—the disorder, the dullness in Michael’s eyes, the air of neglect and hopelessness—and she understood with a sudden, sharp clarity that this wasn’t simply a household in mourning, this was a household veering toward crisis.

Her chest ached as she watched Michael go through the motions of making coffee. For as long as she lived, she would never forget the look in his eyes when she arrived at the hospital hard on the heels of the ambulance that horrible day. He’d been sitting in a small side room, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands. She’d stopped in the doorway saying his name. When he’d looked up the emptiness and grief in his eyes had told her everything she needed to know. The memory of that moment of realization—the death of her last hope, that somehow they had managed to save Billie from what had clearly been a catastrophic major event—was still sharp and bitter and hard, but she knew that her loss was nothing compared to Michael’s.

He’d loved Billie so much. She’d been the center of his world and she’d died far, far too young. Was it any wonder that he was finding it so hard to pull himself together and move on?

She swallowed a lump of emotion and lifted the basket off the stool so she could sit.

“How did your show go?” Michael asked as he slid a brimming coffee mug toward her.

“Well, I think. But it’s so competitive over there, I’m not holding my breath.”

“Your stuff is great. You don’t need to hold your breath.”

She didn’t doubt the sincerity behind Michael’s words, but the lack of emotion in his voice was yet another marker of how flat he was. He’d taken a year off work after Billie’s death to provide some stability and continuity for the children. As equal partner in an architecture firm with two other architects, he’d been fortunate that he’d been in a position to do so. At the time Angie had applauded the decision but now, with the benefit of the new perspective provided by her six-week absence, she wasn’t so sure.

“Did I miss anything while I was away?”

Michael shrugged. “Like what?”

“Eva was talking about starting ballet again. How did that go?”

“She changed her mind.”

“But she was so keen.”

He shrugged again. “You know how kids are.”

The doorbell echoed through the house before she could ask any more questions.

“That’ll be her now.”

He left to answer the door. Unable to stop herself, she slid off the stool and crossed to the stack of dirty dishes. The dishwasher was full of clean dishes, and she started stacking them in the cupboards. She was as familiar with Billie’s kitchen as she was her own and she’d emptied the top rack by the time Michael returned, Eva trailing in his wake.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Angie said, scooping Eva into her arms. “I missed you so much.”

Eva’s arms tightened around her with surprising strength, her head burrowing into her chest.

“I missed you, too, Auntie Angie.”

Angie smoothed a hand over her hair and squeezed her as tightly. She met Michael’s gaze over his daughter’s head and offered him a faint, sympathetic smile. He didn’t respond, simply dropped Eva’s school bag on top of the rubble on the table and went to the fridge.

“How was school?” Angie asked, tucking a strand of hair behind Eva’s ear.

“It was okay. Dad, I got invited to Imogen’s birthday today. It’s going to be a fairy party. I can go, can’t I?”

“When is it?” Michael piled ingredients on the counter—carrots, zucchini, onions.

“Not this Saturday but the one after that, I think.” Eva pulled a crumpled invitation from her uniform pocket and handed it over.

He glanced at it briefly. “Okay. Remind me to take you shopping for a present beforehand.”

“Okay. I will. And I’ll stick the invitation here, too.” She gave her father a significant look before using a magnet to fix the paper to the fridge door. “See? It’s right here.”

“Yeah, I got that, Eva.” There was a note of impatience in his voice, but even that was subdued. Angie watched him, worried.

Michael started grating a carrot. He glanced up, almost as though he sensed her regard. “You staying for dinner?”

“Sure. Thanks. Can I help with anything?”

“Nope. It’s just spaghetti, nothing fancy.”

Eva groaned. “Not spaghetti again.”

Michael ignored his daughter’s complaint, grabbing a saucepan and filling it with water. Angie felt a tug on the knee of her jeans and looked down to find Charlie peering at her.

“Up, up!” he said, arms held high.

Clearly, Kung Fu Panda’s attractions had waned.

She ducked to lift him, receiving a whiff of ripe diaper as she settled him into her arms. “Wow. Someone’s been busy.” She lifted his T-shirt and pulled his diaper away from his back to do a visual check. What she saw was not pretty.

Michael raised his eyebrows. “Does he need changing?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Right.” He started drying his hands.

“I can take care of it,” Angie offered quickly.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. We’ll be back in five, won’t we, Mr. Stinky Bum?” She jiggled Charlie on her hip as she made her way toward his nursery. The blind was drawn in here, too, giving the room an oppressive, claustrophobic feeling. She flicked on the light, then lifted the blind as high as it would go. Sunshine streamed into the room and some of the tightness left her chest.

Poor Michael. And poor Eva and Charlie.

“What you doin’, Angie?” he asked in his bright baby voice, eyes wide and inquisitive.

“Letting some sunshine in, little monkey.”

She lay Charlie on his change table and tugged off his jeans. She pulled off the soiled diaper and dropped it in the bin.

“Here.” Eva passed a fresh diaper to her, along with the box of baby wipes for the mop-up operation. Angie hadn’t realized she’d followed her.

“Hey, thanks.” Angie gave the little girl a grateful smile.

“It smells.” Eva waved a hand in front of her face.

“Yes, indeed, it does. Your little brother has a gift.”

She cleaned him up while Charlie stared at her with a beatific smile and Eva hovered behind her.

“Can I ask a favor, Auntie Angie?” Eva asked after a few seconds.

“Of course you can. You can ask me anything.”

“Will you remind Daddy about the party?”

Angie dusted powder over Charlie’s nether regions, glancing at Eva. “Sure. But I’m pretty sure your dad will remember all on his own.”

“No, he won’t. He said he’d take me to see the new Miley Cyrus movie and he didn’t. And he promised he’d take me roller skating and we didn’t do that, either.”

Michael had always been a great father. Attentive, playful, protective. He was indulgent when he needed to be, firm when it counted—and he always did whatever was necessary to make his children feel happy and safe. Hearing that he’d let Eva down on more than one occasion recently brought the tight feeling back to Angie’s chest.

“I’ll make a note in my phone and I’ll call him before the party, okay?”

“Thank you, Auntie Angie.” Eva hugged her again. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

They returned to the kitchen with Charlie walking between them. Michael was scraping vegetables into a saucepan before adding a store-bought jar of pasta sauce.

“Can I play with the iPad, Dad?” Eva asked, already sidling toward the couch.

“Half an hour, max.”

“Okay,” Eva said, rolling over the back of the couch and down to the seat.

It was such a classic Billie move that for a moment Angie was stunned. Grief stung the back of her eyes, and for long seconds she could do nothing but stare at the floor. When she dared glance at Michael, his face was utterly expressionless, but somehow she knew that he had been equally affected by the small moment. Suddenly he looked much older than his thirty-five years—old and weary and defeated.

The impulse to go to him and simply wrap her arms around him was overwhelming, but they had never had that kind of friendship. They were comfortable and familiar with one another, yes, but they both sat toward the shy end of the personality spectrum, especially where physical stuff was concerned. Billie had been the hugger, and she’d trained Angie to first accept and then reciprocate her ready affection, but it was not a skill that had transferred easily to the other relationships in Angie’s life.

She started setting the table and after a few minutes Michael spoke up.

“Dinner’s about ten minutes away. Would you mind watching the kids for five while I grab a quick shower?”

“Of course not. Go for it.” She shooed him away.

He gave her a half smile as he left. She finished setting the table, then started on the kitchen. By the time Michael returned wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt, she’d stowed the various foodstuffs in the pantry, emptied the dishwasher and whittled the debris covering the counters down to a stack of paperwork.

Michael’s gaze flicked around the room before finding her. She tensed, worried she’d overstepped, but he simply gave her a small acknowledging nod.

“Thanks, Angie.”

Between the two of them they wrangled Charlie into his high chair. Michael cut his pasta into small pieces and let it cool before offering the bowl to his son. Charlie stabbed at the plate with his Winnie-the-Pooh cutlery, sending food flying. Michael asked Eva about her day at school and her afternoon at her friend’s, saying all the right things in response to her questions, keeping up a semblance of normality.

It was all so subdued and colorless and joyless Angie wanted to weep.

Afterward, she gave Eva the I Love NY T-shirt and lip gloss she’d picked up for her, as well as a funky pair of high-top sneakers.

“Fresh off the streets. No one else will have these for months,” she assured Eva.

“They’re so sparkly.” Eva twisted the shoes so their sequined details reflected the light.

Angie handed a plush toy hot dog to Charlie, along with a miniature version of Eva’s T-shirt. Lastly, she slid a T-shirt Michael’s way. He raised an eyebrow, obviously surprised he’d been included on the gift list.

“I saw this and thought of you,” she said by way of explanation.

He unfolded the T-shirt and read the inscription: Trust Me, I’m an Architect. He smiled his first genuine smile of the day. “Very cool.”

By eight o’clock the kids were down for the night, despite much pleading on Eva’s behalf to “stay up late because Auntie Angie is home.” A stern look and a few words in her father’s deepest tones sent Eva scurrying off to bed, leaving Angie alone with Michael.

“Sorry, my hosting skills are a little rusty. I forgot to offer you wine with dinner. There’s a bottle in the pantry if you want a glass…?” Michael asked.

“I’m good, thanks. I’m kind of detoxing after New York.”

“Lots of partying, huh?”

Again, he was saying the right things, but he wasn’t truly engaged. Rather than answer, she studied him for a long beat before starting the conversation that she owed it to Billie—and Michael and Eva and Charlie—to have. Even if it made her uncomfortable to force her way into sensitive territory.

“How are you, Michael? I mean, how are you really?”

“I’m fine. We’re all good.” He said it so automatically she knew she was getting his canned response to well-wishers and relatives.

“You don’t look good to me. You’ve lost weight, you’re living in this house like it’s a cave, you’re shuffling around like a zombie.”

His chin jerked as though she’d hit him and it took him a long time to respond. “We’re fine.”

She glanced at her hands, wondering how hard and how far to push him.

“Have you thought about going back to work early? I know you took twelve months off, but they would take you if you wanted to return early, wouldn’t they?”

The thought had occurred to her as she’d watched him prepare dinner. Most men preferred to be doing something rather than sitting around contemplating their navels.

Michael’s already stony expression became even more remote. “I took the time off for the kids. They need me to be around.”

“They need you to be a fully functioning human being first and foremost, Michael. Did it ever cross your mind that having all this time to think isn’t good for you? God knows, it would drive me crazy. If you went to work, you’d get some of your life back. Some of who you are.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Angie, but we’re all doing fine.” He stood, clearly wanting to end the discussion.

Angie hated confrontation—usually went to great lengths to avoid it—but she hated what she saw happening to Michael even more.

“You think this half life is doing any of you any good? When was the last time you left the house to do anything other than drop Eva at school or go to the supermarket? When was the last time you did something because you wanted to rather than because you had to?”

For a moment there was so much blazing anger in his eyes that she almost shrank into her seat. She understood his anger—his wife of six years had died suddenly and brutally from an undiagnosed congenital heart defect, leaving him to raise their two children alone. He’d lost his dreams, his future, the shape of his world in the space of half an hour.

But the fact remained that life went on. Michael was alive, and Billie was dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Certainly living in some sort of shadow world wasn’t going to fix things or make them better.

So she stood her ground and eyed him steadily. “I know it’s hard. I think about her every day. I miss her like crazy. But you stopping living isn’t going to bring her back.”

Michael swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet space. He stared at the floor and closed his eyes, one hand lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose. She didn’t know him well enough to understand his signals—she’d only known him when he was happy, not when he was deeply grieving, and she had no map to help her navigate this difficult territory.

“If you want to talk, if you want to rage, if you need help around the house, if you want to burn it all to the ground and start again… Tell me,” Angie said. “Tell me what you need, Michael, and I will do whatever I can to make it happen.”

She held her breath, hoping she’d gotten through to him. After a moment he lifted his head.

“I need my wife back.”

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Angie’s knees were shaking. She couldn’t even remember standing, but she must have in those last few, fraught minutes.

Moving slowly, she gathered her purse and let herself out of the house. Her sandals slapped hollowly on the driveway as she walked to her car. She threw her bag onto the backseat but didn’t immediately drive away. Instead, she crossed her arms over the steering wheel and rested her forehead against them. The sadness and emptiness that never really left her welled up and her shoulders started to shake.

I miss you so much, Billie. In so many ways. I’m sorry I couldn’t help him. I’ll keep trying, but I’m not like you. I don’t have your touch with people. But I’ll keep trying, I promise.

Angie breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, fighting for control. She’d had these moments off and on for the past ten months; she knew how to weather them. After a few minutes the shaky, lost feeling subsided, she straightened and wiped the tears from her cheeks. A few minutes after that, she started her car and drove home.

* * *

MICHAEL STOOD ON THE DECK, breathing in the cool night air. Trying to calm himself.

Angie was so far out of line it wasn’t funny. While she’d been off drinking mojitos or cosmos or whatever the cool drink was these days in New York, he’d been staring his new reality in the face. She had no idea how he felt, no clue what he went through every frickin’ day.

The moment the thought crossed his mind his innate sense of fairness kicked in. She may have been in New York for six weeks, but before that Angie had been a rock, standing by his side and doing anything and everything she could to make things bearable after Billie’s death. More important, Angie understood more than anyone what losing Billie had meant to him, to his life. She and Billie had been more like sisters than friends. They had finished each other’s sentences, said the honest thing when it needed to be said and been each other’s best cheerleaders. Angie was trying to piece her life together, too. Trying to work out how to live in a post-Billie world.

That still didn’t give her the right to critique his life. It definitely didn’t give her the right to tell him he was a zombie or that he was living a half life or to tell him what his kids needed.

When was the last time you did something because you wanted to rather than because you had to?

He ground his teeth together, wishing he could expunge her words from his mind. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to lift his head and look around and see that life was going on around him. He wanted…

He wanted the impossible. Billie, with her huge smile and her even huger heart. He wanted her laughter echoing in the house again. He wanted to wake up in the morning and turn his head and find her lying next to him instead of an empty pillow. He wanted to kiss her lips and smell her perfume. He wanted to lie in bed and have her press her cold feet against his calves to warm them.

He wanted. And his want was never going to be satisfied because his wife’s aorta had dissected as a result of high blood pressure, a catastrophic cardiac incident that had meant she was dead before they reached the hospital. Billie was dead and gone, turned to dust. All he had left were the children they had made together and his memories and the house she’d turned into a home for them all.

Not nearly enough.

He sank to the deck, pulling his knees loosely toward his chest. It was cold, but he wasn’t ready to go in yet. Angie had stirred him up too much.

He stared into the darkness, aware, as always, of the silence within the walls behind him. Billie had been the noisiest person he knew. She’d hummed when she washed the dishes, sung in the shower, galloped around the house. Getting used to the new quiet had been but one of many small, painful adjustments he’d had to make over the past ten months.

He exhaled, watching his breath turn to mist in the air.

“Daddy?”

He glanced over his shoulder. Eva stood in the sliding doorway to his bedroom wearing nothing but her nightie, her arms wrapped around her body.

“You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too cold.” He pushed himself to his feet.

“What are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same question. You’ve got school tomorrow.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, turning her around and guiding her to her bedroom.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

They entered her bedroom and she walked dutifully to her bed and slipped beneath the duvet. “Can you tell me a story?”

“You need to sleep, Eva.”

His daughter was a night owl and a master of distraction and procrastination. If he let her, she’d be up half the night, demanding stories and anything else to delay putting her head on her pillow.

“Oh, all right.” Her tone was hard done by and world-weary and he couldn’t help but smile.

He kissed her forehead. “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

He pulled the quilt up so that it covered her shoulders. He started to straighten, but Eva’s hand shot out and caught a hold of his sweatshirt.

“You won’t forget about Imogen’s party, will you, like you forgot about the movies and roller skating?” she asked, her eyes fixed on his face.

He frowned. “What movie?”

“You said you’d take me to see Miley Cyrus’s new movie. Just like you said you’d take me skating with my class.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he didn’t know what she was talking about—then suddenly the memory was there, clear as day. Eva, cajoling and pleading, her hands pressed together as though in prayer, promising to do all her chores on time without him having to ask if he would please, please, please take her to the movies. He’d said yes, unable to deny her anything that might give her pleasure.

Then he’d forgotten to follow through on his commitment.

They need you to be a fully functioning human being first and foremost, Michael.

Guilty heat rose up his neck and into his face as Angie’s words echoed in his mind. He’d been too busy being defensive and pissy to actually listen to what she’d said, but it was impossible to ignore the anxiety in his daughter’s big brown eyes now.

“I’m sorry I forgot, sweetheart. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

“I know, Daddy. You miss Mummy, don’t you?”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean it’s okay to let you down. I promise I won’t forget Imogen’s party, all right? We’ll put it on the calendar.”

“I asked Auntie Angie to remind you, too.”

Michael winced inwardly. No wonder Angie had felt compelled to say something.

“Good idea. And maybe we could catch that movie this weekend.”

“It’s not on anymore.”

“Then we’ll watch it when it comes out on DVD. Make a night of it with popcorn and everything. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

He kissed her forehead again and waited till she’d snuggled beneath the quilt before leaving the room.

He made his way to his bedroom and sat on the end of his bed. He scrubbed his face with his hands, exhausted. A perpetual state since Billie’s death. He thought about what Angie had said and Eva’s anxiety.

He needed to get his shit together.

It had been ten months since Billie had died and he needed to stop simply surviving and start living again—if not for his own sake, then for the kids. Because forgetting the Miley Cyrus movie hadn’t been his first screwup.

Only last week, he’d woken up, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then made Eva’s lunch and set her backpack by the front door, ready for the school run. He’d gotten her out of bed and into her uniform, strapped Charlie into the car. All part of their morning routine, a routine he did without thinking about it, day in, day out. It was only when he’d been backing out of the drive and the news had come on the radio that he’d realized it was a Saturday.

No doubt if he cared to sift through the past few months, he’d be able to find dozens of similar examples. What had Angie called it? A half life.

Highly appropriate, since he felt like half a person. As though he’d lost some essential part of himself when he’d lost Billie. He’d always been too quiet, too introverted, too inclined to get lost in his own head and his work, but Billie had dragged him into the world and made him engage and taught him to live as though he meant it. As though every moment counted.

But Billie was gone. And he was not, and the kids were not.

Life went on.

He pushed himself off the bed and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He needed to make some changes, to do something to shift things. He thought about Angie’s suggestion—that he go back to work early—and forced himself to really consider it as an option, even though his first response had been to reject it, as he’d rejected everything else she’d said.

He’d taken the year off because he’d wanted the kids to have some kind of continuity of care after Billie’s death. She’d been a full-time mom and therefore their primary caregiver, and neither she nor Michael had family who’d been able to step in and help thanks to the tyranny of distance—Billie’s family were all in England, his own in Perth, a thousand miles and a time zone away. At the time, twelve months had felt woefully inadequate to patch over the gaping hole left by Billie’s absence, but the truth was that the kids had been far more resilient than he’d ever imagined.

Not that they weren’t affected by their mother’s loss—they were, in hundreds of small ways, all the time—but they were far better at living in the now than he was.

He’d needed the time-out more than they had. He’d been

so shattered in those early days, like a shell-shocked soldier, and there had been something undeniably comforting and numbing about the routine of their very limited domestic life—it had become its own form of suspended animation, a holding pattern that they had existed in to get by.

But getting by wasn’t enough, not when he was letting his kids down. They deserved better from him. He needed to move beyond merely surviving.

As impossible as that seemed from where he sat right now.

He looked himself in the eye in the mirror, taking in his shaggy hair and gaunt features and bristly cheeks.

Time did not stand still, and neither could he. Tomorrow, he’d call his partners in the firm and talk to them about returning early. Then he’d start setting his house to rights, both figuratively and literally.

The thought alone was enough to make him feel heavy and overwhelmed.

Damn you, Angie. Why couldn’t you have left me alone?

He already knew the answer—because she was a friend, and because she cared enough to make the tough call, even when she knew her point of view probably wouldn’t be appreciated.

He needed to add apologizing to her to his list of things to do tomorrow.

He finished up then shed his clothes and climbed into bed. Turning onto his side, he closed his eyes. As always as he drifted toward sleep, there was a small, forgetful moment where he slid his hand over to touch Billie’s back, instinctively seeking reassurance as he hovered on the brink.

As always, he found nothing but cold sheets.

A few minutes after that, he fell asleep.


CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT MORNING FOUND Angie wrestling with the ancient lock on the door to her studio. She pulled the key out, then slid it back in and jiggled it around. After a few tense seconds she felt the latch give and rolled her eyes.

Typical. Like everything else in the Stradbroke building, the mechanism worked just enough to make it difficult to make a case to the landlord to replace it. She locked the door behind her and dropped her bag on the small table and chairs she kept for client meetings, then crossed to the window to let in some fresh air. Next, she pulled on the well-worn leather apron she wore to protect her clothes and hunkered down in front of her safe to open it. Inside were the flat strips of gold, silver and other metals that she used to create the alloys for her pieces, as well as a box containing dozens of small boxes, each of which boasted a selection of diamonds and other gems. She preferred to work with white, champagne and pink diamonds, but she had a small collection of rubies and emeralds and sapphires, as well. This morning she ignored the stones and pulled the gold and silver from the safe. Both the rings for the Merton commission—her first priority this week—were to be made from 18-karat white gold. She checked the design brief she’d created in consultation with Judy and John and did some math to calculate how much she’d need of both palladium and gold to accommodate their ring sizes—an L and S respectively—then turned toward the scales to measure.

Perhaps inevitably, her thoughts turned to Michael and the kids as she worked.

She’d really pissed him off last night with her unsolicited advice.

It was so hard to know what to do. Michael may have been married to Billie for six years, and Angie may have seen him once a week on average during that time, but their friendship had always been grounded in their mutual connection with Billie. Not that Angie didn’t like him in his own right—she did, a lot—but in her mind he was Billie’s husband first and foremost, and then Michael. Just as she suspected she was Billie’s friend first to him, and then herself.

Although maybe that assessment wasn’t strictly true anymore. It had been an intense ten months, after all.

The phone rang, cutting through her thoughts. She leaned to grab the handset.

“Angela speaking.”

“Angie, it’s Michael.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to bite your head off again. I rang to apologize for last night.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“Yeah, I do. I was an ass, and I’m sorry.”

One of the things she’d always liked about Michael was that he didn’t beat around the bush. He was a man of few words, but those he did speak were always worth hearing.

“Apology accepted. Even if it is unnecessary.”

“I thought about what you said, and I spoke to my partners today. They’re keen for me to come back whenever I’m ready.”

“Hey, that’s great. Are you going to take them up on it?”

“I don’t know. I need to sort out child care. But you were right. Sitting around here on my own all day isn’t helping anything.”

She pictured the darkened kitchen and living room and his shaggy hair and too-thin frame.

“It’s hard to get into things again. But life goes on whether we want it to or not. Wrong as it seems.” She hated how trite she sounded.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Have you thought about going back part-time to start with? Maybe three days a week, or something like that? That way both you and the kids would have a chance to get used to you not being around as much.”

“Part-time. I hadn’t thought of that. But there’s no reason why I couldn’t do it, even if it meant I worked from home on the other days.”

“Let’s face it, you’re probably going to do that anyway,” she said drily.

“True. And that would mean I’d only have to find day care for Charlie three days. And work out something for Eva after school.”

She moved to the window, stepping into a shaft of sunlight and letting it warm her skin.

“What about a nanny? I have no idea how much they are, but my friend Gail uses one. She says it’s a godsend.”

“Yeah? I guess it would be worth investigating. I keep hearing that the day-care places around here have waiting lists as long as my arm.”

“I’ll ask where she got hers and text you.”

“Thanks, Angie. I appreciate it.”

There was a humble sincerity to his tone that made her throat tight.

“How would you feel about me coming over on Sunday and taking Eva shopping for her friend’s present?”

It felt like a pitifully small gesture, all things considered, but at least it was practical.

“I would feel eternally grateful. I have no idea what to buy a six-year-old.”

“Neither do I, to be honest, but we can wing it. What say I swing by to pick her up at two on Sunday?”

“She’ll be ready. Thanks, Angie.”

“It helps me, too, you know,” she said quietly. “Being with the kids. Helping you out.”

He was silent for a moment. “Okay.” There was a wealth of understanding in the single word.

“I’ll see you Sunday.”

“You will.”

She ended the call and stepped out of the sunshine.

Michael was going back to the firm. A good decision, she was sure of it. Her work had saved her during the early, hard months. She was sure it would help him find himself again now.

At least, she hoped so.

* * *

THE REMAINDER OF THE WEEK sped by in a blur. Angie worked late every night, keen to make inroads on the commissions that had been waiting while she was in New York. She allowed herself the small luxury of sleeping in on Sunday before catching up with a friend for lunch. It was just after two when she stopped in front of Billie’s house.

She rang the doorbell, then had a horrible moment where she was suddenly convinced that she’d left her phone behind in the café. She fumbled in her handbag. Her fingers closed around her phone’s smooth contours as the front door opened.

“Hey. Right on time,” Michael said.

She glanced up, a lighthearted retort on her lips. The first thing she registered was his new, crisp haircut and the fact that he was clean-shaven. Then her gaze took in his broad chest in a sweat-dampened tank top and the skin-tight black running leggings moulded to his muscular legs. The words died on her lips and she blinked, momentarily stunned by the change in him.

“You’ve cut your hair,” she said stupidly.

“Yeah. Decided it was time to stop doing my Robinson Crusoe impersonation.”

He gestured for her to enter and she brushed past him. He smelled of fresh air and spicy masculine deodorant. He preceded her up the hall and her gaze traveled across his shoulders before dropping to his muscular backside. Billie had often waxed poetic about Michael’s body, but Angie had always made a point of not noticing—she didn’t want to know that kind of stuff. Now, as he stopped at the kitchen counter, she was forcibly reminded of the fact that he was a very attractive man.

For a moment she didn’t quite know where to look.

“Is, um, Eva ready to go? I thought I’d take her to Chadstone,” she said, naming Melbourne’s biggest shopping center. Her gaze skittered uneasily around the room. It was only then that she noticed the other changes—the kitchen was clean, not a single dirty bowl or plate in sight, and the dining table had been polished to a shine. True, a small stack of neatly folded washing sat at one end, but it looked like a temporary measure this time rather than a permanent fixture. The living room had been cleared of stray books and magazines and abandoned clothes, the cushions on the couch plumped.

Most important, the blinds had been raised, inviting the weak winter sunshine into the house.

She forgot all about her uncomfortable awareness as her gaze met Michael’s.

“Look at you go,” she said quietly.

He shrugged, but she could tell he was pleased she’d noticed the difference. “Getting there.”

It wasn’t only his hair that was different, she realized. His eyes were different, too. Brighter, clearer, more focused. As though he’d ceased looking inward and was ready to engage with the world again.

“Okay. I’m ready. Let’s get this show on the road,” Eva announced as she marched into the room.

She was dressed in a pair of yellow cowboy boots, a bright blue skirt and a poppy-red sweater. Her blond hair had been pulled into two lopsided pigtails and fastened with yellow-and-white polka dot ribbons, and a grass-green handbag hung from her shoulder.

Her mother’s daughter, from top to toe.

“You look like a summer’s day,” Angie said, opening her arms for a hug.

Eva walked into her embrace, resting her head beneath Angie’s breasts.

“I feel like a summer’s day. We’re going shopping.”

Michael smiled ruefully. “Words to make any man quake in his shoes.” He picked up his wallet. “How much money do you need?”

“I have my own money, thank you very much.” Eva pulled an elephant-shaped wallet from her handbag and displayed the two five-dollar bills resting within.

“Not bad, money bags. How about I give Auntie Angie a little extra in case you ladies find something nice that catches your eye?”

Angie shook her head as he offered her two crisp fifties. “I’ve got it covered.”

“You’re doing enough already.”

Before she could protest again, he closed the distance between them and tucked the bills into her coat pocket. She caught another whiff of his deodorant and a faint hint of clean, male sweat.

She cleared her throat. “Well. We should probably get going, little lady. Don’t want to miss out on all the bargains.”

Eva kissed her father goodbye and Angie told him they would be back by five and hustled out the door. She didn’t feel one hundred percent comfortable until she was sliding into the driver’s seat.

Which was dumb. Michael was still Michael, even if he did have an attractive body and a handsome face. Just because she’d suddenly tuned into that fact for a few seconds didn’t change anything.

“Weirdo,” she muttered under her breath.

“Sorry?” Eva said, her face puzzled.

“Nothing, sweetheart.”

And it was nothing. A stupid, odd little moment of awareness that meant nothing to anybody. Shaking it off, she started the car and pulled away from the curb.

* * *

MICHAEL SHOWERED AFTER Angie and Eva had left, taking advantage of the fact that Charlie was enjoying a rare afternoon nap. His legs ached from the run he’d taken after lunch while his neighbor, Mrs. Linton, watched the kids, but for the first time in a long time his body felt loose and easy.

He soaped himself down and allowed himself to enjoy the simple pleasure of warm water and well-used muscles. His thoughts drifted to the afternoon. The odds were good that Charlie would be awake any second now. Maybe they could go to the park. Charlie could run around to his heart’s content and afterward Michael might take a look at the plans Dane had sent over last night.

Michael was still feeling his way toward the whole going-back-to-work thing. He’d spoken to a nanny agency and they were lining up interviews for him for next week and Mrs. Linton had offered to help in the interim, but a part of him was holding back for some reason, not quite ready to commit to the complete resumption of his life. It was one thing to get a haircut and clean the house. It was another thing entirely to draw a line under the past few months and let the world in again.

Dane had clearly taken his imminent return as a given, however—Michael had checked his email last night and found a sizable file waiting for him, complete with brief and draft plans for a luxury beach house the firm had been commissioned to design. One of many projects, apparently, that his fellow partners were happy to hand over the moment Michael returned.

After dressing in jeans and a T-shirt and hooded sweatshirt, he took Charlie to the local park where they swung and climbed and played peekaboo endlessly. There were a couple of other parents hanging around with their kids, one of whom he recognized as a member of Billie’s mothers’ group. He chatted to her politely for a few minutes before Charlie once again demanded his attention. He walked away feeling woefully rusty at the whole small-talk thing.

Later, he was folding the last of the washing when he heard the door open and the sound of Eva’s footsteps pounding along the hall.

“We got the bestest present ever,” she announced as she burst into the kitchen. She held what looked like a set of butterfly wings.

“Wow. They look pretty cool,” he said as Angie followed Eva.

“We had trouble deciding between fairy and butterfly wings. So we got both.” Angie brandished her own shopping bag. “Eva’s going to decide which ones she thinks Imogen would prefer.” Angie’s deep blue eyes were shining with laughter. They both knew that Eva’s choice would be more about which pair of wings she didn’t want.

“Sounds like your mission was achieved.”

“We had a great time. Auntie Angie took me to get my nails done, and we had coffee and bisgotty.”

“Biscotti,” Angie said easily. “Which is a fancy-pants way of saying biscuit in Italian.”

“Biscotti. Bis-cotti,” Eva repeated to herself.

Michael didn’t even try to hide his smile this time, and neither did Angie. He met her gaze again.

“Stay for dinner?”

“Sure. If you’ve got enough to go around.”

“It’s nothing fancy, just pasta. And there’s always enough pasta.”

“No,” Eva groaned. “We always have spaghetti.”

“I think you might be exaggerating a little there, sweetheart.”

“We had it last night, and Wednesday night, and Monday night.”

Michael frowned, ready to correct her. Then he realized she was right. “Those were all different pastas.” He sounded lame, even to himself. The truth was, he was a competent cook, but not a very imaginative one.

“Have you made anything yet?” Angie asked.

“No. I was about to start on the sauce. Which will be different from the other sauces we had during the week,” he said for Eva’s benefit.

She gave him a skeptical look, as well she might. There was only so much a man could do with tomatoes, onion and ground meat.

“If you want to take a break from the kitchen for the night, I could make us Mexican. I picked up a few groceries while we were out so I’ve got a taco kit and the makings for a salad in the car,” Angie said.

“Yes!” Eva jumped up and down on the spot, hands in the air.

“Mexican it is, then,” Angie said.

The dinner prep passed quickly, punctuated with lots of laughter. The Mexican feast elicited loud approving noises from his children—a hint, in case he’d missed the earlier message, that he needed to add a little more variety to their weekly menu.

Charlie was rubbing his eyes by the time they had finished eating and Michael took a chance and settled him in his bed. Miraculously, Charlie’s eyes shut after only ten minutes of story.

When Michael returned to the kitchen, Angie was seated at the counter, her chin propped on her left hand as she sketched rapidly in a notebook.

“Guess who’s already asleep?”

She glanced up, her blue eyes unfocused for a few seconds as she dragged herself back from whatever creative space she’d been in.

“Really? He’s down already?”

“The magic of the park.”

“Wow. They should put that in a can. It would sell like hotcakes.”

“You want a coffee?”

“Sure.”

He glanced to the living area and saw that Eva had crashed out on the couch, too. Unusual for her, but maybe the shopping had worn her out. He pulled mugs from the cupboard and grabbed the French press. He turned to check if Angie wanted some chocolates with their coffee and saw that she was once again absorbed in her notebook, this time writing small, neat notes to herself in the margin.

She was so self-contained, one of the calmest people he knew. In fact, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen her really agitated or distressed. She approached everything with an interested, open-minded curiosity and an unfailing, quiet sense of humor. She was good company, good to spend time with.

All of which made her apparently perpetual single status baffling to him. It wasn’t as though she was hard on the eyes. She might not be conventionally beautiful, but her long, oval face and deep blue eyes were very appealing. She had a sleek, subtly curved body that was more athletic than va-voom, but there was no denying that she was an attractive woman. Very attractive.

He knew through Billie that Angie’s love life was hardly a barren desert—there were men, not too many, but enough—yet none of them seemed to stick. He also knew via his indiscreet wife that there had been one man years ago who Angie had been crazy about. Was she still holding a candle for him? Or was it simply a matter of her not being interested?

Behind him, the kettle clicked to announce it had boiled. He started to make the coffees as the doorbell rang through the house.

He frowned. It was nearly eight-thirty, and the days of people dropping in unannounced had gone with Billie.

“I’ll finish this. You get the door,” Angie said.

“Thanks.”

He made his way up the hall and opened the door to find the woman he’d run into in the park earlier on his doorstep, a piece of paper in hand.

“Michael. Hi. Remember me? Gerry.” She gave a self-conscious laugh.

“Of course,” he said, even though he’d forgotten her name the moment she’d reintroduced herself this afternoon. He simply didn’t have room for that sort of thing in his head right now.

“Sorry to show up on your doorstep like this, but I was thinking about Charlie this afternoon and I realized that you’ve probably been out of the loop a bit since we all used to contact Billie for things… Anyway, I thought you might be interested in this.”

Gerry thrust the piece of paper at him and he saw that it was a flyer advertising a sing-and-dance event at the local indoor play center.

“A bunch of us are going to make a day of it, take a picnic, that sort of thing.” Gerry smoothed a hand over her deep red hair.

“Thanks. I’ll see if we can make it. Charlie thinks he’s a rock star, so it’s all about singing and dancing for him.”

She laughed a little too loudly. “Oh, he’s adorable. And so is Eva. Such lovely kids.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that and not sound like a monstrous egotist, so he simply smiled politely. Gerry started talking about the next mothers’ group get-together and insisted on passing over another list with everyone’s phone numbers, indicating her own.

“Anything you need, babysitting, whatever, you call me,” she said. “I’d be happy to help out any way I can. I know how tough it is doing it all alone.”

They had been talking on the doorstep so long he suspected he probably should have invited her inside, but just when he was prodding himself to do so she palmed her car keys and took a step away.

“I’ll see you around, Michael.”

“Sure. And thanks for this, Gerry. I appreciate it.”

She waved a hand to indicate it wasn’t a big deal and then took off up the driveway, her high heels loud against the concrete. He shut the door and returned to the kitchen. Two mugs sat steaming on the counter. Angie had a small, wry smile on her face.

“One of Billie’s mothers’ group friends with a playdate thingy,” he explained, brandishing the flyer before using a magnet to fix it to the fridge. “I ran into her in the park today.”

“Was that what that was about?” Angie asked, eyebrows arched knowingly.

He stared at her blankly. “What else would it be?”

She gave a small laugh. “Michael, she was hitting on you.”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“Um, yeah, she was. Totally hitting on you. Who drops by with a playdate reminder at eight-thirty on a Sunday night?”

He shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

She didn’t say anything, but her expression did.

“She’s married, Angie. She has kids.”

“She has kids, yes, but not all the women in that group were married, you know. Ever heard of single parenthood and divorce?”

He shrugged, sick of the subject. “Fine. Maybe she was hitting on me. If you say so.”

He grabbed his mug and took a mouthful of strong, hot coffee. Angie had made it exactly the way he liked it.

“She won’t be the last, you know.”

“I don’t care.”

She eyed him sympathetically, hands wrapped around her mug, elbows propped on the counter.

“You might eventually.”

He set his cup down so firmly it made a loud crack against the marble surface. “No, I won’t.”

Why was Angie pushing this? She, of all people, should understand that Billie couldn’t be replaced.

Afraid he’d say something he’d regret, he went to put his daughter to bed.


CHAPTER THREE

ANGIE WATCHED MICHAEL’S retreat, wishing back her impulsive words.

He’d been genuinely surprised and not a little uncomfortable when she’d pointed out that the woman had been flirting with him. She should have bitten her tongue then, when it was clear that the subject of him being a hot commodity in the singles market wasn’t something he was ready to consider.

Her gaze fell on the milk, abandoned on the counter. Grabbing it, she slid off her stool and returned it to the fridge. Michael had looked so grim when she’d hinted that other women might be interested in him. So sad and serious.

He’d loved Billie so deeply, so devotedly. Angie was an idiot for even raising the subject of him moving on.

She turned to find Michael standing barely a foot behind her.

“Sorry,” he said simply and sincerely. “I overreacted.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She fought the urge to take a step away. She didn’t want Michael to think he made her uncomfortable—he didn’t—but she was very aware of how close they were standing.

He smiled faintly. “Good old Angie, always letting me off the hook. Have I told you lately that you’ve been fantastic?”

“Um…no?” This close, she could see tiny flecks of amber in the depths of his gray-green eyes. She stared, fascinated.

“Thank you, Angie.” He reached out and rested his hand on her shoulder. His thumb grazed the sensitive skin of her collarbone as he gave her a quick, light squeeze before moving away. “You want to watch a movie?”

She frowned, unsettled by the small contact and the fact that she could still feel the heat of his hand.

This was Michael, after all.

He glanced over his shoulder, waiting for her answer. The ring of a cell phone cut through the room.

“That’s mine,” Angie said, crossing to where she’d dumped her handbag at the far end of the dining table. She checked the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. “Angela Bartlett speaking.”

“Angie, it’s Tess.”

“Oh. Hey.” Angie frowned. Tess was a fellow tenant in the Stradbroke building, and while they were friends, it was unusual for her to call like this. “How are things?”

“I’ve got some bad news. There’s been a break-in at the Stradbroke. A whole bunch of studios have been trashed.”

“What?” Cold shock washed through her. “How bad is it?”

“I have no idea how bad yours is, but mine’s a wreck. They stole my computer, my iPod, even my freakin’ kettle, can you believe that? And they trashed all of my latest canvases.”

Angie could hear the quiver in Tess’s voice. She was a tough nut. If she was teary, things must be pretty bad. Angie closed her eyes. If they had somehow managed to get into her safe, she was completely screwed. She had two sets of rings in there waiting for delivery, and she’d recently received a shipment of gold. Not to mention the thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth of gems.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said.

“I’ll be here. Surrounded by all this crap.”

Angie ended the call and scooped up her bag.

“What’s wrong?” Michael took a step toward her.

“There’s been a break-in at the studio. Mine and a bunch of others have been trashed.” She fumbled in her handbag for her keys. Her hands were shaking so much it took a couple of attempts to get a grip on them.

This could be the end of her business.

“Has someone called the police? How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. I need to go….” She started to leave, her thoughts racing ahead of her.

“Angie.”

Michael’s hand caught her arm as she was opening the front door. “Drive carefully, okay? Any damage has already been done, so you speeding there isn’t going to change anything.” His voice was calm and steady. Grounding.

She took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right.”

“Keep us in the loop, okay?”

“I will.” She gave him a small, grateful smile before exiting the house.

The moment she was in the car all her worries rose to the surface again but she resisted the impulse to floor it, Michael’s words still echoing in her mind. There was no point adding a speeding fine—or worse—to tonight’s woes. Whatever they might be.

She found a parking spot around the corner from the building and ran the half block to the entrance. Her footsteps sounded loud in the stairwell as she climbed to the fifth floor. She could see evidence of the break-in as she climbed—graffiti and broken glass—and there was more when she arrived on her floor. Glass glinted on the tiles in the corridor, and every door along this side hung open drunkenly, regardless of the security measures the individual tenants had in place. A couple of police officers stood at the far end of the corridor, talking. One of them started walking toward her the moment they saw her.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, miss. This is a crime scene.”

“I’m a tenant—studio twenty-three. My neighbor told me my space has been broken into.”

The policeman consulted his notebook. “Number twenty-three. That makes you Angela Bartlett.”

“That’s right.”

“You can go in to assess the damage and tell us what’s missing, but I need you to not touch anything until our crime-scene people have finished collecting evidence.”

“Okay. Sure. Whatever you want, I just need to see my studio.”

She was aware of the anxious pounding of her heart as she followed him around the corner. She could see her door hanging open.

“They hit every studio?” she asked, her gaze darting left and right as she inspected the damage to her neighbors’ spaces as they passed. What she saw only increased the anxiety tightening her chest—smashed furniture, toppled bookcases.

“On this level, yeah. Downstairs they were a bit more discriminating.” The cop halted. “Okay, here we are. Remember, no touching anything until the team’s been through.”

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the doorway. She sent up a prayer to the universe.

Please let them have not broken into the safe.

She stepped over the threshold.

The first thing she registered was the black paint sprayed across the wall, a huge, furious four-letter word six feet high. Paint had dribbled down to the floor, which was covered with broken glass from the framed artwork they had torn off the walls. The mid-century sideboard that had housed her books and keepsakes had been tipped over, spilling its contents, and her table and chairs had been smashed.

Her gaze zeroed in on the safe. Relief pounded through her as she saw that while the dull gray metal was scarred and pitted around the locking mechanism and it had been dragged a few feet from its position in the corner, the door remained closed.

“Oh, thank God,” she said, closing her eyes for a brief second.

That was one disaster averted, at least. She turned to inspect the rest of her space and sucked in a dismayed breath when she saw her workbench. The intruders had sprayed black paint over all her tools—the leather hammer she’d used for more than ten years, her vernier caliper, her flexi-drive drill, all the drill bits and mops and burrs… Again, she reached out but caught herself in time.

Angry tears burned at the back of her eyes. She didn’t understand why anyone would be so destructive. She was a stranger to the intruders, yet they had made a concerted effort to maliciously destroy her creative space.

Her phone rang. She pulled it from her bag. Michael’s number showed on the screen.

“Everything okay?” he asked the moment she took the call.

“Yes and no. They didn’t get into my safe, which would have pretty much been the end of my business. But they’ve absolutely trashed everything else they could get their hands on. Including my tools.”

“Shit. I’m really sorry, Angie.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Stupid assholes.”

“I take it you’re insured?”

“Yeah, but I think it’s mostly going to be cleaning up, not replacing stuff. Apart from what’s in the safe, most of the things I had here have value only for me, you know. They’re hardly worth claiming on insurance.”

“Anything I can do?”

Despite the situation, his offer warmed her. Suddenly she didn’t feel quite so alone or overwhelmed.

“Thanks, but there’s nothing anyone can do at this stage. The police won’t let me touch anything until their fingerprint people have—” Her roaming gaze fell on a spray of dirt on the floor near the window.

The burn of tears intensified as she saw that her Japanese maple bonsai tree had been thrown to the floor and stomped on. The pottery base was shattered, and half the tree’s roots were exposed and broken.

“Angie? Are you okay?”

She sank to her knees and reached for the fragile tangle of leaves and tiny branches.

“They smashed my bonsai.”

There was a small silence. She knew Michael understood the significance of the loss. Billie had given her the tiny tree as a gift to brighten her workspace, even though Angie had what could only be described as a black thumb. At the time, Angie had given Billie her word that she’d keep it alive, and so far the bonsai had survived almost three years of benign neglect.

She lifted the tree gently. It was crushed, the main trunk almost completely severed. Utterly beyond saving.

“If you want, I can be there in half an hour. I’m sure Mrs. Linton could look after the kids for a few hours.”

She sniffed back her tears. “I’m okay. Just angry. It’s so destructive. And completely pointless.”

“You sure you don’t want some company?”

“I’ll be all right. But thanks for the offer.”

It wasn’t until they ended the call that it struck her that ten months ago, Billie would have been the one on the phone, insisting on helping. It was hard facing a crisis without her best support and cheerleader, but it was also nice to know that Michael cared enough to have made the call.

Of course he cares. He’s your friend. Just as you’re his friend.

She heard footsteps in the corridor and the policeman stopped in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but our team is here now. You’re going to have to leave.”

“Okay.”

She took one last look around her devastated studio. As she’d said to Michael, there was nothing she could do here till tomorrow.

Shoulders straight, she headed for home.

* * *

MICHAEL WORRIED ABOUT Angie all night until he went to bed and then started again first thing when he woke the next morning. She’d done so much for him and the kids and he hated the thought of her having to deal with the invasion of her creative space all on her own.

After he’d dropped Eva at school, he drove into the city. Charlie was asleep in his car seat by the time Michael found a parking spot. He unstrapped him and carried him the block to Angie’s building. Charlie began to wriggle in his arms as he approached the entrance and he set his son on his feet and took his hand.

“You happy now?”

Charlie nodded.

“Shall we go visit Angie, then?”

“Angie?” Charlie’s face was a study in delight.

The directory in the foyer told him A. Bartlett was in studio twenty-three on the fifth floor. He eyed the ancient cage elevator suspiciously before deciding to take the stairs. After the first flight, Charlie allowed himself to be carried again, a capitulation which shortened their upward trek by several minutes.

Glass crunched underfoot, and when they arrived at the fifth floor more piles of broken glass were stationed periodically along the corridor, clearly waiting to be collected and disposed of. Michael winced when he saw the damage to some of the studios he passed.

“Down. Down!” Charlie commanded as they neared Angie’s.

Michael set him on his feet but kept a tight grip on his son’s hand as he searched for number twenty-three. Belatedly it occurred to him that he probably should have called first—for all he knew, Angie might be out arranging repairs or talking to clients. Then he saw that the door to what he assumed was her studio was open and lifted a hand to knock on the doorframe to announce himself. His hand froze inches from the wood as he registered that Angie was inside and that she wasn’t alone.

Not by a long shot.

Instead, she was in what looked like a fervent embrace with a tall, muscular man with long dark hair. The other man’s hands were splayed possessively over the small of her back, his face nuzzled into the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her arms banded around him, the muscles in her arms flexing as she held him close. Michael couldn’t see her face, but it was blindingly obvious that he was about to step into what was clearly a very private moment.

He would come back later. Maybe take Charlie for a walk around the block, then pop in again. Give Angie time to do…whatever with her friend. Or whoever the guy was.

He took a step backward, already pivoting on his heel.

Charlie resisted, straining against his grip. “Angie.” He pointed at the object of his affection.

Angie’s head came up, eyes wide.

“Charlie.” She stepped out of the other man’s arms as her gaze shifted to Michael. “Michael. What are you guys doing here?”

She looked and sounded so surprised he suddenly felt a little self-conscious. “We, um, wanted to make sure you’re okay. But we can come back later.” He tugged on Charlie’s arm again. “Come on, matey. You want to go get some chocolate?”

“Don’t be silly. You weren’t interrupting anything,” Angie said.

Long-haired guy frowned, not liking the sound of that.

“I can’t believe you came all the way into the city just to see me. How lucky am I?” Angie bent to scoop Charlie into her arms.

His son happily sat on her hip, despite the fact that he’d squirmed his way out of Michael’s arms barely minutes before.

“Angie,” Charlie said, reaching out to touch the sparkling earring dangling from her lobe.

“I thought we could help you clean up, sort things out,” Michael said.

Angie’s expression was soft with gratitude. “Thank you. That’s really sweet of you.”

Long-haired guy shifted his weight ostentatiously, drawing attention to himself.

Angie looked a little sheepish. “Sorry, I’m being rude. Carlos, this is Michael and Charlie. Carlos has a studio on the fourth floor.”

“Good to meet you. I hope things didn’t go too badly for you last night.” Michael offered his hand.

“I was lucky for once, since they skipped me. But poor Angie was not so lucky.”

“No,” Michael said, very aware of the other man sizing him up.

Carlos stepped closer to Angie and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I need to get back to my work, but we’re still on for lunch, yes?”

There was a faint lilt to his voice, indicating that English was not his first language.

“Can I call you? I really want to get as much of this sorted today as I can. I can’t afford to lose more time.” Her forehead was puckered with worry.

“You have to eat, beautiful,” Carlos said. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips, maintaining the contact longer than was strictly necessary. Almost as though he was trying to make a point—although to whom, Michael had no idea. “Call me, okay?”

Carlos gave Michael a reserved nod before leaving. Angie jiggled Charlie on her hip, making him giggle.

“This is a nice surprise, isn’t it? A lovely surprise,” she said. Her cheeks were a little flushed, as though she was embarrassed about something.

Michael surveyed the room, taking in the graffiti and the pile of glass and other debris that had been swept into the corner. Pieces of a broken table and chairs lay beside it, and twin piles of books were stacked near the door. A mid-century sideboard in teak veneer lay facedown on the ground.

“They did a real number on the place, huh?”

“Pretty much. If it moved, they smashed it, and if it didn’t, they painted it.” Angie shook her head with disgust.

Michael crossed to the sideboard and crouched, getting a good grip on it before easing into an upright position. Once it was righted he saw it was still half-filled with books, which explained both why it was so heavy and why Angie hadn’t tackled it on her own. There was more broken glass underneath, as well as the smashed remains of what looked like a porcelain menagerie—a lion, a tiger, an elephant and a monkey.

“More casualties.” Angie’s face was taut with unhappiness.

“No be sad,” Charlie said, reaching up to stroke her cheek. “You no be sad.”

She immediately smiled, rubbing her nose against his. “It’s okay, Charlie-boy. I’m okay.”

Michael pushed the sideboard against the wall and crouched to tidy the books on the shelves.

“Don’t worry about those. I can do that later,” she said.

“We came to help.” He was aware of feeling off balance as he tidied the books. It took him a moment to understand that he was thrown by the discovery that Angie had a boyfriend.

She hadn’t mentioned anyone to him, not even in passing. The omission left him feeling oddly unsettled. As though something small but significant in his understanding of the world had shifted.

In the months since Billie had died Angie had laughed with him, cried with him, cooked for him, changed his son’s diapers and read bedtime stories to his daughter. Yet she hadn’t even so much as hinted that she was seeing someone.

Newsflash, buddy—you don’t own her. She doesn’t owe you anything.

He knew the voice in his head was right. He had no right to feel…possessive was the wrong word, but it was close…of Angie. She didn’t belong to him and the kids. She was her own person, with her own life and her own dreams and wants and desires. All of which she was entitled to keep to herself if she so chose.

“What does Carlos do?” So much for minding his own business.

“He’s a musician, plus he does a bit of sound-engineering work on the side.”

“Right.”

Shut up. Not another word.

“So how long have you two been…?” He kept his gaze on his task, very carefully not looking at her. He had no idea why he was asking, why he felt the burning need to know what was going on in her life.

Angie laughed, the sound reassuringly startled. “Me and Carlos? I don’t think so.”

He allowed himself to look at her. “Yeah? The way he was marking his territory just now, I figured you guys must have something going on.”

“I have no idea what that was about. We’ve had drinks after work a few times. But he’s not my type. Too brooding and artistic. I like a little less drama in my life.”

She might not have any idea what the other man’s ostentatious display had been about, but Michael did. For some reason, he’d seen Michael as a rival for Angie’s affections. Which went to show how good the other man’s instincts were.

Angie took up the broom and resumed sweeping the floor, Charlie clinging to her leg. It occurred to him that bringing a two-year-old to the site of a break-in hadn’t been his smartest move. But he hadn’t exactly been thinking rationally when he’d turned the car toward the city. He’d only wanted to make sure Angie was okay.

“Here, I’ll do that,” he said, holding a hand out for the broom.

“I’m almost done,” Angie said, smiling at Charlie, who was looking at her with bright eyes.

“Is there a bin where we can dump all this stuff?”

“I hadn’t even thought that far ahead.” She tucked a strand of long dark hair behind her ear. “There’s supposed to be a wheelie bin on each level, but half the time it disappears.”

“I’ll go see if I can find something.” He started for the door.

“Michael?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“I meant what I said before. I really appreciate you coming in like this.”

“Not a big deal.”

“It is to me.” Her smile was a little wobbly.

He could suddenly see all her hurt and anger and frustration, all the emotions she’d stuffed deep inside in order to do what needed to be done to get her studio back in order.

“We’ll fix it, don’t worry.”

“Okay.” Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

Before he could stop himself, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her. She tensed for a second and he thought she would push him away. Then her arms circled his waist and her body softened and she rested her forehead on his shoulder. For a long moment they were silent. He was aware of her knees touching his and the warmth of her body and the faint fruity scent of her shampoo. He rested his cheek against her hair, wishing there was some way he could make things right for her.

After a minute she lifted her head and he let her go.

“Thanks,” she said with a small, self-conscious smile as she stepped backward.

“I want cuddle, too,” Charlie demanded, both arms raised.

Angie laughed. “Of course you do.”

She stooped to pick him up and Charlie wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed a big, wet kiss to her cheek.

Michael smiled. “I’ll go find that bin.”

It wasn’t until he was turning the corner in the corridor that it occurred to him that hug had been his first adult human contact in months.


CHAPTER FOUR

“HEY, CHARLIE, COME away from there. You don’t want to touch all that nasty stuff,” Angie said, herding him away from the pile of debris in the corner.

Charlie complied readily, trotting off to inspect the safe instead. Angie watched him distractedly. She was still getting over the surprise of Michael’s spontaneous embrace.

They had hugged before, but not often, and usually only briefly, in greeting or thanks. And, of course, after Billie’s death there had been condolence and sympathy hugs.

Today’s hug had felt different, and she couldn’t understand why.

Charlie spun the dial, fascinated. Angie thought about the moment when Michael’s arms had come around her and she’d found herself pressed against the firm, warm wall of his chest. She’d been surprised at first. But then something inside her had relaxed as she’d understood that she was in a safe place and she’d allowed herself to take comfort from him.

Then he’d shifted slightly or she had and their knees had bumped and she’d become very aware of how well-matched their bodies were—knee to knee, hip to hip, breast to chest.

The realization had been enough to make her step away then, and it made her feel uneasy now, even though he’d been gone for more than ten minutes.

Because that moment had been about sexual awareness. The woman in her noticing the man in him.

But Michael wasn’t a man. At least, he wasn’t an ordinary man. He was Billie’s husband. He might as well be Angie’s brother.

And yet there’d been that funny little moment when he’d opened the door wearing his running gear yesterday and she’d seen him with fresh eyes and registered that he was a very attractive man….

There was a loud rumbling in the corridor and Michael appeared in the doorway, a large wheelie bin in tow. She forced herself to meet his eyes, almost as though she was testing herself, and was relieved to feel nothing. He was simply Michael.

Exactly, drama queen.

“Looks like you hit pay dirt,” she said.

“Yeah.” There was a flatness to the single word.

“What’s wrong?”

“I went to the bathroom.”

She grimaced. “Yeah. I should have warned you about that. The plumbing’s not great. Might want to wash your shoes when you get home if there was any �water’ on the floor.”

“I checked out the ladies’, too.”

He was so stern, so disapproving, that Angie had to suppress a smile.

“Not up to the Michael Robinson standard?” It was a rhetorical question, because she knew they weren’t. Many was the time she’d simply crossed her legs and waited until she went out for lunch to avoid having to set foot in the space.

“This building is a complete shit hole, Angie.” He glanced at Charlie to see if he’d registered the four-letter word, but his son was inspecting the wheels on the bin. “Half the lights are out, the roof leaks and I bet most of the windows are rusted shut. The bathrooms are possibly the worst I’ve ever seen. I’m including the developing world in that assessment, too, by the way.”

“It’s true, the old girl ain’t what she used to be, but that’s why the rent’s so reasonable. Beggars, by which I mean artists, can’t afford to be choosers.” She shrugged philosophically.

“Even if that means being exposed to deteriorating asbestos, lead paint and electrical wiring that can’t possibly be up to code?”

“Asbestos? What asbestos?” she asked, alarmed.

Michael pointed at the ceiling. “What do you think that is?”

She tilted her head to look at the textured stucco ceiling. “Plaster?”

He shook his head slowly. Grimly.

“I don’t like the idea of you working in this building, Angie.”

She sighed heavily. “Well, that makes two of us, but I’m afraid there aren’t a lot of options in the city. I looked around a couple of years ago, but it was a dead loss.”

“Then move farther out.”

“Right, and make my clients travel to find me.”

“They’ll make the trip. You’re worth it.”

She shook her head. “I need to be central. All my suppliers are in here—my valuer, my metallurgist, my gemsetter, the jewelers’ toolmakers…”

Michael’s frown deepened. She didn’t know whether to be amused or touched by his obvious concern.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve survived eight years in this place.”

He glanced pointedly at the debris in the corner and the four-letter word sprayed on her wall. “Just.”

She knew what he was saying made sense, but she had formed an attachment to the Stradbroke over the years, decrepit bathrooms and all.

“If it makes you happy, I’ll take a look around, see what’s out there.”

“Good.”

Charlie punctuated Michael’s words with a thump on the side of the bin.

“I think he’s seconding the motion,” Angie said.

“Good.” Michael moved to her workbench to inspect her tools. “I’ve never seen where you work before.”

“Really?” Billie had been a constant visitor, but there had never been a reason for Michael to come here. “No, I guess you haven’t.”

He walked over to where her crucibles and welding gear were located. “Is this where you make your alloys?”

“Yep.”

He turned and laid a hand on the scarred wood of her stump, a four-foot-high section of tree trunk that had served her well over the years. “And this is where you shape your rings?”

“Sometimes. But I’ve got a couple of different types of ring benders, too. It depends on what I’m working on.” She moved closer, picking up one of the many hammers that sat in the leather loops circling the stump.

“No wonder you have Obama arms,” he said.

“Don’t forget the calluses.”

He raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. She displayed her work-toughened palms to him.

“I’ve never noticed,” he said.

“I should hope not. A lady likes to have a few secrets.”

He smiled, glanced at his watch, then at Charlie. She checked her own watch and saw it was past twelve.

“Someone’s going to want lunch soon,” she said.

“Tell me about it. Probably needs his diaper changed, too, and I didn’t bring any with me.” He crossed the room and hoisted Charlie into his arms. “Time for us to go, Charlie-boy.”

Charlie immediately began fussing. Michael gave her an exasperated look over his son’s head.

“Sorry.”

“Hey, I’d cry, too, if I had to leave this palace.”

She walked them down the stairs and out the side entrance, kissing Charlie goodbye in the cobblestone laneway.

“Thanks for all your help, little man.”

He stared at her, bottom lip trembling, eyes awash with tears.

“I think that’s the saddest face in the whole wide world,” she said, unable to resist stroking his cheek with her finger.

“And yet nothing is actually wrong,” Michael said drily.

They exchanged smiles.

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“I will. Thanks.”

She watched as they walked away, Michael’s long stride easy despite the fact that Charlie was no lightweight. She was still smiling when she returned to her studio. Having them visit had somehow taken away the worst of her angst over the break-in. What had happened was shitty, but not insurmountable.

As for that awkward flash of sexual awareness… It had been nothing. A blip. An aberration. Thinking about it now, she felt a little stupid for having been so rattled. With the benefit of hindsight, the moment settled into its rightful place in the big scheme of things: unimportant and insignificant.

The way it should be.

* * *

THREE WEEKS LATER, MICHAEL rubbed the back of his neck as he waited at the lights. Life had been crazy lately, filled with interviews with prospective nannies—none of whom had been very impressive—as well as preparations for his first week at work. Today marked his third full day back in the saddle and he was feeling more than a little weary after two complicated client briefings and a series of phone calls that had prevented him from accomplishing anything substantial all afternoon. Just as well he’d arranged with his partners to work from home on Thursdays and Fridays—he was nowhere near match fit after so many months downtime. The lack of distraction in his home office would give him a chance to make up lost ground. Hopefully.

Despite his weariness and even though a part of him felt guilty for cutting short the year he’d intended to spend with the kids, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that returning to work was the best decision he’d made in a long time. It might have only been three days, but it was enough for him to know that Angie had been right—picking up the threads of his career had given him something to hold on to. It forced him to interact with the outside world, and it gave him things to occupy himself with that had nothing to do with Billie.

It gave him a chance to be a person again, and not simply a father and a grieving husband.

He hadn’t understood how much he’d needed that until today when he’d finished a phone call with a supplier and noticed that he’d gone a whole four hours without thinking of Billie once. Guilt had come hard on the heels of the realization, of course—but there had been relief, too.

It was exhausting living with the constant weight of grief on his shoulders.

The lights changed and he accelerated through the intersection, very aware of the need to relieve Mrs. Linton. He’d been fortunate enough to get Charlie into day care three days a week, but Mrs. Linton had saved his bacon, agreeing to pick up Eva from school and look after her until he could make a more permanent arrangement. Still, he didn’t want to abuse her generosity.

He swung by day care to collect Charlie, then headed home. A familiar green SUV was parked in front of his house when he pulled into the driveway. He smiled as he hit the button for the garage door. Angie had been busy putting her studio back together and they hadn’t seen much of her lately. It would be good to catch up with her. Good to assure himself that she was recovering okay from the break-in.

It would also give him a chance to hassle her about the rental listings he’d sent to her, too. He’d touched base with a handful of his real estate contacts and put the feelers out for a suitable studio space for her, determined to get her out of that death trap of a building. So far, her only response had been silence. If she thought that stonewalling him would make him give up, she didn’t know him very well.

He released Charlie from his car seat and locked the car. Michael could hear voices and laughter as they entered the house. He walk into the kitchen and found Angie and Eva putting toppings on three pizza bases.

“Hello,” he said.

They looked up with identical surprised expressions, obviously so involved in their conversation they hadn’t heard his arrival.

“Perfect timing. Dinner is almost ready,” Angie said.

Charlie immediately went to Angie, gazing up her worshipfully.

“Why, hello there, Charlie Bear,” she said, tapping his nose lightly.

She looked different. For a moment Michael was puzzled, then he realized it was because her hair was tucked high on her head in a ballet dancer’s bun. She was wearing her yoga gear, too—tight black leggings and a soft-looking pale pink top with sleeves that stopped at her elbows.

“Mrs. Linton left a note for you before she left. Something about having a doctor’s appointment next week,” Angie said.

“Right. Thanks.”

“Guess what we’re having for dinner, Daddy?” Eva asked.

“Could it possibly be pizza?”

“Yes! With the lot. I mean everything.”

“She’s not kidding on that one.” Angie cast a significant glance toward the pizza Eva was working on.

It was piled high with salami, cheese, tomato and mushrooms to the point where it looked more like a pie than a pizza.

“Check that out. Sure you don’t want to throw a chair or table on top of that thing, too?” he asked Eva, dropping a hand onto the back of her neck and squeezing lightly.

She tilted her head backward so she could look at him upside-down. “Which pizza do you think is the best?”

Michael pretended to consider the options. “I like the simplicity of this cheese-and-tomato one, which I’m guessing is for Charlie. And Angie’s is nice and colorful…”

Eva gave him a look, clearly knowing when she was being strung along. “Just admit it. Mine is the best,” she said with the unashamed egotism of a six-year-old.

“It does look pretty special.”

“Let’s put it on the top shelf so all the many, many layers will get a chance to cook through.” Angie slid the pizza onto a baking tray and turned toward the oven.

He followed her movements idly, not really paying attention, but when she bent to put the pizza in the oven his gaze slid down her slim spine to her backside, perfectly showcased in black Lycra.

He quickly looked away, but not before he’d noticed that Angie had a very nice ass.

He cleared his throat. “I might go change while those cook.”

“Sure,” Angie said.

He could feel heat in his face as he headed for the bedroom and he hoped like hell that she hadn’t noticed. He kicked his work shoes off with more force than was strictly necessary once he was in his room. He had no business noticing her ass. She was Billie’s best friend. Better yet, she was his friend. The shape and size of her ass was utterly irrelevant. Certainly it was of no interest to him.

No interest whatsoever.

Even if it was a very fine, very firm-looking ass.

Giving himself a firm mental shake, he concentrated on pulling on his jeans.

* * *

ANGIE CHECKED ON THE pizzas, then poured herself a glass of wine. She was glad she’d given in to the impulse to surprise Michael with dinner. Even though she hadn’t seen him much recently, she’d been very aware that this first week at work might be hard for him. He’d been on her mind a lot, and she’d wanted to let him know he wasn’t alone. Dinner wasn’t much, but it was something.

She glanced up when Michael returned wearing a pair of old jeans and a stretched-out T-shirt. He’d put on a bit of weight and it suited him. Made him look more like his old self.

She poured him a glass of wine. “So, how’s your first week as a born-again architect been?”

“Not too bad. If I can find a child-care solution that doesn’t involve me shamelessly exploiting Mrs. Linton, I think it’s doable.”

“Still no luck with finding a nanny?”

“Nope. I’ve got more interviews lined up on Friday, though.”

“Well, if you need someone to help relieve Mrs. Linton in the meantime, let me know. I could easily pick up Eva after school a few days if I plan my schedule right.”

Michael was already shaking his head. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you do enough for us already.”

“No one’s keeping a score card, Michael. Besides, I love spending time with the kids.”

He shook his head again and she knew from his stubborn expression that there was no point pursuing the subject.

“Fine. Then tell me about work.”

“How about we talk about why you haven’t responded to my email about those rentals?”

Angie busied herself wiping the counter again. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t bring up the matter of her finding a new studio. For a number of reasons.

“Didn’t I? Sorry. I’ve been so busy, getting things on track…” When she risked a glance at him, his gaze was knowing.

“Did you follow up on any of those leads?”

“I checked a couple of them out on the internet.”

“And?”

She shuffled her feet, feeling for all the world like a kid who’d been called to the principal’s office. “One of them was too big. The other one was too far from the city.”

“Did you speak to any of the agents, tell them what you’re looking for?”

“I’m on it. Relax.”

“I’m going to take that as a �no.’”

She took a big gulp of wine, not liking the disapproving way he was eyeing her. It was a little disconcerting to realize how much his good opinion meant to her.

“Good studios are hard to find. I need the right size, the right price…” She could hear how lame she sounded. She put her wineglass down. “The thing is, I’ve been at the Stradbroke for eight years.” She spread her hands to indicate how entrenched she felt, how much inertia she had to overcome before she could pack up her workspace and rebuild it again somewhere else. “It’s my second home.”

“I get that, but that place is a disaster waiting to happen, Angie. God knows what you’re breathing in every day. As for those bathrooms… And don’t even get me started on the lack of security.”

“Yeah. I know. I need to move.” The knowledge had been crystalizing inside her as she’d scrambled to restore her workspace, stripping paint off her tools and replacing locks and furniture.

“Can I at least keep looking for you?”

“You’ve got enough on your plate.”

“Not so much that I can’t look out for a friend.” His gaze was warm with affection. Something equally warm unfolded in her chest.

“Let me talk to those agents first,” she said. “I’ll let you know if I need to call in the cavalry.”

He picked up his glass and tilted it toward her. “Deal.”

Her mouth twisted wryly as she lifted hers and clinked the rim against his, aware that he’d effectively gotten her to commit to moving.

“You’re a hard man to resist.”

“The word you’re looking for is persuasive.”




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