Carrot and Coriander (3 page)

“How old’s your little boy, Mrs Saunders?”

“Three. And it’s Miss.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Miss Saunders, not Mrs. Rachel.” Her smile seemed shy, uncertain. As though she wasn’t sure he even wanted to know her name.

He wasn’t entirely sure either, in all honesty, but since they were being nice…

“I’m Callum. Callum O’Neill.”

She stretched out her hand politely. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr O’Neill. Callum.” She amended at his slight frown.

He took her hand, noticing once more its small perfection against his rough and, despite his efforts at her sink, somewhat grimy paw. Her nails were beautifully shaped and polished, a pale, pearly pink color, reminding him of seashells. Against his better judgment he allowed another stray mental image to form and focus, an image of those long, elegant fingers wrapped tightly around his cock—a mistake because said cock leaped straight to attention again.
Shit.
Now he wouldn’t be able to stand up without her noticing it. Still, he loved the softness of her palm against his, and maybe held onto it just slightly too long. She didn’t seem to mind.

He dug around in his rapidly scrambling, testosterone-flooded brain and managed to find something polite. “Me too. And you make nice soup. Rachel.” Lame, but polite.

She smiled, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. Clearly she appreciated his efforts. “Thank you. And you make nice rockeries. Callum.”

“We’ll see.”

“I’m sure. How long will it take you to finish it, do you think?”

He shrugged. “If the weather stays decent, a couple more days. Then I’ll be out of your way.”

“Right.” She nodded again, studied her empty bowl carefully. “You’re not in my way. And I might have other jobs for you to do. If you’re not too busy, obviously. Do you have a lot of work on just now?”

Sensing her hesitancy, but knowing an opening when one leaped up and clouted him around the head, Callum glanced up sharply. “There’s always something. Let me know what you need and I’ll try to accommodate you.”

His gaze caught and this time held her emerald one. Neither spoke for a few seconds. Callum was considering all the possible meanings of that phrase, the wealth of potential, and he thought perhaps Rachel’s mind was exploring a similar theme.

“Yes, yes, I will. Definitely. Yes.”

Right, so she’d cracked first. He found a degree of satisfaction in that.

Flustered, she got up from the table and shuffled their empty bowls into a pile for the washing up. That done, she hurried back to the relative safety of her folding. Since his erection was showing no signs of diminishing he knew it was just a matter of time before neither of them could ignore it any longer. Still, he stayed where he was. On impulse, he decided to ask a favor.

“Rachel?”

She paused, a tiny pair of corduroy trousers in her hands, and looked at him nervously.

“Yes?”

“I wonder…” He hesitated.
How to ask without it sounding weird?
“I’m going straight off somewhere after work. Would you mind if I took a shower here? I’d knock something off the bill for the hot water, obviously.”

He couldn’t help noticing she sagged in relief—what on earth had she thought was coming?

“Yes, of course. You’re welcome. I’ll be going out at around five to pick Jacob up, but just help yourself. It’s upstairs, first door on the left. I’ll leave you some towels out.” She sounded distinctly relieved.

“Thanks. I’ll just be getting on then…” He took advantage of the fact that she was digging in her laundry basket for more stuff to fold, and sidled behind her heading for the great outdoors where he might be able to find a secluded corner in which to subdue his rampant cock. He was out of the door again before she had chance to spot the telltale bulge in his jeans.

Christ, he had an erection. My soup made him hard. Bloody hell.

She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or outraged, but settled for something in the region of quietly smug. The memory of that thick, long bulge stretching the front of those sexy jeans, and his determined attempts to hide it from her, kept a smile on her face all afternoon as she wrestled with the financial affairs of Mr Wright and Mr Hardisty, plumbers of this parish. He was still hard at it—pun intended, she thought wryly—as she left to pick up her little boy at the end of the day.

* * * *

When she returned twenty minutes later she saw immediately that his van was still there, under the trees at the side of her house.

Not that she cared, of course. Not that she was taking notice.

The sound of running water upstairs met her as he let herself and Jacob in the front door. Jacob needed a wee so she took him upstairs to the loo. Could have used the one downstairs, but still…

And that was how she came face to face with a bare-chested, absolutely beautiful young man on her landing, his hair dripping onto his sharply chiseled shoulders and torso, his bare toes curling in her shag pile. His jeans were zipped but unbuttoned, and he looked about as disreputable as anyone she’d ever encountered. Especially on her upstairs hallway.

Callum had emerged from the bathroom still thinking he had the house to himself. He kept a bag of clean, well, not too dirty, clothes in his van and had been on his way to find a different T-shirt to wear when he met Rachel at the top of the stairs. He noted she appeared rather more startled than she had any right to be—she knew he was here at least. Must have, his van was not exactly hidden under the doormat. He was the one taken by surprise.

Not so Jacob. “Hello,” said the small boy brightly, rushing past Callum on his way to the toilet, as though half-naked strangers appeared regularly in his home. Callum was irritated and more than a little surprised at his hostile reaction to that possibility, but decided it was none of his business. Still, it could be. Soon would be if she didn’t stop staring at him. Had he grown an extra head? Or maybe it was his dick with a mind of its own, once more threatening to poke its own head out of the top of his jeans. He hastily fastened the button, but that just served to draw her attention.

And she saw. And blushed. Bright crimson. Wow, he liked that. A lot.

“Mummy!
Mummy!
Need soap.” Jacob’s shrill little voice echoed along the landing.

For a moment Rachel looked confused, then, “Hold on, I’m right here.” Her eyes carefully averted she managed to pass Callum without actually touching him, and headed to the rescue. Watching her scurry along the landing Callum smiled to himself. Hell, he knew that look, knew exactly what was coming. Or should that be who?

Not now though, not today, with the little lad around. But soon. Very soon.

Chapter Three

The following morning he was at her house before eight o’clock. He noticed that the bedroom curtains at the front were still closed when he turned into her drive, and he purposely parked right in front of her car so she’d have to come and talk to him before she could go out. Assuming of course she
was
going out. There was no sign of life.

He unloaded his shovel from the van, admired his handiwork so far in the front garden then made his way around to the back where the wheelbarrow was leaning against the rear wall. Just a couple of more barrow loads, then he could start arranging the huge rocks he had stowed in the back of his van, courtesy of an early morning visit to a disused quarry. The barrow was only half full when he heard the click of the back door and turned, expecting to see Rachel emerging with his first coffee of the day. Well, first with her, anyway.

The door was open, but the doorway was empty. At least, it was until he dropped his gaze about three feet, and saw the tiny figure of Jacob, still in his Spiderman pajamas, peeping around the door. He looked to be crying. Callum groaned. He didn’t do crying kids. Not if he could help it.

“Morning, titch. Where’s your mummy?” He was careful to keep his tone friendly enough. Jacob was just a baby, after all.

Jacob sniffled some more, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. Callum shuddered.

“I want my breakfast. Mummy won’t get up. And I wet myself.” The plaintive little voice sounded so forlorn he almost smiled. Before the significance of the little boy’s words dropped into place with a solid thud.

‘Mummy won’t get up.’

His heart in his mouth, Callum went up to the small figure huddled in the doorway, and crouched low in front of him. “Is mummy still in bed?” He kept his voice low, not wanting to increase the flood of tears already flowing quite freely enough. The child was in dire need of a box of tissues too, but Callum didn’t feel quite that desperate. Not yet.

Jacob didn’t respond, just stood there sniffling and shifting ominously from one foot to the other. Callum couldn’t help thinking he might be on the point of getting his pants even wetter, but that was not his most immediate concern. He did not like the sound of mummy still in bed, not one bit. He straightened, stepped around Jacob and went inside.

The little boy followed him up the stairs then led the way along the landing to his mother’s room, stopping outside the closed door. Callum pointed to it, his raised eyebrow asking the question.
In there?

Jacob nodded, and scuttled back along the landing, obviously of the view that his duty was done and he didn’t have to go in there again.

Callum could recall times when he’d entered a lady’s bedroom with considerably more enthusiasm as well, but he turned the knob carefully, pushing open the door. He peered inside, through the gloom. Despite the bright sunlight outside, the room was in near total darkness. He could just make out the bed though, and the huddled shape under the duvet. On autopilot, Callum strode over to the window and opened the curtain, to find his efforts at assistance greeted by a groan as the shape huddled tighter under the duvet. At least she was alive. Conscious even. That had to be good.

There was whimpering, faint but distinct, coming from under the duvet. He could at least see now, so he went over and crouched next to the bed. The bulge showed no inclination to come out and face the day, so he reached out to tentatively pat what he thought might be her arm. The bulge responded with more whimpers.

“Rachel? It’s Callum. What’s wrong?”

A pause, then something muffled and incomprehensible, not quite words, but not exactly whimpers either. Then silence.

“Rachel? What did you say? What’s the matter? Shall I call an ambulance?”

“Migraine. Close the bloody curtains!” This time he got it, and his overwhelming relief as he hurried to do as she’d asked surprised him. He’d been genuinely worried, scared for her. But a migraine would pass. Eventually. He went back to the bed, this time sat on it, beside the bulge that was Rachel.

“Do you need anything? Water? Paracetamol? A saw to remove your head?” He’d suffered from migraines himself as a child. He’d grown out of it but remembered how it felt. Vividly.

“No. Thanks. I need to…get up. Jacob’ll be hungry…”

“He is. I’ll fix it. He wet his pants too.”

This last news was met by more groans as the bulge tried to straighten and sit up. Callum’s hand on her back, front, wherever, stopped that little enterprise. And he was totally amazed to hear himself saying his next words, “You stay there. I’ll sort it. Have a day off. Stay in bed, in the dark. I’ll look after Jacob.”

He started by taking the little lad’s wet pants off and dumping them in the bath, then good sense dictated that he encourage his tiny charge to empty his bladder again, this time in the toilet, before he sponged him down and put some dry clothes on him. He considered a bath, but in the end decided that seemed excessive. Ten minutes later Jacob was settled at the kitchen table with a bowl of chocolate crispy pops crackling in front of him. Callum helped himself to coffee.

“Do you go to nursery?” He realized, hopefully, that he might be able to drop the toddler off somewhere for the day, if he could work out where.

The little boy just shrugged and carried on spooning cereal into his mouth. More or less. There was rather a lot scattered around him. Callum reached over, took hold of the spoon around the tiny hand, and guided it more slowly toward the little mouth.

“There, like that.”

Jacob smiled happily while he continued to scatter his breakfast across the kitchen. Callum knew when he was beaten, and looked around for a brush.

He thought about going back upstairs and asking Rachel about the nursery, but decided not to.

Let her sleep, I’ll manage. Somehow.

He quickly abandoned any thoughts of rockery construction—far too dangerous with a curious three-year-old under his feet. Instead, he rummaged around until he found Rachel’s car keys and piled the little boy into his seat in the back of the Fiesta. He drove him to Roundhay Park in north Leeds, where they spent the next six hours rolling around on the grass and eating ice lollies. They fed the ducks which Callum reflected was considerably less messy than feeding small boys. They even looked at the butterflies and reptiles in the
Tropical World
corner before Callum strapped a tired and sticky little boy back into the car and headed for home.

Jacob was happy, Callum was sort of okay, and Rachel had a day in bed.

It was late afternoon when Callum let the pair of them back into Rachel’s house, using a key he’d found on the kitchen worktop. His old instincts were coming in handy, though he’d never developed much of a fondness for housebreaking. Too personal.

There was still no sign of her, so the pair of them went upstairs to check matters out. Knocking on her bedroom door this time, Callum waited until he heard her feeble “Come in” before opening the door. Jacob bounded past him, leaping onto the bed with all the newly discovered fearlessness of a child who knows his mummy is there and not acting so funny anymore. Callum smiled and followed him in. The curtain had been opened a little—she must have done that so she was obviously able to tolerate the light a bit more now, and she was sitting up in bed. She kissed Jacob, hugging him to her as she looked up at Callum, who remained motionless by the door.