She blinked. ‘Wow, you must have a fancy coffee machine.’
He grinned. ‘Some things have to be taken seriously.’
‘So do me a flat white,’ she challenged, her eyes sparkling with laughter.
Typical Connie, he thought. Never take the easy route or expect anyone else to. He rolled his eyes, took the milk out of the carrier bag he’d just brought home and started work while she and the dog watched his every move, Connie from the other side of the room, Saffy from her position on the floor just close enough to reach anything he might drop. Hope personified, he thought with a smile.
‘You do know I was a barista while I was at uni?’ he offered over his shoulder, the mischievous grin dimpling his lean cheek again and making her mouth tug in response.
‘I didn’t, but it doesn’t surprise me.’
She watched him as he stuck a cup under the spout of the coffee machine, his broad shoulders and wide stance reminding her of Joe, and yet not. Joe had been shorter, stockier, his hair a lighter brown, and his eyes had been a muted green, unlike James’s, which were a striking, brilliant ice-blue rimmed with navy. She noticed the touch of grey at his temples and frowned slightly. That was new. Or had she just not noticed before?
‘So how long did the drive take you?’ he asked, turning to look at her with those piercing eyes.
‘Just over two hours—about two fifteen? I had a good run but I had to stop to let Saffy out for a minute.’
She stepped over the dog and perched on a high stool beside him, and the light drift of her perfume teased his nostrils. He could feel her eyes on him as he foamed the milk, tapping the jug, swirling the espresso round the warmed cup before he poured the milk into it in a carefully controlled stream, wiggling the jug to create a perfect rosetta of microfoamed milk on top of the crema.
‘Here,’ he said, sliding the cup towards her with a flourish, pleased to see he hadn’t lost his touch despite the audience.
‘Latte art? Show-off,’ she said, but she looked impressed and he couldn’t resist a slightly smug chuckle.
He tore open a packet of freshly baked cookies from the supermarket, the really wicked ones oozing with calories. He wouldn’t normally have bought them, but he knew Connie was a sucker for gooey cookies. He slid them towards her as Saffy watched hopefully.
‘Here. Don’t eat them all.’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ she said innocently, her smile teasing, and he felt his heart lurch dangerously.
‘I’ve never yet met a woman who could resist triple choc chip cookies still warm from the oven.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Are they still warm?’ she said, diving in, and he watched in fascination as she closed her eyes and sank her teeth into one.
He nearly groaned out loud. How could eating a cookie be so sexy?
‘Murgh,’ she said, eyes still closed, and he gave a strained chuckle and trashed his own rosetta as his hand jerked.
‘That good?’ he asked, his voice sounding rusty, and she nodded.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, a little more intelligibly, and he laughed again, set his own coffee down on the breakfast bar and joined her on the other stool, shifting it away from her a little after he’d taken a cookie from the bag.
Her eyes were open again, and she was pulling another one apart, dissecting it slowly and savouring every bit, and he almost whimpered.
He did whimper. Did he? Really?
‘Saffy, don’t beg,’ she said through a mouthful of cookie, and he realised it was the dog. He heaved a quiet sigh of relief and grabbed the last cookie, as much as anything so he wouldn’t have to watch her eat it.
And then, just because they had to talk about something and anyway, the suspense was killing him, he asked, ‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’
Connie felt her heart thump.
This was it, her chance to ask him, and yet now she was here she had no idea—no idea—how to do it. Her carefully rehearsed speech had deserted her, and her mind flailed. Start at the beginning, she told herself, and took a deep breath.
‘Um—did you realise Joe and I were having problems?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Problems?’
James stared at her, stunned by that. Problems were the last thing he would have associated with them. They’d always seemed really happy together, and Joe, certainly, had loved Connie to bits. Had it not been mutual? No, Joe would have said—wouldn’t he? Maybe not.
‘What sort of problems?’ he asked warily, not at all sure he wanted to know.
‘Only one—well, two, if you count the fact that I spent our entire marriage waiting for the doorbell to ring and someone in uniform to tell me he was dead.’
‘I’d count that,’ he said gruffly. He’d felt it himself, every time Joe had been deployed on active service—and it didn’t get much more active than being a bomb disposal officer. But still, he’d never really expected it to happen. Maybe Connie had been more realistic.
‘And the other problem?’
She looked away, her expression suddenly bleak. ‘We couldn’t have children.’
He frowned, speechless for a second as it sank in. He set his cup down carefully and closed his eyes. When he opened them she was watching him again, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, waiting for him to say the right thing.
Whatever the hell that was. He let out a long, slow sigh and shook his head.
‘Ah, Connie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise there was anything wrong. I always thought it was by choice, something you’d get round to when he’d finished that last tour.’
… except he never had …
‘It was.’ She smiled a little unsteadily, and looked away again. ‘Actually, he was going to come and see you about it when he got home.’
‘Me?’ he asked, puzzled by that. ‘I don’t know anything about infertility. You’re a doctor, you probably know as much about it as I do, if not more. You needed to see a specialist.’
‘We had. It wasn’t for that. We’d had the tests, and he was the one with the problem. Firing blanks, as he put it.’ She grimaced a little awkwardly, uncomfortable revealing what Joe had considered a weakness, a failure, something to be ashamed of. ‘I wanted him to tell you, but he wouldn’t, not for ages. He was psyching himself up to do it when he got home, but it was so hard for him, even though you were so close.’
‘We were, but—guys don’t talk about that kind of thing, Connie, especially when they’re like Joe.’
‘I know. It’s stupid, I feel so disloyal telling you because he just wouldn’t talk about it. I would have told you ages ago,
