together, staring at her much-abused feet. There was no getting around it—she’d have to ask her mum for the money. She would pay her back, of course—but it would take time. And it was humiliating.
Thirty-one and running to Mummy. Well done, Phillipa. Way to be an adult.
To think that not so long ago she’d prided herself on being unconventional and marching to the beat of her own drum. Whenever one of her more conservative friends had asked if she ever worried about the future, about owning a house or being able to afford to retire or having a career, Pippa had laughed and assured them she didn’t lose sleep over that stuff because she was too busy enjoying the journey.
What a load of old bullocks.
She’d been off with the fairies, tripping around in a fantasy world. Alice had been a cosmic wake-up call that it was time to stop playing around and grow up—there was nothing like being responsible for a tiny, helpless human being to sort a person’s priorities out, quick smart.
Pippa propped an ankle on the opposite knee and massaged the arch of her foot, digging in her thumbs until it hurt. Her thoughts drifted to Harry’s visit the other morning. He’d been the last person she’d expected to find on her doorstep at 7:30 a.m. Definitely he was one of the last people she would have chosen to catch her in her fluffy robe, complete with tangled bed hair and smudgy glasses. There was something very unsettling about being caught unprepared for the day by someone as dynamic and charismatic as Harry.
Still, it had been nice of him to drop in and warn her about the council’s policy on towing abandoned cars. The bit where he’d forced her to confess that she couldn’t afford to have her car fixed hadn’t been so great, but since he’d followed it with yet another offer of help, she figured his heart was in the right place. Fortunately, she wasn’t that desperate a case yet—stress on the yet.
That’s right. You’re only at the mooching-off-your-retired-mother stage. Mooching-off-strangers is a highlight for coming months, yet to be enjoyed.
A knock echoed through the house. She almost welcomed the interruption, even though it meant she had to get to her feet. Anything was better than lying around brooding.
“Ow,” she said as she started up the hallway. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.”
Funny how shoes that she’d thought were perfectly comfortable had turned on her after a few days of hard labor. Once she’d dealt with whoever was at the door, she would run herself a bath and soak her feet.
She pushed Alice’s stroller out of the way so she could reach the door. Because it was clearly her lucky day, the lock stuck and she swore under her breath.
Like the broken bedroom door, the dodgy lock had been reported to the landlord, but Pippa figured both would be repaired around the same time that Dairy Queen opened a concession in hell. The pitfalls of paying low rent in a working-class suburb.
She shouldered the door, pushing the lock up before twisting it. It gave grudgingly and she—finally—opened it to find Harry filling the frame for the second time in as many days.
“Harry,” she said, blinking up at six foot two of solid male dressed in an old gray surf T-shirt, faded jeans and steel-toed boots.
Why did she keep forgetting how big he was? And why did he keep turning up on her doorstep?
“These are yours.” He caught her hand and dropped a set of keys into it. “Before you say anything, it was my pleasure. Consider it an early birthday present for Alice.”
It took her brain a full ten seconds to process his words and understand their meaning.
“You fixed my car,” she said stupidly.
Sure enough, Old Yeller was in the driveway, brighter and larger than life.
“It was no big deal. Like I said the other day, it was the gasket. A few hours and the problem was solved.” “But … how did you get my keys?”
Then she remembered she’d left him alone in the kitchen while she took the phone call from her boss.
The first emotion to hit her was shame. She’d thought she’d been doing a decent job of covering how damned desperate she was, but clearly Harry had seen straight through her. That he understood exactly how powerless she’d been to change her situation and had been moved to act was galling and humiliating in the extreme.
Hard on the heels of shame came anger, a knee-jerk, defensive, irrational response to feeling so vulnerable and exposed. Who was he to take so much upon himself? To force his charity on her—stealing her car keys, no less—without asking if she wanted his help?
Finally, relief hit, so profound, so all-encompassing there was no room for anything else and she clenched her jaw to stop an instinctive, deeply pathetic sob from escaping. She curled her fingers around the keys, squeezing them tight, trying very, very hard not to cry with gratitude and relief. She blinked repeatedly but wasn’t entirely successful in vanquishing the tears.
“I don’t know what to say. You shouldn’t have. It’s too much. It’s amazing…. But it’s too much, Harry.”
“It was a couple of hours’ work, and Dad let me use his shop. Like I said, not a big deal.”
Pippa took in his tired eyes, five-o’clock shadow and fingernails still dark with grease. She knew from her inquiries that replacing a head gasket in a standard, four-cylinder car was an eight-hour job, minimum. He must have worked around the clock after hours to do this for her.
A thousand thoughts battled for supremacy, but there was only one thing she could say.
“Thank you. This means so much to me and Alice. You’ve literally saved my bacon.”
She held Harry’s gaze as she said it, wanting him to see how sincere she was, how grateful. It might embarrass her to have to be the recipient of his charity, but no way was she rewarding his generosity with anything other than sincere appreciation. The shame was her problem, not his.
He stuck his hands into his back pockets, stretching his T-shirt across his broad chest. “It wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it could have been. A clean replacement, no complications.”
He was clearly uncomfortable, which, oddly, made it easier to swallow her own discomfort. She felt a rush of fondness for her ex’s best friend. Harry had always been her favorite of Steve’s mates. No competition.
“You’re a good man, Harry.”
He frowned.
“If I can be a gracious receiver, the least you can do is accept my thanks,” she said.
“Thanks are fine. But we both know I’m no saint.”
“Did I call you a saint? I said you were a good man.” She stepped to one side. “Come in so I can make you even more uncomfortable with my gratitude.”
He glanced over his shoulder as though looking for an escape route.
“Come on. A little slavish gratitude won’t hurt you,” she teased.
His gray eyes creased at the corners as his mouth curled into a reluctant smile. He stepped over the threshold, brushing past her,
