keep to them for long.
Next stop was a shopping mall where Luc had Matt fitted with a proper pair of soccer boots, which he paid for. They proceeded to a toy shop where he also bought for Matt a soccer ball and a goal structure complete with netting so his son could practise shooting goals—which could have been done with simply setting up two sticks in the backyard.
Skye could feel herself bristling at the money being spent without a second thought. They ate lunch in a restaurant—another expensive exercise—with Matt full of excitement at being treated to his favourite chicken nuggets and a banana smoothie. He ate and drank with gusto, while Skye could barely swallow the chicken Caesar salad Luc had ordered for her, remembering it had been one of her favourite meals when they’d been going out together.
She didn’t want those memories revived. It was hard enough, having to be with Luc all day, having to be agreeable for Matt’s sake, feeling forced to accept the Peretti largesse which was bound to have an insidious influence on Matt.
At least the buying stopped with lunch. She drove them home and Luc spent the afternoon in the backyard with Matt, setting up the goal, showing how to kick the soccer ball with the side of the foot, not the toe, practising dribbling the ball and demonstrating other skills that fascinated Matt into trying to copy them.
It hurt to watch them—father and son—having fun together, chatting, laughing, cheering and clapping achievements. Matt was having a great time, completely relaxed now with his new Dad, liking him and loving the different kind of attention he was getting. Male attention. Male understanding. Male activity.
It brought home to Skye that no single parent could supply everything a child needed, no matter how well-balanced one tried to be. Better to have the input from both parents, if it could be given in harmony. And it had to be conceded Luc was delivering on his promises. So far.
At last the day was over, with Matt bathed, fed, put to bed and enjoying the novelty of reading his father a story before lights out. Luc was astonished that his five-year-old son could actually read, and when they left Matt’s bedroom, having kissed him goodnight, Skye found herself being forcibly steered back to the kitchen instead of carrying out her intention to see Luc out the front door.
‘Let go of me!’ she growled, resenting being denied a ready escape from the prolonged tension of his company.
‘I just want to say thank you, Skye,’ he said reasonably, releasing her arm once he’d accomplished his purpose of regaining territorial advantage.
She stepped away quickly, moving to put the small kitchen table between them, instinctively rubbing at the heat he’d left on her skin. He frowned at the action but she’d didn’t care if he found it offensive. He had no right to touch her, to use his dominant strength to get his own way.
‘I don’t want you frightened of me,’ he said in sharp concern.
‘Then please leave. You’ve had your day. You’ve said thank you. There’s no reason for you to stay any longer.’
He shook his head, still frowning. ‘Did I do something wrong with Matt?’
‘No. He had a happy first day with you.’
He raised his hands in a gesture of appeal. ‘So why can’t we talk about it?’
‘What do you want? My stamp of approval?’ she snapped, screaming inside for him to go because any more of him today was unbearable. She’d had to hold in so much for Matt’s sake, pretending she was pleased for him to have his father, giving Luc the freedom to court his son, while all the time feeling that the little world she had constructed was under terrible attack.
Instead of answering, Luc eyed her with searching intensity, looking for the reason behind her hostile stance. ‘Is it really so hard to share him with me, Skye?’ he asked in the soft tone that stripped her of defences.
She gripped the back of a chair, trying to hold herself together. Tears were welling—tears of emotional exhaustion—and the lump in her throat made it difficult to speak. ‘You’ve won him over,’ she pushed out. ‘It’s done. Please… just go now. Let yourself out.’
Her eyes blurred and she swung blindly around, stepping over to the sink, frantically turning on the taps so as to look busy, though there was nothing to wash, only a glass that had already been rinsed. She didn’t hear Luc move, didn’t even sense him closing in on her. Her whole concentration was aimed at not breaking up before he went.
It shocked her when his hand reached out and turned off the taps. Her fingers didn’t have the strength to resist when the glass was taken from them and placed on the draining rack. Her mind was completely seized up, incapable of directing any action. Her body could have been that of a rag doll’s as Luc turned her towards him, wrapping her in a supportive embrace, holding her, pressing her head onto his shoulder, rubbing his cheek against her hair with a tenderness that broke open the floodgates to the tears she’d tried so hard to contain.
The storm of weeping was draining, reducing her to such a helpless state, she couldn’t find the pride that might have dragged her away from him. His broad shoulder was there to lean on. His warmth and strength was like a blanket of comfort. And it had been a long, long time since anyone had held her, emitting a sense of caring.
That it was Luc didn’t seem to matter. In fact, the familiarity of past intimacy between them somehow made it easy to sag against his body. It didn’t feel strange or wrong. There was a sense of belonging that she simply didn’t have the will to fight, however false it might be.
Eventually the tears dried up, leaving her aching from the emotional upheaval and limp from all the energy spent. She became conscious of Luc’s fingers gently raking through her hair and realised he must have removed the clip at the back of her neck, releasing and loosening the long flow of it—a liberty—but she didn’t mind. It felt good.
‘Skye—’ her name gravelled from his throat as though scraping over painful barriers ‘—I’m not trying to win Matt from you. Please believe that.’
She closed her eyes and dragged in a deep breath, needing to fill her lungs with air, ease the ache in her chest. She felt too tired to speak. Her mind didn’t want to take up the fight over trust. It was too hard.
‘You’re his mother,’ Luc went on, a deeper, strong throb in his voice—a throb that somehow moved into her sluggish bloodstream and revived all the maternal feelings in her heart.
‘You’ve done a wonderful job of bringing up our son. You can be very proud of the boy he is…the boy you’ve shaped him to be…’
The warmth of his approval flooded through her.
‘I don’t know how to thank you…doing it all alone. He’s amazing. A happy child, well-mannered, eager to have a go at everything, and reading at his young age…’
He sounded so awed, a smile tugged at the corners of Skye’s mouth. She was proud of Matt. Justly proud. And she was glad Luc felt she had done a good job of bringing up their son.
‘If you’ve been thinking I might take him away from you, I swear to you I won’t, Skye. That was never my intention. And seeing how he is today…why would I want to? Matt couldn’t have a better mother. So please…don’t be afraid of me.’
She didn’t want to be. But even if he truly meant what he said now…she stirred herself
