ask about her travels. They’d meant to travel together after art school—to marry and to travel. They’d planned to paint the world.
He didn’t ask. She reminded herself that he’d given all that up. Just like he’d given up on her.
Travel? With his responsibilities?
He’d made his choices.
It didn’t stop her heart from aching for him.
She gripped her hands behind her so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge their shaking. ‘When would it be convenient for me to call around and collect it?’
His eyes gave nothing away. ‘Have you booked into Gwen’s B&B?’
She nodded.
‘Then I’ll have it sent around.’
She read the subtext. He didn’t need to say the words out loud. It would never be convenient for her to call around. She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’
With a nod, he turned and stalked to the door. He reached out, seized the door handle…
‘Connor, one final thing…’
He swung back, impatience etched in every line of his body. A different person might’ve found it funny. ‘You and your men are welcome to use the bookshop’s kitchenette and bathroom.’ She gestured to the back of the shop. The facilities upstairs sounded basic at best at the moment—as in nonexistent. ‘I’ll leave the back door unlocked.’
He strode back and jammed a finger down on the counter between them. ‘You’ll do no such thing!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘People don’t leave their back doors unlocked in Clara Falls any more, Jaz.’
They didn’t? She stared back at him and wondered why that felt such a loss.
‘And you, I think, have enough trouble without inviting more. Especially of that kind.’
She wanted to tell him she wasn’t having any trouble at all, only her mouth refused to form the lie.
‘Fine, take the key, then.’ She pulled the keys from her pocket and rifled though them. She hadn’t worked out what most of them were for yet.
‘Here, this one looks a likely candidate.’ She held one aloft, sidled out from behind the counter and strode all the way through the shop to the back door again. She fitted the key in the lock. It turned. She wound it off the key ring and shoved it into Connor’s hand. ‘There.’
‘I—’
‘Don’t let your dislike of me disadvantage your men. They’re working hard.’
She refused to meet his gaze, hated the way the golden lights in his eyes were shuttered against her.
‘I wasn’t going to refuse your offer, Jaz.’
That voice—measured and rhythmic, like a breeze moving through a stand of radiata pine.
‘We’ll all welcome the chance of a hot drink and the use of that microwave, believe me.’
Amazingly, he smiled. It was a small one admittedly, wiped off his face almost as soon as it appeared, but Jaz’s pulse did a little victory dance all the same.
‘Do you have a spare? You might need it.’
He held the key between fingers callused by hard work, but Jaz would’ve recognised those hands anywhere. Once upon a time she’d watched them for hours, had studied them, fascinated by the ease with which they’d moved over his sketch pad. Fascinated by the ease with which they’d moved across her body, evoking a response she’d been powerless to hide.
A response she’d never considered hiding from him.
She gulped. A spare key—he was asking her about a spare key. She rifled through the keys on the key ring. Twice, because she didn’t really see them the first time.
‘No spare,’ she finally said.
‘I’ll have one cut. I’ll get the original back to you by the close of business today.’
‘Thank you. Now, I’d better get back to the shop.’ But before she left some imp made her add, ‘And don’t forget to lock the door on your way out. I wouldn’t want to invite any trouble, you know.’
She almost swore he chuckled as she left the room.
At ten-thirty a.m., a busload of tourists descended on the bookshop demanding guidebooks and maps, and depleting her supply of panoramic postcards.
At midday, Jaz raced out to the stockroom to scour the shelves for reserves that would replenish the alarming gaps that were starting to open up in her Local Information section. She came away empty-handed.
She walked back to stare at the computer, then shook her head. Later. She’d tackle it later.
At three-thirty a blonde scrap of a thing sidled through the door, barely jangling the bell. She glanced at Jaz with autumn-tinted eyes and Jaz’s heart practically fell out of her chest.
Was this Connor’s daughter?
It had to be. She had his eyes; she had his hair. She had Faye’s heart-shaped face and delicate porcelain skin.
Melanie—such a pretty name. Such a pretty little girl.
An ache grew so big and round in Jaz’s chest that it didn’t leave room for anything else.
‘Hello,’ she managed when the little girl continued to stare at her. It wasn’t the cheery greeting she’d practised all day, more a hoarse whisper. She was glad Connor wasn’t here to hear it.
‘Hello,’ the little girl returned, edging away towards the children’s section.
Jaz let her go, too stunned to ask her if she needed help with anything. Too stunned to ask her if she was looking for her father. Too stunned for anything.
She’d known Connor had a daughter. She’d known she would eventually meet that daughter.
Her hands clenched. She’d known diddly-squat!
Physically, Melanie Reed might be all Connor and Faye, but the slope of her shoulders, the way she hung her head, reminded Jaz of…
Oh, dear Lord. Melanie Reed reminded Jaz of herself at the same age—friendless, rootless. As a young girl, she’d crept into the bookshop in the exact same fashion Melanie just had.
Her head hurt. Her neck hurt. Pain pounded at her temples. She waited for someone to come in behind Melanie—Connor, his mother perhaps.
Nothing.
She bit her lip. She stared at the door, then glanced towards the children’s section. Surely a seven-year-old shouldn’t be left unsupervised?
If
