result of a fight that she’d fully relaxed the crippling fear.
‘Jingle Bells’ blared again. ‘Nixon, did you forget you just rang me?’ she choked.
‘That’s better. You’re not crying.’
How wrong could he be? ‘You rang because I sniffed a couple of times?’
‘Just checking. See you later.’ Gone.
Leaving her smiling and pinching herself. What was going on here? Would this feeling of excitement crash and burn as her hormones settled back in their cave? Had post-birth hormones temporarily heightened her awareness of Nixon as a man; a hot man? She stared around the car park, up at the sky, over at the main school building. There were no answers waiting to drop on her. She’d have to play the waiting game, to see the hormonal rush through to its end and look at what was left afterwards.
* * *
Nixon sauntered up Emma’s path and raised his hand to knock but the door opened before he had a chance. Loud music spilled out. ‘You’re a rocker?’
‘I’ll turn it down.’ Emma lurched forward as if she was about to plant a kiss on his cheek, then as rapidly she pulled back, her face burning.
His face untouched.
‘Emma?’ He followed her through the apartment to the small but neat lounge where she killed the volume.
Her shoulders were tense, her neck stiff, and her hands now fists at her sides. ‘Sorry about that.’ She looked—fragile. Yes, definitely delicate. As if she didn’t know if she was coming or going. Not surprising. The birth must’ve caught up in full force. ‘I was trying to block out stuff.’
‘Baby crying next door stuff?’
An abrupt nod. ‘I’m probably adding to the problem as Grace won’t be able to sleep. But I’m going up the walls and had to do something, and going for a run is not an option.’ Emma’s bottom lip quivered.
Nixon wanted to hug her, to send that crying packing, but sensed a hug might make things worse. He swung the paper bag he held in one hand. ‘I got pastries from the French patisserie. That okay?’
Her lips softened, a small smile creeping in. ‘I got some ciabatta from the bakery and ham from the superette. I thought we could sit on the deck.’ She stared around the room as if it were foreign to her.
‘Perfect.’ Hopefully it would be further away from the baby’s cries if they happened again. ‘Emma, look at me.’
Her reluctance stabbed him in the chest. He shouldn’t have come. She didn’t want him here. But then she said, ‘Take no notice of me. I’m all mixed up.’ She drew a breath. ‘I’m glad you came. I need sane and sensible at the moment.’
So he wasn’t about to be kicked out. He wasn’t sure he liked being labelled sane and sensible but if that was what she wanted then that was what she’d get. But as she headed into the kitchen his gaze scoped her body and that thick, wavy copper hair falling down her back, causing a pang of need to slide under his skin. Emma was beautiful. Alluring. What? Nixon tensed. What was that? Emma was captivating? Yes, she was, but he wasn’t going anywhere with this. He recognised that she was attractive, but he wasn’t admitting to wanting to follow through on that. Not likely. Oh, man, he was an expert in caution so what had gone wrong that his gut had tightened when he’d looked at his friend? Better get back on track with why he was here. ‘About coming back to work. Don’t rush it. We can cope.’ She really was exhausted and would need time to recuperate.
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