“A job?” His eyes darken and his fists open and close as if fighting the urge to clench them.
Eye roll. “I have to pay for my son’s nappies somehow.”
“And the money I’ve been sending you?” He hisses angrily. “And where, may I ask, is Dillan whilst you work?”
Money? “What money?” I glare back at him. “And Dillan stays with my mum whilst I work weekends and goes to nursery when I work in the week.”
“Nursery?” I barely hear him, his voice is that low and dangerous. He closes his eyes for a moment, his calm composure failing. “He’s not even three months old.”
“I can’t not work, Nathan.” I snap, standing again. “What do you even care? I’m dead to you, remember?” I walk over to my son and pick up his bag that sits on the ground beside his seat. Turning, I thrust it into Nathan’s arms, ignoring the guilty look on his face. “Bring him back Saturday afternoon.”
He looks furious. I don’t care. I’m not his business anymore. “Dillan needs his mother around.”
“What Dillan needs is a roof over his head and clothes on his back,” I argue tiredly. “How can I provide them if I don’t work?”
“I’ll send more money.” Nathan places the bag on the arm of the couch and walks towards his nephew.
“What money?” I snap and then let out a long sigh to calm myself. “Forget it. I don’t want nor need your money. My life is none of your business.”
Nathan remains silent as he drops to his knees and runs his gloved fingers over Dillan’s cheek. “I’ll bring him back Saturday afternoon.”
“Can I ask?” Should I? Nathan looks at me over his shoulder expectantly. “Why do you want to take him?”
“Why not?” He stands once more and turns to face me. “He’s my nephew. I miss him.”
“Is he the only thing you miss?” Oh god, why did I say that?
Nathan looks as shocked as I do but it doesn’t stop him from responding. “Yes.”
“I see.” The carpet is suddenly very interesting. Lifting my eyes slowly to his, tears pooling on the lower lids, I whisper a confession that I probably shouldn’t. “I miss you. A lot more than I should.”
He shows no reaction; he doesn’t care. His words confirm my thoughts. “I’m sorry; I don’t feel the same.” Way to stab me in the chest. I look away quickly but feel a tear fall from my left eye. “I’ll bring him back on Saturday afternoon.” He lifts the car seat.
I quickly rush to my sleeping son and plant kiss after kiss on his face and hands. “Love you baby.” Ignoring my aching heart, I look up at Nathan. “Call me if anything happens.”
“I will.”
I grab his arm, stopping him from walking away from me, “I mean it, Nathan. Please.”
He tugs his arm free. “I said I will.”
Blowing out a breath, I give my son another kiss and follow Nathan to his car. He places Dillan in the back and straps him in. I kiss my son yet again.
“Nathan,” I say, following him around to the driver’s side.
He stops with his hand on top of the open door. “Yes Guinevere?” Exasperation is his only tone. “What now?”
“Why do you still stay in that house?” I ask and wince when I see the pain in his features. “It seems like a torturous way to live.”
He gapes at me for a moment, seeming to be in shock that I addressed something so secret, so disturbing. Instead of responding, he climbs into his car and slams the door. Seconds later he reverses out of my driveway without even looking my way.
Shit.
I miss my boy already.
Which one? My conscience asks me.
Both, my heart answers, with an ache that brings more tears to my eyes; tears for what and whom, I don’t know.
“I don’t like it,” I say to Valentine as I beat the hell out of a ball of dough that I should be kneading gently. She steps in, removing the dough from my fists of fury. “I miss him. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“The first night away from your child is always the hardest.” She says with a slight smile. “He’ll be fine. You need time to yourself.”
“I don’t like time to myself.” Time to myself means dwelling on things that could have been but never will be.
“You’re so strange; I can’t wait to get rid of my kids sometimes,” Tiffany, the woman who works behind the counter, states. “You should go out for a few drinks.”
“I’m breastfeeding,” I mumble, resisting the urge to rub my swollen and aching breasts. Because I haven’t had Dillan, I have been able to express a lot more milk than usual.
“We have a problem. There’s a guy here wanting to speak to the person who made the fudge birthday cake, the one shaped like a bottle of Jack Daniels.” Elle says quietly, stepping into the kitchen.
Oh shit. “Was there a problem with it?”
“I don’t know, but the guy is smoking hot.” She fans her face dramatically.
“Okay.” I ignore her ‘smoking hot’ comment and quickly wash my hands. I’m covered from head to toe in flour and other ingredients. I look ridiculous, but I don’t care. I’m here to work, not play.
Valentine doesn’t offer me any input on how I should handle this. Great.
I inhale a deep breath and let it out before stepping out of the kitchen with a nervous smile on my face. Elle points to a man sat at a table in the far corner. He has a hot drink in one hand and his phone in the other. His hair is blonde, almost like golden silk, cut only a couple of inches from his scalp and mussed, like he’s just rolled out of bed. It really suits him. I make my way over to him, anxiously biting my lip. “Umm… hi.” I give him a small wave to get his attention and he blinks up at me with shining hazel eyes.
“Hi.” He grins and stands. He holds out his hand and I check my hands once more for flour before shaking it. “You’re the person who made the Jack Daniels cake?”
I nod and gulp all at once. “Yes. Was there a problem?”
“Yes.” He seems reluctant to admit as his eyes sweep me up and down. “We found this baked into the bottom layer.” He pulls something from his pocket.
Oh my god. “Oh my god!” I squeal and snatch it from him, my eyes burning. I’m going to lose my job. I almost lost my ring. Somebody could have choked! But my ring…
I look at my left hand and back to the simple diamond ring that I hold in the palm of my right hand. How could I not have noticed that it was missing?
“Are you okay?”
“I… was anybody hurt?” I hope nobody bit down on it and broke a tooth.
“Fortunately not. Perhaps you should take jewellery off before you bake.” He suggests, his eyes twinkling with humour. “It’s not a big deal; I just figured you’d want it returned.” He tilts his head, his eyes questioning my distraught state. “And considering the way you’ve reacted, I’m glad to have made that judgement.”
“I’m sorry.” I wipe at my eyes and close my fist around the ring. “I’m sorry for losing this in your cake. I appreciate you returning it. I’ll go and get my boss.”