“It’s not my house.”
“It’s your home, though. For a while, at least. How long are you here for?”
“Hard to say. I was never planning on being here in the first place, so . . .” So what? It’s not like you can piss off back to London anytime soon, is it?
Toby was still staring at me, waiting with an open expression that made him seem even younger than I suspected him to be, for me to answer his simple question.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Fair enough.” Toby went back to his paint stirring. “Might as well make the best of it, though, eh? So if you decide you want lime green walls or something else wacky, come and find me.”
I took that as my cue to stop being a weirdo and retreat inside. The newly installed shower upstairs called my name, and I stood under the hot spray and tried to zone out, but my thoughts kept drifting to the beautiful boy mixing paint in the garden. Not just his hands, but everything about him—his long legs and liquid brown eyes. His black hair. There seemed to be a brave new world to him that I couldn’t see, but why? Maybe I wasn’t meant to. Or maybe the cleansing sea air everyone in the city had promised me was sending me round the fucking bend.
The hot water ran out. I made a mental note to keep my showers under ten minutes and stepped out. The bathroom had a window with frosted glass. Through it, I could barely make out the outline of Toby’s shoulders as he stooped over his bucket, his slim waist, and rangy legs. I’d always been a sucker for a body like his, and a ripple of heat stirred in my gut. I gripped the tiny sink and let my imagination gift me an image of what I’d do with him if I existed in that coveted reality where everything was exactly as I wanted it to be. How I’d—
My phone rang. I jumped and my mind cleared as though a bomb of responsibility had gone off in my brain. I abandoned my filthy daydream and trooped water across the landing to my bedroom too late to answer the call from Callie—Ella’s mum.
Cursing, I called straight back, but there was no answer, obviously. Because that’s what happened a millisecond after you made a call; your phone was inaccessible.
Irritation coursed through me. I trusted Callie enough to call back or text me if it was an actual emergency, but not knowing for certain amped up the anxiety I’d spent most of my adult life with. Fretting over shit I couldn’t change was a hobby, yo, and one I was spectacularly good at when I didn’t make time to manage it.
And I was hungry. My solitary dinner of toast and jam seemed a lifetime ago.
I got dressed with half an eye on my phone, then tucked it into my pocket and went downstairs to raid my meagre provisions. At some point, I’d have to figure out a shopping trip, but it could wait until Ella’s arrival. Everything could.
Toby was in my kitchen, deftly painting the scant wall space around the tiles. Chilled electronica filtered from a battered radio on the counter. He reached to turn it off.
I shot out a hand to stop him. A light squeeze of my fingers around his tanned forearm. “It’s okay, I like it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I listen to this stuff all day at work.”
“But not at home?”
I opened the empty fridge and wondered how he knew. “I don’t really get time.”
Toby looked as though he wanted to say something. But he said nothing. Just pursed his full lips and went back to his painting.
It took everything I had to tear my gaze from his concentrated frown. My life was a wreck of barely laid plans and essential items I hadn’t yet bought, and all I wanted was to get lost in the cute frown of a total fucking stranger.
“Are you hungry?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Hungry,” Toby repeated without looking at me. “Harry sent me with bacon sandwiches.”
The only way he could’ve cheered me up more would’ve been if he’d taken his shirt off. “Sandwiches? Where?”
“Wheelbarrow out the front. Sorry, I forgot all about them.”
I shut the fridge and left the kitchen. Outside the open front door, as promised, was the barrow he’d nearly wheeled over my head, and a warm foil package.
Stomach growling, I took it back to the kitchen and opened it up. Two huge doorstep sandwiches greeted me, stuffed with thick bacon, onions, and spinach—the compromise Harry and I had come up with when we’d briefly worked together, and he’d refused to eat anything that was solely comprised of saturated fat and carbs. “Wow. I’m never gonna eat two of these. Want one?”
Toby peered over my shoulder, frowning. “I would’ve done if Harry hadn’t tried to trick me with green shit.”
“You don’t like spinach?”
“Ew.”
Oh my god, he was so cute. Like, need to rescue his squishy bottom lip from his teeth cute. “Onions?”
“I like them in burgers.”
“So take the spinach out then.”
“I have paint on my fingers.”
A laugh bubbled in my chest. Given my current mood, it was so unexpected it stole my breath. I sucked in a brand-new one and covered my lack of oxygen predicament by opening the top sandwich and fishing everything green from it. I slapped the thick sourdough bread back together and held it out. “Better?”
Toby licked his lips. “It’ll do.”
The laugh escaped.
Toby grinned back, and the remaining sandwich was so far from my mind that my stomach thought my throat had been cut. I snatched another breath, but the vibrating screech of my phone cut off whatever lunacy had been about to leave my mouth.
I turned away and fumbled my phone from my pocket. It was Callie. “Hey.”
“Morning,” she said. “Settled into your new place?”
“Getting there. How’s Ella?”
“She’s fine. My dad took her for a walk.”
Jealousy lanced my heart. I’d never even met Callie’s dad and he spent more time with my baby than I did. “That’s nice.”
“Yep. Anyway, I need to know what time you’re picking her up on Saturday.”
“Um . . .” Shit. I hadn’t even thought about it. “Ten? Is that too early?”
“After a week of her teething? Hell no. You can have her the night before if you want.”
I’d have her every night of the damn week if I could. But this was the one time I’d have to say no. “I can’t. The place I’m staying is still being painted. It won’t be aired out until Saturday.”
“Shame. Oh well. Ten it is.”
Callie rang off without any further pleasantries, and I couldn’t blame her. After all, we barely knew each other.
The sinking feeling in my chest came back. I spun slowly to face the kitchen counter again and set my phone down, almost forgetting about Toby until he cleared his throat.
“Is Ella your kid?”
I flashed him a glance. “Yeah.”
The single syllable came out like it always did these days, almost like a challenge. As though daring him to ask more questions or judge me for already failing to give her the family life she deserved.
Toby shrugged. “Cool.”
He returned to his work before I could formulate a response.
3