Chapter Three #2
Rhys rubbed a hand over his face. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.”
“She seemed to be having fun when I arrived.”
Cat began collecting the pieces and cards, organizing them in the box. “I think she’s trying to protect herself.”
“From me?”
“No, from life. Change. Rejection.” Cat folded the board closed, the streets of London returning to the old box—Mayfair, Park Lane, Old Kent Road—until only the faint smell of dust and cardboard lingered, and the memory of laughter that had almost, for a moment, made her think of home.
Not the home with Grandma Betty, but the home with her mom and dad.
The home where she’d once been blissfully innocent that the world could be a dangerous, and lonely, place.
“I’m trying to protect her from that as well.”
“Just stay the course. You’re doing what you should do, and—” Cat broke off and gave her head a faint shake. “She’s doing what she’s meant to do. Question, challenge, and start to grow up.”
Later that evening, after Cat had retired to her room and unpacked, she did her best to settle in to the small space with the beamed ceiling and heavy drapes at the window.
The heavy drapes were designed to block some of the chill, but it was still a cold room, and Cat needed slippers and her thickest, warmest cardigan over her flannel pajamas.
The cardigan, a dark red and cream wool and knit blend, had been handknitted by her grandmother for her mom the Christmas Cat was eight.
Her mother had loved the cardigan and had worn it virtually every day that winter.
The sweater disappeared after her mother died and Cat forgot it, until she opened her sixteenth birthday gifts, and there it was, neatly folded inside delicate white tissue paper.
Grandma had saved it all these years for Cat.
The cardigan wasn’t just Cat’s favorite sweater; it was perhaps her favorite thing she owned. Looking at it comforted her. Wearing it made her feel warm, safe, loved.
Loved.
Climbing into bed she shivered as the cold sheets enveloped her.
She was glad she’d left her thick socks on, along with her mom’s sweater.
She tried to read but couldn’t, too tired and too overstimulated from the very long day.
She didn’t know what she’d imagined she’d be coming to here in Derbyshire, but this cottage, with this doctor and little girls, wasn’t it.
Even though she’d seen a few photos online, he wasn’t anything like the pictures.
Rhys Harmon was younger than the photos indicated.
He was also far better looking, almost painfully good-looking with his thick, dark hair, and strong, classic features.
His face was beautifully put together, something she knew he had no control over, but it was a face one wanted to look at and keep looking at.
His eyes were light, and she couldn’t tell if they were light gray, green or gold, but they were arresting, even more so fringed by dense black lashes and black brows.
Easily six feet one, maybe two, the surgeon was fit, muscular, proving he knew how to handle himself, and just possibly the world.
In short, Cat found Dr. Rhys Harmon far too attractive for a boss, especially a boss she would be living with for the next three weeks.
Cat chewed on her lip thinking she would have been much happier, and more relaxed, if he’d been short and paunchy, with a lot more gray, or scalp, showing.
She would have been far more at ease with a comfortable-looking doctor than stylish, intriguing Rhys Harmon.
When Cat woke the next morning, the cottage was still.
Pale winter light filtered through the crack in the heavy curtains, and she could see her breath in the cold air.
For a moment, she lay still, listening to the cottage as it was filled with sounds she didn’t hear in her London flat—the faint creak of old pipes, the distant call of a crow, the hum of the Aga in the kitchen below.
She’d slept poorly, her mind replaying her conversations with Rhys and the girls.
He’d warned her on the phone, he’d warned her at the tearoom, and she’d braced herself for Jillian’s challenging behavior, but there was something in Jillian’s tone and expression that struck Cat as lost, rather than mean.
Jillian was lashing out because she hurt.
Cat didn’t know this because she’d studied psychology or was experienced with children. She knew because she’d been a girl like Jillian once, and it had taken years of feeling angry and heartbroken … and lost … to come out the other side.
Slipping from bed, Cat slid her feet into slippers and topped her cardigan pajama combo with a fleece lined robe. Today was going to be a good day, or maybe just a better day. She’d prove to Rhys, the girls, and herself that she could do this.
Downstairs, the kitchen was warm and smelled faintly of coffee and the wood fire crackling in the sitting room.
She hadn’t discussed meals with Rhys, but she should probably make the girls breakfast each day, especially if he hoped to be out of the cottage early to go work up at the big house, or wherever it was he’d gone to concentrate.
Ten minutes later, she’d managed to find eggs, bread, and what looked like a thick slab of bacon. She’d just cracked the second egg in the sizzling skillet when a voice behind her said, “We don’t usually have fried things.”
Cat turned, spatula in hand. Jillian stood in the doorway, dressed in a thick jumper, her dark blonde hair braided down one side. Olivia peeked up at her from behind her sister’s shoulder, her own hair in a lopsided ponytail.
“Good morning,” Cat said, smiling, determined to not let anything get to her today. “I thought something warm might be nice.”
“Daddy says fried food clogs arteries.”
“He’s right, but I’m only frying one egg each,” Cat said mildly, “so I think you’ll survive.”
Olivia bit back a giggle. Jillian didn’t. She came farther into the kitchen, assessing. “You’re used to American breakfasts, aren’t you? Pancakes and syrup?”
“Sometimes,” Cat said, trying to keep her tone light. “But I promise not to corrupt you.”
Jillian folded her arms. “Mum says syrup’s mostly sugar.”
Cat hesitated, catching the small flash in the girl’s eyes—a challenge, but also grief, carefully weaponized. She remembered Rhys’s warning. Don’t take it personally.
“You have smart parents. Your mum is right,” Cat answered. “But sugar does make things taste good. Pancakes. Doughnuts. Cinnamon rolls. Yum.”
That earned her a fleeting, unwilling grin from Olivia before Jillian shot her sister a look that said don’t you dare, and Olivia’s smile disappeared.
Rhys’s footsteps sounded on the stairs and both girls instantly straightened.
He appeared a moment later, hair damp from the shower, sleeves rolled up, looking far too composed for a man with two daughters and an American stranger in his kitchen.
“Good morning,” he said. His gaze moved to the pan. “You’re cooking?”
“Attempting to,” Cat said. “Although I’m being told it’s a health hazard. Fried eggs clog arteries.”
His mouth twitched. “I see my eldest has been sharing her nutritional wisdom again.”
Jillian gave him a look of perfect innocence. “You said fried food was bad.”
“I said too much fried food was bad.”
Cat dished up an egg, added a thick piece of bacon and handed him the plate, along with one slice of somewhat underdone toast. “So just one of each, then.”
For a second, something like amusement flickered between them, quick, unspoken, and then it was gone. He pulled out a chair at the small kitchen table and sat down with his breakfast. Olivia carried her plate over and then Jillian was last, obviously reluctant to eat anything Catriona had prepared.
Cat wasn’t sure where to go with her plate—was she supposed to eat with them or eat on her own?
Rhys stood and drew out the empty chair at the table. Cat gave him a grateful smile and sat down. It was a small breakfast, but it was something, and hopefully enough to fuel the day. A good, happy day.
“Did you run far today, Daddy?” Olivia asked, eating her toast but ignoring the egg.
Cat didn’t blame her. The eggs were overdone.
Rhys didn’t seem to mind. “About ten kilometers,” he said to his youngest, as he cleaned his plate. “With Catriona here, I thought I could be gone longer and so I ran a few extra kilometers. It felt good. I needed it.”
Olivia beamed at him. “That’s good, Daddy.”
Jillian wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like running.”
“But you’d feel good after,” her dad said, rising and carrying his plate to the sink. He started to wash it, but Cat was on her feet, and she gave him a little push away.
“My job,” she said. “You have work to do.”
Jillian turned in her chair to face her father. “You’re leaving already?”
“I’m behind. I have a lot to do.”
“Are you really going to be working every day?” Jillian pursed her lips, displeasure written all over her face.
“Yes.” His hands were on his hips, his brow creasing. “And we talked about this. I’ll be working every morning. My goal is to return at two each afternoon.”
“You said you’d be working for a few hours each day,” Jillian corrected. “That’s more than a few. Eight to two is six hours, practically a full day.”
“The plan was for me to return for lunch every day, and just work from eight to noon, but you scared away the last childminder, making it impossible for me to work for four days. Now I have to make up for lost time.”
Jillian jumped up, hands clenched. “It’s always my fault, isn’t it?”
“Not always, but in this instance, yes, it is. And I expect better from you. Today, I expect your best behavior, Jillian. Are we clear?”
Jillian looked away, chin up, her silence an act of rebellion.
Cat felt the weight of it, and something inside her ached. She remembered being twelve, remembered her anger, remembered how she felt so terribly misunderstood.