Epilogue 2 Shelby
After a last-minute scramble to find someone to mind the kids (cheers, Jane), I finally make it to the hospital. Mum’s arriving tomorrow. We told her not to get on a train at this hour. It’s late, the place is half-asleep, and of course I manage to get completely lost in these endless corridors.
I’ve got a so-called “survival kit” swinging off my arm I threw together for Holly: Hobnobs, a Thermos of Yorkshire Tea because hospital tea is like dishwater, a proper mug, wet wipes, a mini dry shampoo, a paperback I trust won’t bore her (a dog-eared copy of “The Biker Upstairs Has an Eleven-Inch Reputation” I grabbed from my nightshelf), and a bottle of cloudy apple juice that weighs more than Joey.
I even salvaged a slice of that celebratory cake Dexter turned up with earlier, before the kids demolished it.
And, ridiculous as it is, one of those big yellow balloons is bobbing along behind me on a string.
The maternity ward is meant to be on the seventh floor, yet all I’ve seen are vending machines, locked doors, and a cheery poster telling me how to wash my hands.
“Excuse me,” I ask a passing nurse. She barely slows down. “Is this the seventh floor?”
“This is the fifth.”
Brilliant.
I head for the lifts. One’s packed, the other refuses to arrive.
So I take the stairs, shove through the heavy door… and nearly go headfirst into a man coming up.
“Sorry,” I say, steadying myself on the banister. “Didn’t think anyone actually bothered with the stairs.”
He shifts just enough to let me past.
“I always use the stairs.” That grumbly, frosty growl stops me in my tracks.
He’s American.
Up close, he’s impossible to miss. He’s tall. Broad. Dark hair, sharper jaw than anyone needs.
Tattoos creep over his hands, one peeking above the collar of his black coat.
Not a hint of a smile.
Well, he doesn’t look the chatty type. Which is fine. I’m knackered anyway. I hoist the overnight bag higher and nod for him to go ahead. “After you. You look like you know where you’re going.”
One curt nod and he carries on. I follow, wheezing by step five (humiliating), yellow balloon bobbing behind me (ditto). My brain picks this moment to notice the line of his shoulders and, worse, the thought of what’s under that coat. God help me, the neck alone.
“Any idea where maternity is?” I ask, more out of practicality than hope.
He gives off solid I-don’t-do-kids energy, and I doubt he’s never so much as held a newborn in his life.
He doesn’t look the sort who even likes children, let alone three (and a sister who’s just almost doubled my quota).
He’d look about as natural on the maternity floor as I do in a bikini after Christmas.
“No.” One word. Flat as a pancake.
“No shit,” I mutter under my breath, then louder, a shade brighter, “This place is a proper rabbit warren. Whoever designed it had a warped sense of humour.”
Nothing.
“Not much of a talker, are you?”
Still nothing. He doesn’t even look my way.
“Right. I’ll take that as a no, then.”
“Do you always talk this much to strangers?”
“You always this pleasant to people trying to make conversation?”
Thank goodness. Seventh floor. He holds the door long enough for me to slip through.
I’m out of breath (clearly need to work on my cardio), but close enough to catch a whiff of his aftershave.
It’s not the cheap stuff. And not too much of it, either.
Exactly the kind I’d lean into if I weren’t busy pretending not to notice.
The balloon nearly wedges itself in the doorframe before wobbling out after me.
I pause in the corridor and glance left, then right, no clue which way’s which.
“Are you planning to block the doorway all night?” he asks.
I breathe in once. Stay polite. For all I know, he’s had a rotten day. This is a hospital.
“Only while I’m lost.” I shift the bag to my hip, cheeks still burning from the climb. Why isn’t he even slightly damp? Not a hint of sweat. “And lost is exactly what I am,” I mutter, looking around.
“No shit.”
“Sorry, what was that?”
“People who talk to themselves usually are.”
I’m too old for this. There! A sign for the nurses’ station. I let out a short huff and stride off down the corridor, nose in the air. “Well. This has been enlightening. Always nice to be reminded why I’m happily single.”
Honestly, what a prat.
At least he’s gone. And yet… I’m still aware of him behind me.
I pick up the pace, determined to shake him off.
Another sign points left for the nurses’ station, so I take it, chin still high. But his footsteps fall in just behind mine.
“You following me now?” I throw over my shoulder.
“It depends where you’re going.”
At the desk, I switch on my most charming voice. “Hello. Holly Bishop? She’s just had twins.”
While the nurse bends over her chart, I fish out a tissue from my bag and, with my back to the man, dab quickly at my forehead. No woman in her right mind is going to stand there blotting sweat in full view of a man she’s trying to outdo.
“Room 717,” the nurse says. “Left out of here, then left again. End of the corridor.”
“Thank you so much.” I lay it on thick, all smiles, hoping certain people might take notes on how to behave in public.
When I turn around, he’s gone.
Good riddance.
I discard the tissue in the nearest bin. Thank goodness that’s the end of him. Another moment and I’d have forgotten myself. Or that this was a place for care, not a classroom for teaching idiots manners.
A minute later, I push open the door to room 717, already rehearsing a “You’d better appreciate me” speech for Holly.
And nearly choke.
He’s there.
The tall, tattooed nuisance from the stairwell. The charmer with all the warmth of a fridge. He’s standing beside Dexter, holding out pink and blue baby toys while my sister laughs—actually laughs—at whatever he’s just said and reaches out to accept the gifts.
He turns, calm as you like, when he hears me. Our eyes meet.
My stomach flips.
The balloon slips from my hand and drifts up to the ceiling.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I blurt, and heat crawls up my neck.
Dexter glances up at me. Holly blinks between us. “You two… know each other?”
“We’ve met,” he says without a beat.
You could say that. And of course he looks even better under proper lighting.
I glare, because the alternative is gawping. Before I can manage a pithy retort, Dexter steps across to greet me. He turns to Holly, who’s cradling the twins.
With a pride and softness I’ve never heard from him, he says, “Shelby, our little Ava and little Evan.”
For a moment I forget all about him.
“Ava,” I echo softly, dropping my bag and rushing to Holly’s side. “Ava Bishop-Thorne and Evan Bishop-Thorne.”
“Ava Shelby Bishop-Thorne,” Holly corrects, tired but smiling.
Tears sting my eyes as I hug her, then Dexter, trying my best not to notice the looming presence at my shoulder.
The man is tall enough to snag the string of the balloon, and once it’s in his hand, he loops it around Holly’s bedframe.
My sister looks up at him and smiles before dropping her gaze back to the two small miracles in her arms.
Ava is quiet but still squirms around, her big eyes wide, studying me.
Evan fidgets, his wails getting louder by the second.
“Hello, you two. I’m your auntie.” My voice wobbles. I lean closer to Ava first. “Hi, darling. I’m Auntie Shelby.” Evan lets out another noisy protest, and I laugh through the tears. “Hi handsome. Already giving me attitude, are you? Guess we know which one’s going to keep us up at night, then.”
Dexter glances at the man beside him. “Ever think about having one of your own?”
“Nah. Not a kids kind of guy.”
Bull’s-eye. Exactly what I thought. And good. He looks like a man who shouldn’t.
My gaze drops to Holly’s hand and lands on the ring.
I stare, and sniff. I stare again, just to be sure.
Holly flushes, and Dexter gives a quiet chuckle.
“I told you, didn’t I?” I fold my arms, then dig out yet another tissue. A quick dab at my eyes, and it goes straight back into my pocket. Thank goodness I packed half a box. “Candles, atmosphere… bam. Wedding. Works every time.”
Holly laughs softly, shaking her head.
When I glance up, he has moved. Now he’s in the chair by the window that overlooks the Thames.
It should be a view worth having (the river, not him), but he’s not giving me the luxury of enjoying it.
He sits there with his long legs stretched out, elbows resting on his thighs, just…
watching me. Not smiling. Not speaking. Just watching.
And damn him, if the way he settles back on that hip doesn’t make my pulse quicken.
Holly’s eyelids droop, and her voice is faint. “Oh, and Reed is staying with you. He’s Dexter’s CFO.”
Reed. Of course he has a name like that. I blink, trying to process the rest of her sentence. Not the CFO part. The other part.
I stare. “I’m sorry… what did you say?”
“He’s in your guest room. I told you. You don’t remember?”
“Ummm, no. Because you didn’t.”
Reed doesn’t blink. “I offered to get a hotel.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Holly sighs. “The nearest hotel isn’t exactly on the doorstep, and our house is still covered in plaster dust. You’ll stay at my sister’s. End of story.”
“Shelby is only a few houses down,” Dexter tells him. “You’ll be practically next door. If you don’t mind, Shelby?”
“You’ll absolutely love it there,” Holly says before I can get a word in, her eyes already closing.
Oh, I bet he will.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You knew you were staying with me?”
“I knew I wasn’t staying at Dexter’s.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His thumbs hook into the belt loops of his jeans, strong muscles rippling under his shirtsleeves. He shrugs and locks eyes with me. A split second of something dark and dangerous breaks through before he reins it back. “It’s the one I’ve got.”
One stare from him and dammit, I feel that look right down to bits of me I’d filed under “permanently closed for business.”