Chapter 11
Emma
Why does my house look like gang headquarters? My lawn is a sea of kids, all with their head torches on. It’s the latest craze on the estate. All the torches seem to be pointing in the same direction. I follow the beams and…
Why is Noah kneeling on the ground next to a prone body in the grass?
Fuck!
I jump out of the car shouting out to my boys. Nathan comes screaming over, tears rolling down his face. “We’ve killed Jude Greystone. We’ve killed him. He won’t wake up.”
My heart, that was chilled and asleep from the meditation—and a cinnamon latte—ramps back to life and into overdrive. Jude Greystone? What is he doing here on my front lawn? And dead? Really?
“Don’t be silly, Nathan. What do you mean you’ve killed him?” I run towards the prone body that Noah is trying to move into a recovery position.
“That’s not right, Noah. It’s like this.” Ollie tries to wrestle the corpse-like form—who is definitely Jude Greystone—on the ground.
“It is, Ollie. I did a course last week. Roll him on his side, arms like that and legs like this.” He manoeuvres the unconscious man into a perfect position.
“He’s dead. We killed him. He wasn’t on the list. We killed him.” Nathan is still wailing like a banshee at a wake.
“Shush, Nathan. I can see his chest moving. He’s not dead.” I’ve crouched down now to look over the man laid on my front lawn. “Is he injured? Has he got any cuts or bruises?” They all shake their heads.
“I can’t see any.” Ollie is looking scared. “He hit his head half on the path and the grass. Went out cold.” He looks directly into my eyes. “I’ve called the paramedics. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did the right thing. Ah, here they are.”
The blue lights of the responder vehicle flash as it pulls up. Every light in the cul-de-sac suddenly goes off, as if there’s been a power cut. All of my neighbours will be standing in darkness watching the drama, as usual on my front lawn. Why does it always happen to me?
The prone man is carried into my house and laid out on my settee.
Explanations are given. He turned up, knocked, was denied entry as I wasn’t in, then fell leaving the door, tripping over Nathan's electric scooter in the process.
I knew that thing would hurt someone. Just did not imagine it would be Jude Greystone.
“I saw his eyes move. He’s coming round.” Nathan jumps up in excitement.
Jude’s eyes flutter open, look directly at me, then close again. Wow, he looks gorgeous even half dead.
I usher the boys out into the kitchen, allowing the paramedic to deal with Jude.
I can hear him asking Jude his name, date of birth, address.
The timber of Jude’s deep, smooth voice fills the house.
It sounds alien, creeping around the corners and filling the spaces.
I’ve obviously forgotten what a man's voice sounds like in these four walls. My dad and Ollie don’t count.
Leaving the boys in the kitchen, I walk back into the front room. “Is he okay?” I ask the paramedic, a worried tinge to my voice.
“Yes, all good. Just needs to rest. And keep an eye on him. If the headaches get severe, go into A&E. But fluids and rest are the main thing. You can take paracetamol. And rest if you’re tired.” He turns to me. “If his behaviour becomes odd, or dizzy, anything out of the ordinary, go to A&E.”
“I don’t live here. I need to go home.” Jude hasn’t looked at me yet. He’s kept his eyes on the paramedic. “Can I drive?”
The medic shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t. Give it until the morning, and see how you feel. Should be okay then if you have an uneventful night.”
“I’ve had enough of an eventful one already.” He sounds pissed off. I’m not surprised, but what the hell is he doing here?
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure what else there is to say. Thanking the paramedic and getting last minute instructions as he leaves, I shut the door and bang my head on it.
Taking a deep breath in, I walk back into my lounge. Jude is sat up, looking like he’s going to leave. Shuffling around trying to get his boots back on. They’d been removed as he was laid out.
“What are you doing? You have to rest, you heard the medic.” I rush forward to stop him from getting dressed.
“I’m not staying here. I might get murdered in my sleep.
Your kids tried to kill me.” I huff a laugh at him, but he doesn’t suit being dramatic.
And he looks like a sulky teenager. “You think it’s fucking funny?
I could have been killed. My head fucking hurts and I’ve a lump the size of Ben Nevis on the back of it. ” He touches his head and winces.
“Jude, please, let me get a fresh cold compress.” I dash out into the kitchen, hissing at Ollie, Noah, and Nat to move.
They’re stood like three suspects in a police line up.
“I’ll deal with you three in a bit.” I grab a bag of peas from the freezer and a tea towel.
“Dampen another tea towel and shove it in the freezer. Looks like we’ve got a visitor for the night. ” I glare at them all.
“No way. He fell. It’s not our fault the man can’t stand up.” Ollie is sullen and annoyed.
“Were you shouting at him?” I demand.
“Yes, he’d come to price up the house for Dad.
Dad told me the other day he was sending someone over to value it.
And you know he’d wait for when you were out.
Just in case.” Ollie is pointing into the front room and starting to shout again.
“He walked backwards and then tripped. Who the hell walks backwards down a drive in the dark?” Ollie’s face shows his indignation.
“Well, he better not sue us for injury. I’ll be broke.”
Ollie’s face pales. He hadn’t thought of that. “He won't, will he?”
I shrug, as I’m wrapping peas in the cloth. “I hope not, which is why you will apologise for shouting.”
“I won’t. He’s a lowlife.” His voice is full of disgust.
“Yeah, and a lying builder,” Nathan adds. “He said he earned two million.”
“I thought he said he was an architect,” Noah adds
“That was when he thought he couldn’t get into the house as a builder,” Nathan reminds him.
What on earth have my kids been up to?
“Look I am going in there to try to avoid a further crisis. You”—I point at Ollie—“come and apologise. And you two”—I look at my youngest two sons—“leave him alone.”
I spin on my heel and stride back towards the injured man, inhaling and exhaling as if I’m back in my meditation class before I enter the lion's den.
He’s got his boots on. And trying to stand. I dash over, as he looks a bit shaky, and grab hold of his arm. I feel a pulse of electricity jump from him to me, and nearly spring back. Seemingly that fall has messed with his wiring.
Time to appeal to his practical side.
“Please, Jude. I really don’t think you should drive. I’ll drive you back if I have to. But please, just sit for a minute. I’ve got this for your head.” I brandish the brightly coloured tea towel.
“You called me Jude.”
Oh my God. He’s losing it. His eyes are slightly unfocused, but are roving all over my face. I can’t tell if it’s on purpose or they’re rolling around in his head. When they stop, his face is virtually blank, but his eyes are on mine, a bird of prey watching a field mouse.
“Please sit. I’ll put this on you and get you some water.”
He allows me to push him back down to a seated position. I gently lean over and add the homemade cold compress to the back of his head. The groan he gives out wakes areas of my body that have lain dormant for over eight years. Get it together, Lincoln. The man is injured.
I’m feeling gently into his silky hair for the lump, and ask him tenderly, “Is it okay if I call you Jude? I mean, we can probably be a bit more informal, as my kids tried to kill you.” I’m trying to make a joke of it. I’m terrified he’ll sue me. For the state of my driveway.
I look down into his upturned face. His eyes are still a little fuzzy, but are fixed on mine.
“Yes, I like it. I like how it sounds when you say it. My name on your lips.”
Oh God, it’s worse than I thought. His mind is wandering all over. He’s not making any sense. Gosh, he feels so hot. Is that a symptom of concussion?
“Well I’m Emma, but my family call me ‘M’.” I nudge him. “Like the leader of the intelligence service. Only smarter.”
I grin at him and his eyes seem to glaze over even more. Oh Jesus, please don’t pass out again. I really don’t want a trip to A&E at this time of night.
I grit my teeth at every wince as he allows me to lay him back down. I’ve grabbed cushions to make him comfortable, and removed his boots. I hang onto them, intending on holding them hostage. He can’t leave without his boots.
“I’ll fetch you some water. Rest. The medic said rest.”
His hand shoots out, and he makes a grab for my arm, but ends up missing a bit, and winds up with one of my hands in his. They’re warm, large, and swamp my smaller one. His fingers move and hold mine. “I’m fine, Emma. I just need a minute, then I’ll go. I’m fine.”
I look down at our joined hand, and a flush starts up my body.
I can’t look away from them. His thumb moves over my skin.
Like a cool breeze on a summer's day. Backwards and forwards. It’s the most erotic thing that has ever happened to me.
I’m a woman who has had three children, and a man holding my hand is the most erotic thing ever. I’m so sad. Ha! Pitiful, even.
My eyes track from his thumb to his face. His brown eyes are nearly black. The pupil has taken over. His eyes are moving from mine to our hands. Tracking his thumb movements.
I brush my hair away from my face and give a little cough. I’m nervous, he’s making me nervous. But in a good way.
He tugs on my hand and I fall forward, his spicy scent seeming to surround me. Engulfing me and blocking out my surroundings. It’s as if it’s being launched right at me. It must be the heat from his body. God I hope he doesn’t have a fever now as well.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His voice is a growl, so low.
My eyes widen. Oh no, it’s worse than I thought. He’s hallucinating. His eyes close and he relaxes. I’m left holding his hand, and in a state of disarray.
What the hell did he just do?