Chapter eleven
Emma's Apartment, Canary Wharf
Emma
Harrison arrived at two o’clock this afternoon to take me to my apartment. He walked in dressed the most casually I’ve ever seen him, in jeans, a white polo shirt, and a navy wool coat. The blatant concern in his eyes told me all I needed to know—I looked like shit.
“How are you?” he inquired.
“Fucking terrible,” I replied bluntly. He nodded then asked if I was ready to leave.
***
Now, I’m walking toward my front door with him holding my elbow. My body aches everywhere. All I want is a warm bath and my bed, but not here. I want to be back in the place I’ve called home for the past twelve months. Where I felt safe.
I’m surprised to hear music from behind the door. A light is on in the hallway. I don’t remember leaving it on the last time I was here. Great, fucking baby brain and I haven’t even got the baby. Harrison says nothing, just watches me slide my key into the lock then open the door.
When we step through, I’m hit with the divine smell of freshly cooked food. A roast dinner, I think. “Someone’s here,” I whisper, panicked, and he chuckles. His body vibrates slightly as he tries to contain his laughter.
“Surprise!” he says. “I took it upon myself to get you some help for a few days.”
I glower at him, and he has the audacity to smile.
The expression on his face and the way his shoulders straighten tells me he’s proud of himself.
“Trust me, once you’ve had Mrs. D looking after you for twenty-four hours, you will never want her to leave.”
I’ve heard of this lady—she is the housekeeper at The Level where my bosses live, but from what Damon has said, she treats them like the sons she never had. She looks after their homes, cooks for them, and generally ensures everything is ready for them to go about their busy lives.
“You sent your housekeeper to keep an eye on me?” I hiss, not knowing whether to be grateful or offended.
“No, I’ve employed her to clean the apartment and cook for a few days until you’re back on your feet.” He lifts an eyebrow and smirks. “You are my staff member, and I want to be a supportive boss.”
“I work in your office one day a week. Does everyone get a housekeeper supplied when they pop out a baby?”
“No, but you do a lot more hours than one day a week. I know you take work home and stick your nose in cases not assigned to you,” he argues.
“Plus, call me selfish, but I think once you’re qualified, you could make me a lot of money.”
His lips widen into a grin. “Call this nurturing a future investment.”
“I don’t need any help,” I mutter sullenly, then cross my arms over my chest.
“Perhaps not, but you’re getting it whether you want it or not.”
“What are you going to do? Fire me if I don’t accept your overbearing rules?”
My eyes bore into his, and he cocks his head to one side, surveying my face.
I’ve noticed he does the same with clients when he asks a question.
While leaving them enough time to provide an answer, it creates a balance of pressure and support which is difficult not to respond to.
Or, if you’re waiting for his reaction, it generates uncertainty—like right now.
“Yes, I’ll fire you,” he agrees with a nod.
“I’d sue you for unfair dismissal,” I shoot back.
“You could try, but I’ve fought more unfair dismissal cases than I care to admit.”
I narrow my eyes. He shrugs.
“Why does that fact not astonish me?”
“Russell has an unhealthy habit of relieving people of their duties in the heat of the moment. I’ve become somewhat of an expert in it not costing the firm too much money.”
“Controlling asshole. If this is how you treat your staff, I’d hate to see how you treat your girlfriend,” I say with a sneer.
“My personal life is none of your business.”
“Not a fucking surprise. Women don’t like men who think they can organize their lives for them.”
“Some don’t,” he says with a smirk. “And Damon did warn me that this may not be well received. He told me you were independent, but I haven’t decided yet.”
“Decided what?” I snap, now fucking furious with his persistent comments.
“Whether you’re independent or just bloody stubborn.”
Unable to come up with a suitable retort, I storm forward into the apartment. The searing pain in my stomach and between my legs makes me stop. Harrison comes to my side and places his hand on the small of my back.
“Take your time, Emma,” he says softly. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’ve been through worse,” I tell him, glancing in his direction then dropping my eyes away. I feel him watching me. “And I’ve survived,” I add.
“I have no doubt of that, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t accept help. Maybe this time getting through the difficulties will be easier.”
“Perhaps.” I take a breath, steeling myself to ask what I want to.
The question that’s been burning on my tongue since he collected me.
“Are Damon and the baby all right? Did they get discharged today as well?”
I don’t look at him, I can’t; the last thing I want is the pained expression on my face giving away how I feel.
“Yes,” he says simply.
“Yes, they’re okay? Or yes, they got home?”
“The answer is affirmative to both those questions.”
“Affirmative? Have you swallowed a fucking thesaurus?”
“No, I’m merely answering your question regarding the man and the child you have no interest in, in a professional manner. You don’t need to concern yourself with Damon or Constance.”
“Constance,” I stutter, “that’s what he called her.”
“Constance Emma McKinney,” he tells me, and my shocked eyes snap up to his.
“He called her Emma,” I say, almost in a wail. “Why?”
“You’d need to ask him that,” he says, then walks off toward the smell of freshly cooked food.
An older woman stands at my kitchen island.
She has wispy gray hair, kind wrinkled eyes, and a pink-checked apron around her middle.
She stirs a huge pot that sits on the stove.
I glance around the room, looking for more people; surely the volume of food in that pan would feed an army.
She looks up and smiles at our entrance.
“Good evening, Mr. Waite,” she says, and Harrison walks over then places a kiss on her cheek.
“Mrs. D, I’d like to introduce you to Emma,” he says, turning and signaling in my direction.
“Emma,” she says. Her voice is warm and welcoming like a grandmother. “It’s lovely to meet you, dear. I’m excited to be working for you these next few weeks. Whatever you need, please just ask.”
“This isn’t necessary,” I protest.
She places the large spoon she is holding in the pot then walks around the counter to me.
“Nonsense.” She puts her aged hands on my shoulders and stares at me with a shrewd expression that evokes no argument.
“Having a baby is one of the most emotional moments in a woman’s life. I’m here for however long you need, dear. Plus…”
She turns and signals to Harrison. “He’s paying, and trust me he can afford it.” We all laugh at the unexpected joke.
“I’ll leave you ladies to it,” Harrison announces, his task obviously complete. “See both of you later.”
“Do you not have paperwork for me to sign?” I call to his retreating back, and he turns to face me.
“It’s at the office. I’ll call in tomorrow with it. Damon asked me to wait a few days.”
“Why?” I ask, perplexed as to why Damon wouldn’t be pushing to have me sign my rights away to his daughter immediately, especially after I threatened not to a few months ago. His furious face flits through my mind. He’d looked dangerous but utterly delicious that day.
“He knows this hasn’t been easy for you. He trusts you. The last thing he wants is to hurt you any more than you have been already.”
I blink at him in confusion, and Harrison smiles.
“Emma, I believe my friend is just as confused as you are with this situation. Take time to heal and consider what you want.” With that, he leaves.
***
Damon
My mother washes her fine-boned hands beneath the steaming hot water in my kitchen. She’s just changed Constance for the umpteenth time today. Babies defecate a lot.
Since our arrival home, my mother has been a godsend. As a child, I don’t remember her being particularly maternal, but as a grandmother, she has every quality a child needs. Her movements are calm and collected, every motion undertaken with care and love.
“How are you feeling, darling?” she says, turning to face me as I stand behind her holding my freshly changed daughter.
“Stunned,” I answer honestly. “It doesn’t seem real.” She laughs, and her perfectly made-up lips stretch into a wide smile. Her eyes dance with pure joy.
“She’s beautiful, son. Absolutely perfect. Emma has done a sterling job in looking after her for you.”
My heart strains briefly at the mention of Emma.
I wonder how she is. It settles me to think she has Mrs. D to help her move past this monumental time.
I can’t imagine what she’s going through, having gone back to an apartment without this little one. “Have you heard from Harrison?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“He was arranging for Emma to be taken home?” She already knows this, but my mother seems to suspect there’s more to my feelings for her than I am letting on. I nod but don’t answer verbally, not wanting to give anything away. “Where is her new apartment again?”
“Canary Wharf, near the law office.”
“Expensive,” she mutters.
“Very,” I agree.
“How long are you obligated to support her?” Her tone changes from curious to firm. “And if she doesn’t provide baby milk, are you able to retract the deal?”
“The doctor advised it could take a few days for her milk to come in; it depends on her body. I won’t be pushing that clause of the contract if it doesn’t come naturally for her. Constance can drink formula. I’ve agreed to pay for the apartment for a minimum of six months.”
“And how are you affording all this on a policeman’s salary?” she prods brutally.
“That’s none of your business,” I snap, pissed off that she’s questioning me. “I’m not merely a copper.”
“Son, I am not a stupid woman. You’re dabbling in business other than your job. Income must be coming from another means. I’ve done some research on your friends.”
Her face twists in disapproval. “You’re a father now; your wife was murdered due to something you’re involved in. It’s your responsibility to keep my granddaughter safe. I suggest you consider what you’re tangled in.”
“Connie was murdered by a scorned criminal concerning my police duties. Her death has nothing to do with my friends. I will ensure her death is avenged.” She rolls her eyes, and my fury rises a notch. “You’re overstepping the line, Mother. Don’t make statements about business you don’t understand.”
“I know enough to know, Damon, that you don’t walk firmly on the good side of the law. You couldn’t afford this.” She waves her hands around signaling my home. “And a high-end apartment on what you would earn if you did.”
“I have investments,” I argue, and she snorts.
“Yes, that’s what concerns me.” I am about to open my mouth to argue once more, but she cuts in. “So, Emma. What happened between you?”
“Nothing!” I bark. “Nothing happened. I saw out the agreement Connie and I made. And I will continue to do so in my wife’s honor.”
“Late wife,” she tells me bluntly. “Connie is dead. She won’t be here, and this little girl will never know her. She needs a female influence in her life.”
“Constance is one day old,” I stammer, stunned that my mother is broaching this situation now, the day I brought my daughter home.
A day filled with joy and heartbreak. “Connie has been gone a matter of months. Replacing her hasn’t been top of my priority list.”
My voice rises, and Constance wriggles in my arms. “I’ve been too busy grieving.”
“While all that is true,” she says, her voice softening. “I also believe you’ve developed feelings for that girl. The way you speak of her is filled with love.”
“I’ve barely said two words about her,” I contend.
Meanwhile my mind flits through memories of my interactions with her over the past few days.
The way I held her hand as she labored. How I’d impulsively kissed her forehead when she birthed my daughter.
The intense need to protect her that started developing weeks ago, to the point that I can’t sleep unless I know she is safe.
Last night, I blamed my inability to sleep on being a new father.
In reality, all I could think about was Emma lying alone down the corridor of the hospital after giving me a daughter.
On accepting my feelings, the guilt hit, hatred aimed at myself for caring.
I detest myself for this deeply buried wish I have to hold a woman who isn’t my late wife.
My mother, obviously bored with our conversation, blows loudly through her nose.
She shakes her jet-black hair over her shoulders then stalks from the room without a word.
I glance down at my now-sleeping daughter; she looks so peaceful cuddled against my chest.
She’s completely unaware of the world she has been born into.
“Your mummy would be so proud,” I whisper. “I can’t believe she’s missing this. But we will always remember her. She will always be your mum.”
I pull my phone from my back pocket and type the message I’ve been putting off sending.
Is Emma okay?
Harrison’s response comes back within moments.
Yes. She’ll sign the paperwork tomorrow.
I stiffen slightly, annoyed by his assumption as to why I was asking.
Is Mrs. D at her apartment?
The little gray ticks turn blue, showing me he’s read it.
But his reply doesn’t pop onto my screen.
Five minutes later, I’m pacing up and down my kitchen waiting impatiently to know.
I send an emoji to prompt him, and he replies with a thumbs-up.
Now infuriated, I hit the call button before I can stop myself.
“McKinney,” he says, his tone jovial. “I’d have thought you would be elbow-deep in baby shit. Don’t ask me to help, I don’t do kids.” Tunes blare in the background, techno by the sounds of it. My friend does have a bizarre taste in music. What he listens to doesn’t suit his suave image.
“Emma,” I snap, before I can change my mind. “A thumbs up isn’t an answer to my question.”
“Why do you care?” he says shortly. “You’re only obligation now is financial. Leave the rest to Mrs. D.”
“I don’t. It’s just…” I trail off, not wanting to show my hand, but knowing by making this call it’s obvious I care. “I just need to know she’s all right.”
“She’s fine, Damon. Now, go and care for your daughter.”