Something About You (Something Borrowed Series Book 2) Read online

  As they rounded the corner, he took a chance to glance back at the flower shop. Jenna was standing in the doorway, her back to him, that amazing dress hugging her curves, wrapped up like a gift—a gift he wasn’t going to unwrap. Couldn’t. They had too much history, too much for him to lose when it all went pear-shaped.

  He upped the pace and the two men with him followed. Distance was what he needed from the woman who’d been like his own personal guardian angel when he’d been at his lowest.

  Not that she knew it, and he wasn’t about to let her in on that particular pathetic part of his life. The cumulative effect of being ditched by his pregnant fiancée and discovering he wasn’t going to be a father like he’d believed—hoped—and then watching his friends die in warfare while he somehow had survived, that had done something to him. Something dark. Something he didn’t want to relive. Jenna’s letters had been the only things to give him something to live for.

  ‘You’ve got something on your shoe.’ Tyler pointed down at Nick’s feet and grimaced.

  ‘Thanks, yes, I’ll sort it when I’m home.’ As the boy looked down, so did Nick, but not for the same reason. He was thinking of Jenna’s face when she’d watched Evie throw up; the wide startlingly blue eyes, the pretty pink in her cheeks, the turn down of those gorgeous red lips.

  Kissable lips.

  And that was when he knew he’d made a mistake by turning up to the opening of her shop at all. Because all they’d ever been was friends, and friends didn’t think about jumping another friend’s bones, especially not when one was a widow and hadn’t shown anything but sincerity since she’d helped him move into his apartment a few weeks ago.

  He needed a change of subject. ‘Your accent’s not local. Where are you from?’

  ‘Manchester.’ It was said with pride, like a stab, a dare.

  Vaughn’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh yeah? You’re a long way from home.’

  ‘It’s not home if they chuck you out.’ The boy shrugged. ‘New step-dad. Number three. Didn’t want a kid around, just wanted my mum.’ He looked a bit shocked to have said so much, his thin cheeks turning red. His chest puffed out and he had a ready well-rehearsed nonchalance that made Nick’s heart ache. He’d seen this type so many times; cocky on the outside, scared shitless on the inside. ‘I’m fine on my own.’

  ‘Sure you are. Big question, though, are you a blue or a red?’ Vaughn asked. Seemed the famous chef was on the same page about keeping things less personal. Asking about football teams kept the conversation moving but didn’t threaten.

  Tyler laughed, looking a little more relaxed, his puny chest puffing out for an altogether different reason, his face brightening. ‘Blue of course. City ’til I die.’

  ‘Good lad. QPR fan myself. Local team.’ Although Nick hadn’t been near a live game for years, he still managed to follow his team wherever he was.

  Tyler gave him a wry look. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Watch it.’ So he had a good sense of humour. He was a good kid, and Nick was sure stealing the necklace was a one-off. He hoped. ‘D’you play at all? It’s good for your fitness.’

  ‘Used to. Used to play for my school.’ The boy looked at them both and shook his head. ‘Bet I could run rings round both of you old men.’

  ‘Old? Hang on a minute, I’m not old. And I play football. Indoor.’ Vaughn’s face brightened. ‘Hey, Nick, you should come down and play too. We’re a bit short on subs these days.’

  Here we go again. More connection. The opposite of what he’d been planning. ‘Maybe. Give me a shout if you need someone. Haven’t played in years.’

  ‘I could play.’ Tyler’s voice was quiet, as if no one ever listened to anything he had to say, as if he was used to being ignored. ‘I’m not busy on Sundays.’

  Vaughn grinned. ‘Maybe, squirt, but you’d have to do a trial. If you can get down to the Elgin Crescent Leisure Centre tomorrow after five, we’ll give you a go.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Vaughn gave him a gentle punch on the arm. ‘There is no try, young padawan. There is do or not do.’

  ‘You see, old as Yoda.’

  They walked in a quiet camaraderie for a few minutes, like the three stooges or something, hands in pockets, stalking along. Nick did his best not to look as if he was hauling them both into custody. Should have gone home and got changed instead of turning up all prim in his work gear.

  Eventually Vaughn broke the silence. ‘Manchester’s a pretty cool place these days. I’ve business up there, so I visit a lot.’

  Tyler was all ears. ‘What kind?’

  ‘Restaurants.’

  ‘Snap. My mum works in a cafe in Gorton. I did the washing up there sometimes, but they had to let me go. Said they needed to do the legit paperwork or the cops would be on to them.’ Tyler threw Nick a look that told him he wasn’t trusted, that Tyler didn’t trust many people, least of all the police. He had a feeling the boy had been let down more than once. ‘Can’t get a job if you don’t have anywhere to live. Can’t get anywhere to live if you don’t have a job.’

  Nick feigned nonchalance even though he had a thick ache in his chest. ‘Stinks, eh?’

  ‘Just about everything does right now.’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t usually nick things.’

  ‘What about your friend?’ Vaughn asked.

  The boy shrugged. ‘Dunno. Just met him yesterday. He was showing me round. I’ve been dossing up in Trafalgar Square, but they move you on.’

  Nick was trying hard not to sound like a cop right now. ‘How long really have you been living on the streets?’

  ‘Couple of weeks.’

  They’d reached the centre now, and even though it was against all common sense, instead of just depositing the kid and then going home, Nick walked through the doors. He was just going to chat to Kathleen who ran the centre. He was not going to do more than that. He was not going to get involved.

  Tyler looked around at the dirty grey walls of the well-used no-frills homeless shelter. ‘It smells funny.’

  ‘Yeah, well, lots of places smell funny. You’ll live. It’s warm and dry, and they do a mean evening meal, that’s the main thing.’

  Vaughn nodded. ‘Bet you’ve been to a lot worse in the army, right?’

  Tyler’s eyes widened as he turned back to Nick, suddenly interested again. ‘You were a squaddie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My dad was too.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Was?’ Nick’s gut clenched. He didn’t have a good feeling about this. ‘What’s he doing now?’

  Tyler looked away, at his feet then the dirty wall. ‘He got killed. Iraq.’

  Don’t get involved. Don’t get involved. ‘Shit. Sorry to hear that. Which squadron was he with?’

  ‘2nd Battalion Duke of Lancaster. Shaun Derby. Did you know him?’ Tyler was hungry for information, for attention. It damned near snapped Nick’s heart in two. As did the memories; flashes of bright light, screams. The drag of someone’s hand on his arm, tugging him away from danger when he’d wanted to walk right on into it.

  He turned away from his audience and dragged in a deep breath. Steadied himself. Ground under your feet. Air in your lungs. Breathe. In. Out. He was better. So much better than he had been. He faced Tyler again. ‘No, mate. That’s bad news, I’m sorry. I didn’t know him. Sorry for your loss.’ He tugged some coins from his pocket and gave them to Vaughn. ‘Can you get some drinks from that vending machine? I’ll just go find Kathleen. Then we can get on the road.’

  Vaughn flashed him a questioning look. You okay? Nick nodded back. Fine. Then he ducked straight into the office. Luckily it was empty. Time to pull himself together. This ‘not getting involved’ thing wasn’t working.

  Kathleen’s voice was coming from down the corridor, her Caribbean brogue singsong bright in this dark place. One breath. Two. Work.

  That was what this was. Work. Nothing else. He found Vaughn and Tyler sitting in a row of plastic chairs in the waiting area. ‘Right, here sh
e is. She’ll get you sorted out. Here’s my card with my number on it, in case you need anything.’

  ‘Cool. Thanks.’ Tyler was clutching the card as if it were the latest Xbox One or whatever it was kids did these days. As if one phone number was the best thing he’d ever been given.

  How did he live like that? How did he survive without anyone? And yet, wasn’t Nick trying to do just that? His first mistake had been to tell Jenna he was moving back. His second to allow her to help him move in. Third? In evidence on his shoe. This was rapidly becoming the fourth. ‘Okay. Be good. Don’t get into any trouble.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Remember, I know who you are, who your dad was and where you lived. It won’t take a lot of searching to find you again.’

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ The roll of his eyes was typical teenager.

  ‘And call your mum.’

  ‘She won’t care.’

  The image of Jenna stroking her daughter’s back, the love and concern in her face, along with the tight coil of something so huge and all-consuming in his chest at the ultrasound scan of what he’d believed to be his baby suffused his words. ‘She will care. Very much. She may not show it very well, but she loves you and she’ll want to know you’re safe. Call her.’

  ‘Okay.’ Tyler looked at Kathleen walking towards him and at the dirty grey walls, and Nick could have sworn there were tears in the kid’s eyes. But if there had been, they were gone after Tyler blinked. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I mean it, okay? You need anything, call me.’ And yeah, he knew he was playing with fire. He knew he didn’t know the kid from a bar of soap and that he was inviting all kinds of crazy into his life. But he was the child of a brother in arms.

  There was a red heat in the centre of his chest. He was doing the right thing; Jenna would be proud.

  Whoa indeed. Hot damn. Since when had he started doing things to impress her?

  But when he thought about that, he realised he always had. Every word he’d written to her in those emails over the years had been to make her smile, make her proud.

  And here he was, having been halfway round the world three times, right back where he’d started, hoping he’d changed, hoping he could start again, be someone new—someone better—and making mistakes all over again. Don’t get involved. Don’t get involved.

  Thing was, changing geography didn’t mean a damned thing when the ghosts you were escaping were inside your head.

  Chapter 4

  Nick hadn’t come back after taking the boy to St Catherine’s. Of course he hadn’t. Why would he, with messy shoes and her problems to solve whichever way round he turned? He’d probably walked down Portobello Road and kept going as fast and as far away as possible from her and her shop.

  Probably ran, just like she was about to. Or about to try.

  New day. Fresh start. Again. ‘Okay, Jenna Cassidy-Pearce, time for a shuffle-walk-run. You can do this.’ She tugged open the front door and took a deep breath of the early morning fresh air.

  She needed space to think and plan.

  Arranging a wedding was proving pretty difficult while the reluctant bride shared the same office space, along with the demands of setting up a business and looking after her daughter, so Jenna had set her alarm for silly o’clock in the morning, tugged on one of Ollie’s old T-shirts and a pair of slightly too-tight but all-she-could-find shorts. A shuffle-walk-run would get her head around the things she needed to sort out for Chloe’s impending nuptials, get physically ready for the nursery fundraiser, and hopefully shed some pounds in the process. Who said multi-tasking was a myth?

  It had been too long since she’d done any more exercise than a walk around the corner to the local bar, or the few steps across the road to Chloe’s flat. One quick reaffirming sniff of Ollie’s T-shirt for good luck, then she’d start.

  Oh, the smell wasn’t there any more. Well, his special smell wasn’t there, just a faint scent of laundry and aged cotton. Kind of musty. Ollie had never smelt musty; he’d smelt vibrant and strong and alive and of grass and builder’s dust and soap and sex and of them.

  There was a little ping in her heart. Bit by bit, she was losing him. She’d tried to keep the memories fresh, like her flowers, watering them regularly by looking at her photos and the DVD of their wedding, but it was hard. She was beginning to forget what he looked like. She tried to conjure up his face in her head and had to admit it was fading—there were parts of him she couldn’t imagine any more.

  Ollie, I’m sorry about mooning over Nick. And there she was still talking to him and expecting an answer.

  ‘Morning, Jenna!’

  ‘Oh! You made me jump. Morning, Jasper! Lizzie!’ Waving at her neighbours who were also up at ridiculous o’clock, she leaned against the wall and stretched out her left calf. It was time to put everything aside and focus on staying alive for the next few minutes.

  Normally she loved this time of the day; it reminded her of when she was doing her floristry training and went to the wholesalers before the sun rose. There was a feeling of excitement and optimism in the air, a fresh start and a new beginning. Like yesterday? Hmmm. A better beginning than that.

  There were others up and about too; the stall holders were starting to arrive. The sun was warm enough to heat her skin, but not too hot to move fast in. Well, move slightly faster than she usually did. Someone ran by in a blur of air, nearly knocking her off balance. Then another. And another.

  ‘Whoa! Where’s the fire?’ she called after the third one, who was disappearing around a corner. Was it a cop chase or something? She turned to see if there were police officers waving truncheons anywhere, but realised the runners were really just that. Runners. Who would have thought there would be more than her out there doing this?

  And why, oh why, did the thought of cops immediately lead her thought process directly to Nick? Especially when she had so much else to think about. But there he’d been yesterday, so beautiful and kind and helpful, and then so… gone. She’d spent the evening cleaning up and prepping for today. After getting Evie to bed, she’d lain awake wondering if he’d managed to get that boy to the centre safely.

  Whether he was safe.

  Whether he’d be safe in his new job.

  That was what having a husband go and die unexpectedly on you did—it made you anxious about everyone else. Because things happened. Shit happened.

  Right. She was going to exercise him out of her head. Or exorcise, whatever worked.

  The WalkRun app on her phone said to start with a brisk walk. Three lampposts. Then, when she felt a bit more warmed up, she should try for a short run. Her legs were not used to this, neither were her lungs. The top of her thighs were rubbing like sandpaper already. Her boobs kept popping up out of her lost-its-will-to-live sports bra, and her lungs were on fire.

  Two lampposts running. Three walking. Two running. One where she staggered and bent to stop the sharp pain in her right side.

  This was hard.

  She stopped for a minute outside her shop and looked at the lovely white-themed window display. If she survived this torture, she’d be back here in a couple of hours, turning the OPEN sign and keeping extra vigilant for anyone with an eye on her jewellery display. And, hopefully, making her first million.

  Right. Back to running. Chloe’s wedding. And Vaughn’s too. Yes, she couldn’t get all rolled up in just the bride; this was a day for both of them. So she’d need a caterer better at cooking than the award winning chef groom—difficult and very expensive. Flowers were a no brainer. Something soft. Something carefree and in season. Long stemmed. Sunflowers, maybe? Tied with pretty ribbons or rustic twine. Nothing that could be used as a weapon.

  Lamppost!

  She almost hugged it as she reached it, then started to slow to a fast walk.

  There was a river of sweat down her back, her thighs were now on the verge of bleeding and she was starting to think that death may be preferable.

  ‘Jenna? Jenna, is that you?’
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br />   ‘Ugh.’ That voice. Of course. Nick. Why wouldn’t he be out here at this time in the morning? She turned around, trying to tug the bra back down over her boobs without him noticing, and sucked in her stomach, which still had her baby wobble very much in evidence. She gave up with the shorts; one leg seemed to have been sucked up into her groin and she could hardly start trying to pick it out in front of him. Instead of coming to a halt, he fell into step with her, so she had no choice but to up the pace to running. Staggering. If she hadn’t already been gasping, just seeing him out in a white T-shirt that hugged his body, grey/black Nike running shorts and a little hint of exercise fatigue would have whipped her breath away anyway. ‘H… h… hi.’

  She tried to find more words, and breathe, to explain why she was out here doing this instead of being tucked up in bed, where she would give her right leg to be at this moment. She didn’t have the energy to play it cool; she could barely put one foot in front of the other.

  He grinned. There was a fine sheen on his skin, a glow. Golden. Damn it. Why was he so bloody good looking? He pointed at her bun, which she’d scrunched up on the top of her head but could feel straggly bits had worked free. On anyone else, it would be cute ringlets framing their face, but on her they were just stuck to the sides of her head with sweat. ‘I thought it was you. It’s the hair….’

  ‘Mess?’ She patted her hair, trying to bouffant it up a little and refused to take even a tiny glance at her reflection in the shop window they were passing, because she couldn’t bear having her mental image of cute ringlets blown just yet.

  Now he was running backwards and talking to her. She’d been so right when she’d told Chloe he wouldn’t be interested in her, not when he’d been surrounded by those amazing women soldiers who were fit and fighters and probably confident and the opposite of how she felt. He grinned and pointed to her head, to the ringlets. ‘No. The red. No one has hair like you.’

  ‘The Celtic curse, you mean?’ The bane of her life growing up, but now she was quite proud of it. It wasn’t orange ginger, and definitely not strawberry blonde. It was deep red, no hint of blonde, no evidence of brown. She’d been told it was like her dad’s, but as she’d never met him, she didn’t know. It certainly wasn’t like her mum’s or Chloe’s dirty blonde. ‘Just about half… of Ireland and… most of… Scotland.’