She glanced back at him over her shoulder. ‘How d’you learn to bake anyway? I thought you said your mum couldn’t bake to save her life.’

‘I spent a lot of time in the kitchen when I lived at my grandfather’s, watching the housekeeper. Some of it obviously rubbed off.’

She started fil ing two plates with sandwiches, cakes and slices. He scanned the table for something laden with whipped cream. He seized a chocolate éclair and popped it onto one of the plates. ‘Your grandmother’s orders,’ he muttered at her raised eyebrow.

Her laugh made him grin. He couldn’t help it. He Her laugh made him grin. He couldn’t help it. He should be doing his best to keep his distance until he’d worked out how he was going to deal with…

everything. When he was with her, though, that resolution flew out of the window. She made it impossible.

‘Did you like the housekeeper? Was she kind to you?’

He met her gaze and saw hope there—hope that he hadn’t been completely alienated whilst at his grandfather’s. He swal owed. ‘Yes,’ he lied.

He told himself it was only half a lie. The housekeeper had been kind. She’d taught him how to cook and had taken him under her wing. She’d ruffled his hair and wrapped an arm around his shoulders at least once a day—her every caress a treasure to a lonely boy’s soul. Until his grandfather had found out about it and she’d been dismissed.

After that, Alex had been banished from the kitchen.

He hadn’t tried making friends with any of the other staff.

‘Here.’ Kit pressed a laden plate into his hands.

‘Fol ow me.’

He shook off the sombre memory and fol owed her.

The smal talk wasn’t the chore he’d dreaded. He found himself in a circle with four of Kit’s male friends from school talking renovations and home maintenance. He took mental notes when they discussed

the

predominantly

sandy

soil

compositions of the area and the best remedies.

Kit’s lawn could do with some serious TLC.

Eventual y, however, the crowd and the chatter grew too much. He eased himself out of the hal and found a quiet spot in the garden, lowered himself to a rock that bordered a flower bed. The sun beat down overhead. Kit was right, the day would be warm, but a nearby tree fern provided filtered shade and kept him cool.

‘Hel o.’

Alex’s gut clenched. He swal owed and turned.

Davey stood nearby. He moistened suddenly dry lips. ‘Hel o,’ he croaked back.

The little boy took a step closer and frowned.

‘Don’t you like me?’

Heck, where had that come from? Then he remembered his abrupt departure earlier in the week when he’d thrust the little kid into Kit’s arms and had bolted. He hadn’t meant to hurt the little guy’s feelings. ‘Sure I do.’ He held out his stil half-ful plate as a peace offering. ‘Want a cake?’

Davey’s eyes brightened in an instant. He raced over and promptly settled himself on Alex’s left thigh and helped himself to a cupcake. Alex clenched his jaw at the child’s warm weight, the smel of him. He beat back the panic that threatened to rise up and smother him. Panic he couldn’t explain. This little guy—he wasn’t Chad!

Chad. His hand tightened around the plate until he thought it might break as he fought the urge to remove the child from his lap.

Normal. Act normal.

He fought for control, fought to find his voice.

‘Comfortable?’ he drawled.

Davey nodded, oblivious to Alex’s discomfort. ‘I’m not supposed to get dirty,’ he confided. ‘If I sit on the ground I’l get dirty.’

Fair enough. He held the plate out to Davey again once the cupcake was gone. ‘I hear the caramel slice is very good.’

Davey ignored him and reached for a piece of coconut ice instead. Alex considered eating the caramel slice himself—to give him something to do with his hands, in an attempt to occupy his mind with something other than the smel and feel of warm child—but he doubted his stomach would deal with food at the moment.

Given the choice, what would Chad have chosen

—caramel slice or coconut ice? Grief as raw and hard as it had been two years ago sliced through him now. He set the plate on the ground, aghast at how his hand shook.

‘Can I tel you a secret?’

Alex nodded. It was al he was capable of.

‘Auntie Kit is having a baby. Did you know?’

‘Yes.’ The word croaked out of him.

‘Wel , I heard her and Mum talking and if she has a boy she wants to cal him Jacob and Mum thinks that’s a great name but there’s a Jacob at my pre-school and he picks his nose and…’

The rest of the childish patter was lost to him.

The day darkened. He clenched his fingers into the soil of the garden, held on tight with both hands as the earth turned al the way over. He dragged in a breath and fought to remain upright. He would not be sick!

sick!

It came to him then, the answers to the questions he’d so desperately put off answering.

He couldn’t do this.

He wanted to get up and run. Who was he trying to kid? He couldn’t do any of this. He could not be the father Kit so desperately wanted for her child.

Any child, every child, reminded him of Chad, had memories threatening to burst forth—memories and pain. Davey, here, and…and Kit’s baby, would act as constant reminders of his loss, would have panic rising through him…and grief.

Not to mention anger. How could he be a proper father to Kit’s child when he couldn’t see past Chad?

Ice trickled across his scalp and down his spine.

He couldn’t. The bottom line was that he couldn’t.

Was this how his grandfather had felt when Alex’s mother had left? Was that why he hadn’t been able to show softness and love to his grandson? The way Alex now knew he couldn’t show softness and love to his own child?

It would’ve been better for al of them—but especial y for Kit—if he’d left that first day when she’d told him to. It would’ve been better for her if she’d never clapped eyes on him.

‘…anyway, I think it’s a dumb name, don’t you?’

Eyes the same colour as Chad’s lifted to his. It didn’t make any difference tel ing himself that ninety per cent of the population had brown eyes. At this moment in time they were the spitting image of the child’s he’d loved and lost.

‘What would you cal a baby boy?’

Chad. He’d chosen Chad.

Davey frowned. ‘Are you feeling sick again?’

Alex latched onto the excuse. He didn’t know what t he again was about, but… ‘Uh-huh.’ He glanced down at the child in his lap, blinked to clear his vision. ‘Do you think your mum would give Auntie Kit a lift home?’

Davey nodded.

‘Can you tel them that I went home because I was feeling sick?’

Davey nodded and jumped up. He raced off.

With a heart that grew colder with every step, Alex made his way back to the car.

Kit found Alex sitting at the dining table when she let herself into the house. Her heart slowed and relief flooded her. Alex did not look as if he were on his deathbed yet. Davey had exaggerated.

So…something had spooked him? Again?

Davey?

She fought the exhaustion that threatened to settle over her. She recal ed their kiss at the breakwater.

She wasn’t ready to give up on Alex yet. He’d make it. He just needed…

More time?

She swal owed. How much longer did she mean to keep making excuses for him?

He’s worth fighting for, the voice of her secret self whispered.

He was. Her every instinct told her so. He worked hard, he tried to do what was right, and when he kissed her she grew wings.

The expression that stretched through his eyes when he lifted his head to meet her gaze had a lump wel ing in her throat. She couldn’t keep this up, not for much longer. At her last doctor’s visit, her obstetrician had warned her that her blood pressure was creeping up.

Kit knew why. Alex. Her constant worry whether he would accept their baby into his life. Her constant worry whether he could overcome his demons. It was starting to take its tol . He was worth fighting for, but not at the expense of their baby’s health.

Just give him one more week.

For a moment tears made his face blur. She swal owed and blinked hard. She couldn’t find a smile and she didn’t try. ‘I see you’ve made a miraculous recovery.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Kit, I can’t do this. I can’t be what you want me to be. I cannot be a father to your baby.’

Her hands clenched, her stomach tightened. ‘You don’t need to make a decision about that right now.

We can talk about it and—’

‘No!’

The word snarled out of him. Al the hairs on her arms lifted. The skin at her nape and her temples chil ed.

‘Every child reminds me of Chad. Every child is a source of pain. Remembering Chad every single day, remembering what it was like to lose him, it wil drive me insane, Kit.’

His eyes dropped to her stomach and al she could do was stare at the white lines that slashed deep on either side of his mouth. Lines that spoke of grief and pain beyond her understanding.

‘That’s why I can’t be a father to your child.’

For a moment, everything stil ed, hung suspended

—him, her, those words with their awful meaning.

Then her stomach fel and fel and kept fal ing. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

He’d warned her, he’d tried to tel her, he hadn’t made her any promises. For the moment, though, it was his pain that touched her and not her own. She forced herself forward, sat in the chair opposite. ‘Tel me about Chad,’ she pleaded.

The darkness in his eyes didn’t abate. He shook his head. ‘There’s no point.’

She reached out to touch the back of one of his clenched fists. ‘There is a point, Alex, it’s—’

‘I can’t!’ he burst out, pul ing his hand away.

She didn’t know how one moved on after they lost a child, where one found the strength to pick up the pieces. Already she’d do anything to protect her baby and it wasn’t even born yet. Chad might not be dead, but he’d been removed from Alex’s world as surely as if he were.

surely as if he were.

She swal owed. She might not know what Alex was going through, but she did know that bottling it up would only hurt him more.

‘You don’t understand, Kit. This life of yours—the same life my parents led—it can never be my life. I don’t have the openness of heart for it. I don’t have any confidence in its permanence. If I stayed here with you and the baby I would ruin it al . I’m like my grandfather.’

‘No, you’re not!’

How could he believe that? She searched her mind for something that would prove him wrong.

‘Look at how you were with Davey that day you were painting. He brought back memories of Chad, but you weren’t unkind to him. What would your grandfather have done—yel ed at him and frightened him, that’s what.’

Alex shook his head. ‘That doesn’t change the fact that to survive living in my grandfather’s house I had to kil off something in my nature that makes it impossible for me to…to do al this.’ He waved a hand to indicate the interior of her house.

‘You did it with Jacqueline.’

‘If I’d done it successful y, she would never have left!’

For a moment Kit couldn’t catch her breath.

Alex slumped. His eyes turned black. ‘I wil finish the work on your house, Kit. After that, I’l return to Sydney. My solicitors wil arrange child support payments.’

Panic launched through her in a series of half-formed phrases and pulsing nausea. She surged to her feet. ‘You can’t leave just like that, Alex! I’m sorry, more sorry than I can say about Chad, but…’ She gripped the air, searching for the words that would make him see sense. Words that would make him stay. ‘Don’t you see? Our baby deserves a father too.’

Alex rose. He stood wooden and stiff in front of her. He looked like a man who’d been dealt a body blow. ‘I’m sorry, Kit.’