Maggie Kingsley – St Piran's: Tiny Miracle Twins (страница 8)

And he had a suitcase with him, she noticed with dawning dismay. A suitcase that could only mean one thing.

‘Connor, you can’t think…’ She dragged her gaze away from the suitcase, and back to him. ‘You’re not expecting to move in here with me, are you? ‘

‘I figured it was stupid to keep staying in a hotel when you have a house within easy driving distance of St Piran, so I checked out of my hotel this evening.’

‘But you can’t,’ she protested. ‘People will talk. They’ll say—’

‘That a husband is living with his wife?’ he suggested, and she flushed, and regrouped hurriedly.

‘But won’t your impartiality be compromised if you stay with me?’ she exclaimed. ‘I know you would never shut down an NICU but people could think—might suggest—I had exerted undue influence upon your report.’

‘Then people would be wrong, wouldn’t they?’ he replied smoothly. ‘So, are you going to leave me standing on the doorstep, or let me in?’

He’d backed her into a corner. Her only way out would be to tell him the truth, that she didn’t want him in her home, prodding and poking at old wounds, but though he had asked her for honesty she knew she couldn’t be quite that honest with him.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said in defeat.

‘Nice house,’ he observed as he followed her down the narrow hallway into her sitting room, having to duck to avoid hitting his head on the old oak beams across the ceiling. ‘Very…compact.’

‘Tiny, you mean,’ she said. ‘I suppose it is, but I like it.’

‘And this is where you’ve been living for the last two years?’ he said, putting his suitcase down by the coffee table, and she nodded.

‘I lived in nurses’ accommodation at the hospital for a few weeks when I first came to Cornwall, but I wanted somewhere to call home so I rented this.’

‘You have a home,’ he reminded her, ‘in London. Our flat.’

But it isn’t mine, she thought. It never was mine, but I don’t think I’ll ever get you to understand that.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ she said, deliberately changing the subject. ‘I was just about to raid my kitchen.’

‘That would be nice.’

She didn’t know if it would be nice, but eating something would certainly be preferable to them simply staring at one another in awkward silence for the rest of the evening, or, even worse, talking about things she didn’t want to talk about.

‘Chilli, lasagne or beef casserole?’ she asked as she went into the kitchen and opened the freezer.

‘Lasagne was always my favourite.’

It had been. She couldn’t recall how many times she’d made it for him in the past but that had been then, this was now.

‘Lasagne it is,’ she said, and, as she placed it in the microwave, she prayed he would eat it quickly so she could retreat to the safety of her bedroom.

But he didn’t eat quickly. In fact, he seemed to be in no hurry at all.

‘This is lovely,’ he declared as he forked some lasagne into his mouth. ‘Every bit as good as I remember.’

‘I’m glad,’ she said, pushing her own lasagne around the plate without enthusiasm. ‘Would you like some wine to go with your meal?’ she continued, half rising to her feet, only to sit down again as he shook his head. ‘Connor…’ Get it out, she thought, just say it. ‘Why have you really come?’

‘Because we need to talk, and there’s never any opportunity at the hospital.’

Which was fair enough, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

‘That doctor at the hospital,’ he continued, ‘the A and E one who was flirting with you—’

‘How many times do I have to tell you he wasn’t flirting with me? ‘ she interrupted with a huff of impatience. ‘Josh is from Ireland, as you and I are, and the way he talks…It’s just his style. He does it with every woman he meets, whether she’s nine or ninety. And anyway,’ she added for good measure, ‘he’s married.’

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