The Fiancée He Can't Forget. Caroline Anderson
her bare shoulder, feel the warmth radiating from his big, solid body.
The temptation to lean back into him—to rest her head against his cheek, to feel him curve his hand round her hip and ease her closer as he would have done before—nearly overwhelmed her. Instead, she stepped away slightly, pretending to shift so she could see them better, but in fact she could see perfectly well, and he must have realised that.
She heard him sigh, and for some crazy reason it made her feel sad. Crazy, because it had been him that had left her, walking away just when she needed him the most, so why on earth should she feel sad for him? So he was still alone, according to Ben. So what? So was she. There were worse things than being alone. At least it was safe.
‘Daisy chose the music for our first dance,’ Ben was saying, his smile wry. ‘It has a special meaning for us. While we’re dancing, I’d like you to imagine the moment we met—just about thirty seconds after the kitchen ceiling and half a bath of water came down on my head.’
And with that, they cut the cake, the lights were dimmed and the band started playing ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’.
There was a ripple of laughter and applause, but then they all went quiet as Ben, still smiling, drew Daisy into his arms as if she was the most precious thing he’d ever held.
Damn, Amy thought, sniffing hard, and then a tissue arrived in her hand, on a drift of cologne that brought back so many memories she felt the tears well even faster.
‘OK?’
No, she wasn’t. She was far from OK, she thought crossly, and she wished everyone would stop asking her that.
‘I’m fine.’
He sighed softly. ‘Look, Amy, I know this is awkward, but we just have to get through it for their sakes. I don’t want to do it any more than you do, but it’s not for long.’
Long enough. A second in his arms would be long enough to tear her heart wide open—
The dance was over, the music moved on and without hesitation Matt took her hand, the one with the tissue still clutched firmly in it, led her onto the dance floor and turned her into his arms.
‘Just pretend you don’t hate me,’ he told her, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and she breathed in, needing oxygen, and found nothing but that cologne again.
Holding her was torture.
A duty and a privilege, as he’d said in his speech?
Or just an agonising reminder of all he’d lost?
She had one hand on his shoulder, the other cradled in his left, and his right hand was resting lightly against her waist, so he could feel the slender column of her spine beneath his splayed fingers, the shift of her ribs as she breathed, the flex of the muscles as she moved in time to the music. She felt thinner, he thought. Well, she would. The last time he’d held her, he thought with a wave of sadness, she’d been pregnant with their child.
One dance merged into another, and then another. He eased her closer, and with a sigh that seemed to shudder through her body, she rested her head on his shoulder and yielded to the gentle pressure of his hand. Her thighs brushed his, and he felt heat flicker along his veins. Oh, Amy. He’d never forgotten her, never moved on. Not really.
And as he cradled her against his chest, her pale gold hair soft under his cheek, he realised he’d been treading water for years, just waiting for the moment when he could hold her again.
He sighed, and she felt his warm breath tease her hair, sending tiny shivers running through her like fairies dancing over her skin. It made her feel light-headed again, and she stepped back.
‘I need some air,’ she mumbled, and tried to walk away, but her hand was still firmly wrapped in his, and he followed her, ushering her through the crowd and out of the French doors into the softly lit courtyard. Groups of people were standing around talking quietly, laughing, and she breathed in the cooler air with a sigh of relief.
‘Better?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me. You look white as a sheet. Have you eaten today?’
‘We just had a meal.’
‘And you hardly touched it. My guess is you didn’t have lunch, either, and you probably skipped breakfast. No wonder you had low blood sugar earlier. Come on, let’s go and raid the buffet. I didn’t eat much, either, and I’m starving.’
He was right on all counts. She was hungry, and she had skipped lunch, but only because she’d lost her breakfast. She never could eat when she was nervous, and she’d been so, so nervous for the last few days her stomach had been in knots, and this morning it had rebelled. And that dizzy spell could well have been low blood sugar, now she came to think about it.
‘It’s probably not a bad idea,’ she conceded, and let him lead her to the buffet table. She put a little spoonful of something on her plate, and he growled, shoved his plate in her other hand and loaded them both up.
‘I can’t eat all that!’ she protested, but he speared her with a look from those implacable blue eyes and she gave up. He could put it on the plate. Didn’t mean she had to eat it.
‘I’ll help you. Come on, let’s find a quiet corner.’
He scooped up two sets of cutlery, put them in his top pocket, snagged a couple of glasses of wine off a passing waiter and shepherded her across the floor and back out to the courtyard.
‘OK out here, or is it too cold for you in that dress?’
‘It’s lovely. It’s a bit warm in there.’
‘Right. Here, look, there’s a bench.’
He steered her towards it, handed her a glass and sat back, one ankle on the other knee and the plate balanced on his hand while he attacked the food with his fork.
He’d always eaten like that, but that was medicine for you, eating on the run. Maybe he thought they should get it over with and then he could slide off and drink with the boys. Well, if the truth be told he didn’t have to hang around for her.
‘You’re not eating.’
‘I’m too busy wondering why you don’t have chronic indigestion, the speed you’re shovelling that down.’
He gave a short chuckle. ‘Sorry. Force of habit. And I was starving.’ He put the plate down for a moment and picked up his glass. ‘So, how are you, really?’
Really? She hesitated, the fork halfway to her mouth. Did he honestly want to know? Probably not.
‘I’m fine.’
‘How’s the job?’
‘OK. I like it. As with any job it has its ups and downs. Mostly ups. The hospital’s a good place to work.’
‘Yes, so Ben says.’ He stared pensively down into his glass, swirling it slowly. ‘You didn’t have to leave London, you know. We were never going to bump into each other at different hospitals.’
No? She wasn’t sure—not sure enough, at least, that she’d felt comfortable staying there. Up here, she’d been able to relax—until Ben had arrived. Ever since then she’d been waiting for Matt to turn up unexpectedly on the ward to visit his brother, and the monoamniotic twins they’d delivered last night had been something he’d taken a special interest in, so once Melanie Grieves had been admitted, she’d been on tenterhooks all the time. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Well, now it had, and it was every bit as bad as she’d expected.
‘I like it here, it was a good move for me,’ she said, and then changed the subject firmly. ‘Who’s Jenny Wainwright?’
He laughed, a soft, warm chuckle that told her a funny story was coming. ‘Ben’s first girlfriend.