The Nurse's Pregnancy Wish
Author
Carol Marinelli
Reads
16,6K
Chapters
9
CHAPTER ONE
PARAMEDIC ALISTAIR LLOYD knew exactly what everybody called him.
He even answered to the name at times.
For the most part it didn’t bother him.
Now and then it irked.
It was cold, wet and raining in London—slushy sleet that seeped down the back of a person’s neck and meant entering the very warm Accident and Emergency department caused his ears to sting just a little.
Alistair was working with Brendan today, and Brendan was extremely good-natured and very good at his job—though not quite as pedantic as Alistair.
That was the reason for his nickname: Perfect Peter.
Alistair never strayed from protocol.
Frankly, if it had been his call, Alistair would have alerted the Accident and Emergency department of London’s Primary Hospital prior to the arrival of this patient. Brendan, who had been treating while Alistair was driving, had chosen not to.
‘What now?’
Libby Bennett’s friend Dianne, who was working in Resus, looked up from the leg she was holding as a doctor applied traction. They both saw a patient arriving on a spinal board with his head strapped down.
‘I’ll go,’ Libby said, and then frowned. ‘Who’s that Brendan’s working with?’
She only asked because she’d thought Brendan was rostered on with Rory.
‘Perfect Peter.’ Dianne rolled her eyes and got back to the leg she was holding. ‘Good luck...’
Libby, who had only been working at The Primary for three weeks, was far too new to know what Dianne’s roll of the eyes and rather sardonic ‘good luck’ meant; she was just worried about her fridge! It was being dropped off at three—the only time the driver could do it. Rory had offered to move it up the two flights of stairs to her apartment, and had roped in the older, rather portly Brendan into helping him—and now Rory wasn’t here.
Still, it wasn’t the patient’s problem, so she made her way over and smiled down at the young man who lay on the spinal board. ‘Hello, I’m Libby.’
‘Marcus...’
Her new patient was a young gentleman with a clearly fractured wrist, though he was smiling and possibly appearing a little too happy, given his predicament.
‘Marcus is a twenty-seven-year-old male,’ Brendan said, ‘who fell from the first-floor window of his flat.’
‘It was an accident,’ Marcus elaborated. ‘We were just messing about...trying to get the best control.’
‘Gaming,’ Brendan further explained. ‘Marcus was standing on the bed and he says he fell backwards through the closed window behind it.’
‘Gaming?’ Libby blinked.
It wasn’t particularly relevant, but Libby wanted to engage the patient in conversation while she assessed him and decided where best he should be placed. She’d also heard the ‘he says he fell’ in Brendan’s handover, which raised flags as to whether the patient might have jumped or been pushed.
‘I never knew it could be so dangerous!’
‘Obvious right wrist fracture,’ Brendan continued, ‘but apart from that—’
‘I’m fine,’ Marcus said. ‘Can I get this thing off my neck?’
Marcus had been strapped to a spinal board and had on a cervical collar.
‘Not just yet,’ Libby said.
All precautions had been taken, Brendan told her, with a slight edge to his voice. And Libby listened as he explained the scene he had found on his arrival, and the distance the patient had fallen, and the fact that Marcus had been sitting up when they had arrived.
It really did sound like an accident that had happened while Marcus and his friend had wrestled for the gaming control, although Brendan informed her that the police had also been on scene, and they were currently speaking with the friend and would soon be coming in to interview Marcus.
There were certain standard operating procedures in place for falls, and this patient was borderline. While his fall had been broken by some bushes, the distance he had fallen was close to the cut-off that meant his injuries could be more serious than were obviously apparent. She was just coming to a decision when she glanced up at the other paramedic—the one who should have been Rory but wasn’t, and whom she thought Dianne had said was called Peter—and he silently mouthed two words: Long fall.
He did it so that neither Brendan nor the patient could see, letting Libby know that he was also concerned by the distance the patient had fallen. He had been on scene too, after all, and it was good to have all the information.
‘Straight through,’ Libby said, gesturing to Resus, but her patient started when he saw the red sign and realised where he was headed.
‘Why am I being taken in there?’
‘It’s just a precaution because of how far you’ve fallen,’ Libby explained. ‘Don’t be alarmed by all the equipment—it’s just until we know that you’re stable.’
‘I’ve only hurt my wrist, though.’
‘Even so,’ Libby said as they wheeled him in, ‘it’s better to be cautious and get you properly seen to.’
Still Marcus objected. ‘I told them I could walk...’
‘Well, it’s best you don’t,’ Libby said as she moved the stretcher alongside the flat Resus bed and tried to reassure him. ‘Marcus, it’s best we take all precautions. Let me worry about all that. Believe me, I’m very good at it.’ She made him smile as they set up to move him. ‘I’m a professional worrier, in fact...’
She wasn’t lying. Libby, even though she tried her best not to, worried about almost everything!
Because, if she didn’t worry enough, things tended to fall apart.
The fridge being a case in point!
Not that she was thinking about that now...
Dianne came in to assist with the move, as did a couple of others, but, glancing up, she saw Peter checking that the brakes had been secured on both beds and refusing to be rushed.
‘Come on, Alistair,’ Dianne chided, and Libby frowned. Hadn’t Dianne just told Libby that his name was Peter?
Whatever his name was, he nodded, seemingly more in affirmation to himself that all was well than for Dianne’s benefit, and then returned to the head of the stretcher. It was then that she discovered his eyes were the darkest brown.
A deep, chocolate-brown, with spiky black lashes and gorgeously arched brows. He was drenched—no doubt frozen—yet somehow Libby couldn’t help but notice he still managed to look incredible. His black hair was wet from the rain, his skin pale, and he was clean-shaven. She also noted that he stood a head above everyone else, both in stature and presence.
Though their eyes met for less than a second, it was enough that Libby felt her cheeks redden.
She could blame it on many things—sliding the patient over, the heat in Resus, or the fact that she’d been racing around all morning—only it wasn’t just that.
She was suddenly aware that she must look an utter fright. She’d been in full PPE for most of the morning, so her blonde curls were dark with sweat. As well as that, her hair tie had snapped on her arrival at work, so her curls were now being held back with a crepe bandage.
The heat on her cheeks would not fade, and it was actually a relief that it was Brendan who was the treating paramedic and giving the handover, as she was about to turn into one burning blush.
‘What do we have?’ Huba, the emergency doctor, came in as Libby set about doing her patient’s observations.
‘A fractured wrist,’ Dianne responded a touch tartly, glancing over to Libby.
It was clear that Dianne thought she had overreacted.
In the end, there wasn’t actually a chance to have a word with Brendan about her fridge, because he was being summoned by his very good-looking partner. So Libby put all thoughts of fridges and stairs completely out of her head as she called X-Ray and then dealt with Marcus, who was concerned about his friend.
‘I’ve told the police it was an accident,’ he fretted. ‘Why are they questioning him?’
‘Marcus, I don’t know what the police are doing.’ Libby was honest but firm. ‘For now, let’s focus on you.’
‘But I’m fine. I could walk if you’d let me.’
‘Libby, go and have your break,’ Dianne cut in, clearly a bit miffed, because she was in charge of Resus today, and didn’t think the patient needed to be in there—though she’d had to accept the decision, and since there was a bed free for him she didn’t challenge it.
It was quiet for a Thursday morning.
Well, no one was allowed to say the Q-word, or comment on the fact that it was unusually Q for a Thursday, because the second they did the Bat Phone would buzz, the doors would fly open and everyone in the waiting room would simultaneously collapse—or something similar.
So for now Libby took her morning coffee break and headed to the kitchen beside the staffroom. She retrieved her cheese and biscuits from the fridge and then put her hand up to compare the height of the staffroom fridge to what she thought was the size of the gap in the wall of kitchen units at her new and exceedingly tiny studio flat.
Oh, God, even if she did somehow get it up the stairs, Libby wasn’t at all sure that the fridge she was having delivered was going to fit.
‘Libby!’
Brendan made her jump, and she stopped mentally measuring the fridge and watched as he speed-filled his mug with coffee—paramedics never got long between jobs.
‘You’re going to need to find someone else to help me with the fridge,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as we’re finished, but Rory’s off sick. I’ve got...’
He gestured to the dark hunk behind him, who was helping himself to some biscuits. A lot of biscuits! He had three in his hand and was munching his way through them as Brendan tried to rope his colleague in to assist Libby with her fridge.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Libby ventured, but instead of enlightening her he helped himself to more biscuits as Brendan explained her predicament.
‘Rory agreed to move Libby’s new fridge with me,’ Brendan said. ‘The driver’s dropping it off at three and she’s got no one to help her...’
‘I didn’t know that I was just paying for delivery,’ Libby explained.
She realised that without even trying she was blinking and batting her eyelashes—her green eyes, which on a normal day cheerfully greeted everyone, were flirting of their own accord!
‘But it turns out I have to arrange people to lift it. I thought the price was good value for money.’
‘She paid him up-front.’ Brendan laughed as he told his colleague. ‘How long have you lived in London now?’
‘Three weeks,’ Libby said.
‘It shows,’ Brendan said, then turned to his partner, who Libby hadn’t heard speak out loud yet. ‘The thing is, now Rory’s off sick and I need someone to help me lift it.’
But the man shook his head. ‘I’ve got a physical assessment tomorrow,’ he said, while dipping a biscuit in his coffee. ‘I’m not hauling a fridge.’
He didn’t so much as look at Libby, just denied his assistance in a deep, sexy voice, and Brendan gave Libby a helpless shrug of his shoulders, as if to show what he was up against.
‘I’ll find someone,’ Libby said, blinking her eyelashes with disappointment now.
She didn’t really know many people in London. And, given it was pouring with rain, who would want to drag a fridge up two flights of stairs?
A fridge that might not even fit when it got there.
‘I’ll ask around,’ Libby attempted in an upbeat tone, and smiled at Brendan. ‘What time do you think you’ll get to mine?’
‘All depends what time we get our last job. It could be quite late,’ Brendan warned. ‘Make sure you get someone to help me, Libby...’
‘Of course.’ She nodded and watched as the hungry paramedic, whose name she still didn’t know, took another handful of biscuits and completely ignored both her vivid green eyes and her plight.
‘We need to get going,’ he told Brendan as the radio on his shoulder summoned them.
‘We haven’t cleared yet.’
‘I have,’ he said, and walked off.
‘God...’ Brendan sighed, screwing the lid on his mug and following his partner out. ‘No rest for the wicked!’
Libby smothered a giggle as Brendan huffed off.
Whatever his name was, it was no wonder they called him Perfect Peter, Libby thought as she ate her cheese and crackers and drank a huge mug of tea.
He really was perfect.
Not just tall, dark and handsome, but all brooding and silent—and self-centred enough that he wouldn’t help with her fridge.
Libby tended to go for that type, but she was determined—determined—only to date nice, safe and sensible guys from now on.
The kind of caring and thoughtful guy who was strong enough to manage a fridge. One who would gallantly put his stupid physical assessment in jeopardy for her...
And who didn’t mind about her ovaries.
With a weary sigh she leant back on the chair.
Libby was, despite her bright smile and friendly nature, not having the best day. She had finally been contacted by her home GP regarding a gynae appointment, having been referred ages ago. Seriously, ages ago. In the weeks prior to the appointment she’d have to undergo blood tests, and a detailed ultrasound, but she should be able to fit the investigations in as she was going to be home in Norfolk for her mother’s sixtieth birthday at around the same time.
Libby needed to text her response, and confirm the appointment time for the tests, only she hadn’t yet done so.
The trouble was that she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know why her periods had dropped to every two or three months—or the reason for a few other issues she’d been dealing with.
She was oddly tempted to call and tell them she’d moved, just so the investigations and appointments would be cancelled. But then she would have to start the process of finding a new GP in London, and go through all the waiting again to find out she might have fertility issues, as her GP back home had suggested.
She’d been upset by the possibility, and felt she had nowhere to turn.
That was partly due to the fact that her boyfriend at the time had been hurtful, rather than helpful, and although Libby had got rid of him quick-smart, now she felt even more alone. Her close friend Olivia hadn’t been as helpful as Libby had hoped either—although in fairness she’d been pregnant herself at the time, and busy with concerns of her own. And Libby didn’t want to confide in her mother, who made Libby’s low-grade anxiety look like a walk in the park.
It was something she didn’t want to face, but Libby knew she had to get answers.
It was just so very hard facing it alone.
Draining her cup, she put it in the sink.
‘Rinse it,’ Paula the ward domestic warned. ‘You wouldn’t leave your own cups like that—’
‘Sorry,’ Libby said. ‘Actually, I do leave my own cups like that at home!’ She smiled at Paula as she washed and dried her mug. ‘I keep meaning to get a routine, but I leave cups everywhere. Still, that’s no excuse,’ she said, and put away her mug.
She headed back out towards the department and bumped into Ricky, one of the porters.
‘Ricky!’ She beamed. ‘I have a fridge being delivered this afternoon. One of the paramedics has offered to help, but not till the evening...’
‘No chance,’ Ricky said.
In the end, her ‘long fall’ patient was possibly the most willing in the department.
‘I’d do it Libby,’ he said, ‘if I wasn’t stuck here.’
Marcus had had his X-rays, been interviewed by the police, and his cervical collar had been taken off. Now he was waiting for the orthopods to review his wrist.
‘That’s very kind of you.’ Libby smiled. ‘It’s a shame about the broken wrist...’
‘I could ask my friend. He should be in soon, now that the police finally believe it was an accident.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ Libby said, and her smile hid her sudden concern, because the formerly ruddy Marcus had gone a little pale. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I feel a bit sick, to be honest.’
‘Okay,’ Libby said, running another set of obs. ‘Have you got any pain—aside from in your wrist?’
‘Not really. Maybe a bit in my shoulder.’
‘That’s new, is it?’
His blood pressure was low and his heart rate was starting to creep up. Summoning Huba in, to reassess him, Libby lay her patient down.
‘Let’s increase the fluids,’ Huba said, instantly concerned at his sudden decline. ‘Any pain in your stomach, Marcus?’ she asked as she examined his abdomen.
‘Not really.’
‘Okay.’ Huba looked over to Libby. ‘Can you page the on-call surgeon, and also the path lab, and see how the cross-match is coming along.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Marcus asked.
‘I just want to be sure that you’re not bleeding internally,’ Huba explained. ‘Sometimes shoulder tip pain can be a sign of bleeding into the abdomen, and you’re looking very pale.’
He was looking so pale, in fact, that by the time Dianne had come back from her break the surgeons were diagnosing a ruptured spleen and Marcus was being prepared for an urgent dash to Theatre.
‘Good call,’ Dianne said a short while later, once Marcus was in Theatre. ‘I’d have had him in a cubicle.’
‘I might have too,’ Libby admitted, as together they wiped down the Resus bed, preparing it for its next guest. ‘Perfect Peter was quite insistent that he was to be treated as a long fall.’
‘Well, he was right,’ Dianne said.
‘Why do you call him Perfect Peter? What’s his actual name?’
‘Alistair.’ Dianne laughed. ‘We just call him that...’
‘Behind his back?’ Libby sighed, completely understanding his nickname—he was seriously gorgeous after all. ‘I looked a right fool.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Dianne smiled again, then got back to discussing their patient. ‘Thank goodness Marcus was able to give a full statement to the police before he went to Theatre, or his friend really would be in trouble.’
‘Gosh...’ Libby said, placing a fresh sheet down and a roll of paper. ‘All that from gaming!’
Marcus’s parents arrived then, and Libby showed them into Interview Room One, where Huba came and spoke with them. She had a lovely, calming nature, Libby thought as Huba explained what had happened.
‘Josh said he was sitting up and talking after the accident.’
‘He was,’ Huba said, nodding, ‘and he was holding his own all the while he was here. However, given the distance he fell, we were keeping a close eye on him...’
It wasn’t such a quiet day after all, although Marcus was safely out of Theatre by the time Libby’s shift ended. She popped up to the unit at the end of the shift to check on him, and was warmed to see his mystery friend sitting with his family in the small waiting room.
‘How is he doing?’ she asked.
‘He’s asleep,’ his mother said. ‘The surgeon said it all went well.’
‘I’m so pleased.’
Josh spoke then. ‘I’m going to buy him his own control as a get-well gift—no more fighting over it...’
They all laughed.
Libby was indeed pleased that it was a good outcome, and she smiled as she made her weary way to the underground to travel the two stops to her home. Her mind kept drifting to the handsome paramedic who had so clearly insisted that all precautions be taken on scene, and had done what he could to ensure that the gravity of the situation had been quietly stated.
In truth, she would have sent the patient to Resus anyway, until the doctor had carefully assessed him, but his actions had helped articulate the standard procedures, which had made it easier for Libby to stand her ground with Dianne.
Still, all daydreams about a certain gorgeous paramedic faded as she walked through the rain to her small block of flats and down the side entrance.
There to greet her was the biggest fridge ever—right by the stairs up to her apartment. It was thankfully shielded somewhat from the elements, but only because it was half blocking the driveway to the little parking bay behind the flats.
Her fellow residents were having to manoeuvre around it, and they were bemoaning the fact.
Oh, God. Why hadn’t she measured it? How had she failed to secure help?
It was just the story of her impulsive life—the very reason that Libby was stuck at five p.m. on a grey winter’s night in London, feeling homesick and wondering if she’d made the right move.
Her moving to London hadn’t actually been that impulsive. She’d always wanted to work in a major city hospital and well... London!
But the very sociable Libby missed her many friends—especially the ones from the tiny amateur theatre group she’d belonged to. Of course when she had five minutes to breathe and take stock she’d look to join one here. She also missed the team at her old A&E department, who had been friendlier than the ones at The Primary. Her old colleagues had known that despite her fun, flirty nature there was a serious head on her shoulders. An anxious head too. And they had known she took her work very seriously, but could still manage to smile and laugh.
Not like the London lot.
Or was it just that there were so many of them?
Three weeks in and there were still so many new faces to get used to each and every shift. Names to remember. Nuances to learn.
Garth, the consultant, was decisive.
Huba was a little hesitant.
May, the Nurse Unit Manager, was all smiles and friendly comments, but as sharp as a whip...
Even the London way of speaking was taking a little getting used to.
And then after her shift she would return to her tiny little flat, and though she had never minded her own company, it felt very different being alone in London.
Three weeks in, and pretending to love it so as not to upset her mother was starting to take its toll. She missed her parents, even if they were a little overbearing.
And now she had her failing ovaries to face.
Or not.
She could just put it off, she thought again. Could cancel the appointments and start all over again.
It was a tempting thought.
‘Don’t be stupid, Libby,’ she scolded herself out loud. ‘It’s time to sort things out.’
She was twenty-eight. Well, twenty-eight and a half. Actually, closer to twenty-nine...
If she put this off, she might well be thirty by the time—
Thirty! Yikes!
Hauling her mind back to the present, Libby attempted to be positive. Brendan was a paramedic and very used to difficult extrications—although it was generally getting patients down stairs rather than up them.
Why hadn’t she thought this through?
Why hadn’t she worried adequately?
Libby had acquired the skill from her mother, who worried about everything.
From early morning right through to sleepless night, Helen Bennett worried.
Often with good reason.
Libby’s father was a firefighter. All too well Libby could remember creeping down the stairs and seeing her mother’s pale face as she anxiously watched the television screen or paced the kitchen.
Sometimes Libby would join her.
Nearly all the time her father would come home unscathed, but there had been more than a few hospital visits to see his colleagues and friends. And, very sadly, she also had the memory of her father getting ready to attend the funeral of a colleague.
Still, Helen Bennett’s worrying wasn’t just for her husband. It was channelled towards her daughter too.
Growing up, it had been a litany of warnings.
Don’t get in a car with someone who’s had a drink.
Of course not.
Don’t walk home at night alone.
Libby’s heels were usually so high she avoided walking as much as she could!
Don’t take the night bus.
As a teenager, right up until she was eighteen, her father had always picked her up. She’d left home at eighteen, but even ten years on it would seem Helen would rather her daughter lived at home and was escorted there by two guards after a late shift. Now that she was in London every incident on the news had her mother texting, convinced that Libby must somehow be involved.
Everything in Libby and her father’s lives was said and done so as not to upset her mother. Or, rather, everything was secretly done or said so as not to upset her.
Libby was determined not to be like her mother—especially as she had the adventurous spirit of her father. So when her latest relationship had gone south, Libby had decided that so, too, might she.
London.
Only, in this instance she hadn’t been cautious enough.
Her innate impulsiveness had won, and now she was living in a flat without a bedroom. As it turned out, the video she’d watched had been of a one-bedroom flat in the same complex, rather than the studio flat she had eventually signed up for. It was her own fault she hadn’t read the fine print.
Now, nearly all her stuff remained in storage, as it would have filled the shoebox flat ten times over. Libby had commenced work two days after moving in, and now she had to start looking for somewhere else.
As well as that, her great friend Olivia, who had planned to come and see her, had put off the visit because with hubby and baby there was nowhere for them to stay. Well, even if she’d had a one-bedroom place it would have proved a dreadful squeeze. But Libby wasn’t thinking about that now. Even if she hadn’t seen as much of Olivia since she’d married, it had been nice knowing she was near...
Her phone bleeped and she pulled it out, hoping it was Brendan to say that he and Rory were on their way.
But instead it was a reminder, asking her to confirm her appointment for an ultrasound.
‘What the hell?’ A guy in a delivery van who had struggle to manoeuvre around the fridge wound down his window and shouted at her.
‘Sorry!’ Libby called back.
‘Stupid cow!’ he yelled, and angrily reversed out.
It was then that all her positivity faded.
His horrible words played on repeat inside her head and it was just the final straw. Libby sat down on the steps, unable to face the fridge, put her head in her hands and for the first time since she’d arrived in London gave in and cried.
Why had she moved here?
It felt like the unfriendliest place in the world.
There was no one she knew to bump into at the shops, as had always been the case back home—a dash for bread had often ended up with an hour or so spent in a café, catching up with an old friend, a new friend, a friend of a friend...
Back home she’d have had an army to help her with her fridge...
When she’d moved in to her old flat it had been pizza and wine and fun...
Hearing the roar of a motorcycle, Libby kept her head down, guessing that its rider would no doubt shout at her too.
And, anyway, it felt good to cry.
It felt good, for a moment, to stop being the new one, the happy one, the funny one, the stupid cow—or whatever these people who didn’t know her chose to describe her as.
No, she wasn’t crying about the fridge. It was about not having any friends in London, and those wretched tests that were looming, and the struggle of being a worrier by nature while also a little wild at heart...
She was mid-sob, and had given up on finding a tissue, when she heard that very nice, very deep voice.
‘Is Brendan here?’
She saw black boots, and as her eyes drifted up they clocked an awful lot of black leather.
‘Peter!’ She stared up at the handsome paramedic and could have kissed him for showing up to help her. But then she realised she’d got his name wrong. ‘I mean, Alistair...’
He just stared back at her. On second thoughts, she could happily have kissed him for no reason other than that he was gorgeous! Instead, she sat back on the steps and looked up as he peeled off his black leather gloves and spoke.
‘My colleagues call me Perfect Peter behind my back—or to my face to annoy me. It would seem the nursing staff at The Primary do too.’
‘No...!’ Libby attempted, and then realised there was no getting away from the fact. ‘Gosh, I’m so embarrassed.’
‘Good,’ he said, as if pleased by her mortification.
‘It is good, actually...’ Libby agreed, and watched him frown.
‘Why?’
She couldn’t bring herself to admit that she’d been pondering on the way home how she was going to have a little fantasy about a hot paramedic called Peter. A hot paramedic called Alistair would be much easier!
‘Alistair’s a nice name.’ Libby settled for that. ‘Are you here to help with my fridge?’
‘I believe so—unless you’ve managed to rustle somebody else up?’
‘No.’
Gosh, he was seriously good-looking. She had noticed, of course—clearly everybody had, because he wasn’t called Perfect Peter for nothing—but now he was dressed in leather and riding a motorbike that would cause her mother to lose her mind if Libby were ever to get on the back of it. So there was a rebellious edge to him too.
‘Are we waiting on the steps in the rain?’ Alistair asked. ‘Or are we going up?’
‘We’ll go up,’ Libby said, delighted by the turn of events and seriously hoping that Brendan would be delayed.
Without thinking, she held out her hand, as a friend might, to be hauled up.
He didn’t take it.
And nor should he, of course. They weren’t friends or anything.
She wouldn’t have held out her hand to the horrible delivery driver had she been here when he’d dropped off the fridge.
It was odd, though, because it felt as if he’d denied her assistance because her gesture had been flirtatious, although he was probably just annoyed at having to lug her fridge. Especially as he had his physical assessment tomorrow.
He’d pass. Libby was rather sure of that from looking at him!
But they wouldn’t be waiting in Libby’s little flat, because as they started to go in a car squeezed up the drive and Brendan waved.
‘Here he is,’ Alistair said, as Brendan got out of the car and huffed his way towards them. Then he added rather drily. ‘My lifting companion.’
‘Is it an important assessment tomorrow?’ Libby asked.
‘Very.’
‘Look, I don’t want you getting injured. I’m sure that Brendan and I, between us—’
He cut her off with a look. Not a macho chauvinist look, just a blunt look that told her what she already knew: there was not a chance in hell of her and Brendan moving it.
‘Thanks so much for this,’ she said, both to him and to Brendan. ‘I really do appreciate it...’
‘Which one’s yours?’ Alistair asked, looking up at the flats.
‘Two hundred and one,’ Libby said.
‘Second floor?’
‘Yes.’
He proceeded to go up the first flight of steps, to see what they were up against, and then drew a finger picture of the layout for Brendan.
‘Can’t we just get on with it?’ called Brendan.
‘You don’t learn safety by accident,’ Alistair called back, quoting an old saying, and Libby wanted to giggle as Brendan muttered and rolled his eyes.
Alistair certainly planned his lifts!
Brendan was to go first, while Alistair got the heavy end. Libby stood by as they lifted, feeling useless. All she could do was grab the electrical cord when it slipped and trailed on the ground.
‘Leave that, please,’ Alistair said.
‘It might cause an accident,’ she pointed out.
‘Leave it,’ he said through gritted teeth as he took the full weight of the fridge.
‘‘I’m just trying to help...’
‘If you want to help, then go up and open the doors,’ Alistair replied.
Libby climbed the stairs to her flat and propped open all the doors, then quickly threw a few cups in the sink and kicked a bra behind the sofa-bed. Glancing across the room, she looked at the gap in her doll’s-house-sized kitchen units and lost all hope that the fridge was going to fit there.
She could hear them coming up the stairs—Brendan’s heavy breathing and Alistair’s clear instructions. She hovered at the door, rather like a family member might linger in the corridor when there was a sick relative in Resus.
‘Right,’ Alistair said, and then, ‘The flat’s just to the left...’
She stepped back from the doorway, and it was Brendan who gave instructions now. ‘Down in three, two, one—now.’
Brendan was red-faced and sweaty. God, she hoped he didn’t have a heart attack or something dreadful.
After a brief respite, they rocked the heavy fridge the remaining short distance into her flat.
‘Where’s the kitchen?’ Alistair asked.
‘Just here is fine,’ Libby said, and Brendan gratefully straightened up then arched his back. ‘Completely fine! I can slide it from here. You guys have done more than enough. I mean, honestly, I can manage from here...’
Brendan seemed relieved, but Alistair looked at her suspiciously. ‘I’ll push it through.’
‘No need,’ Libby said, and found that she was blushing as if she herself had been heaving the fridge up the stairs.
‘You haven’t measured it, have you?’ Alistair accused. ‘That’s why earlier today, at work, you were standing with your hand on top of your head in the kitchen...’
She should be flattered that he’d noticed, let alone recalled what she’d been doing, but instead she was embarrassed as he brushed past her into her tiny, tiny kitchen as Brendan leaned against the wall and got his breath back.
‘It will fit,’ Alistair said, reluctantly hissing between clenched teeth.
‘I don’t think so...’ Libby gulped.
‘So you let us drag it up here, thinking it wouldn’t fit?’
‘I need a fridge,’ Libby said, shrugging. ‘It might have had to live in here for a little while.’
She saw his eyes take in the studio flat and the sofa-bed she had not folded back this morning.
She was burning red as he pushed and rocked the fridge over to the units, then left it standing in the middle of the kitchen.
‘It doesn’t fit, does it?’ Libby checked.
‘It will, but you have to let it stand for three hours,’ he said.
‘Oh, no.’ Brendan shook his head. ‘It’s been upright since it’s been dropped off, so it should be fine.’
‘It wasn’t very upright on the stairs,’ Alistair said, turning those heavenly chocolate eyes to Libby. ‘Keep it unplugged for three hours or you risk damaging the compressor.’
‘Sure...’
‘Then you can slide it in.’
‘I shall. Look, thank you, guys. I’d offer you a cuppa, but I don’t have any milk...’ She glanced at her new fridge as if in explanation. ‘Or a beer. But...’
‘Have you got any glasses?’ Brendan asked.
Actually, she didn’t.
All her glasses were in storage, with the rest of her stuff. She’d been planning to buy a few cheap ones to see her through on her next day off.
Libby did have four mugs—all of which were now sitting in the sink. She rushed over to wash them, before handing a clean one filled with cold water to Brendan.
‘Alistair?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’ve got chocolate biscuits,’ she said, but they both declined. Clearly they were more than ready to go home.
‘Seriously,’ Alistair said as he left, ‘wait three hours.’
‘I shall. Look, thank you. It really was kind. Thank you, Brendan. And Alistair, I hope your physical goes well tomorrow.’
He simply nodded, and then was gone.
She breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind them. No one that sexy had ever been in her little doll’s house studio flat before.
Actually, no one that sexy had been so close to her bed before!
She looked at her fridge with delight, and gave it a little pat. She thought about Alistair’s sternly delivered wise words about waiting three hours. But surely she should check that it worked? Just briefly...?
Impulsiveness won out and Libby plugged it in.
Light.
Yay!
Forgetting all Alistair’s warnings, she pushed the fridge back and was delighted to find that it fitted.
Just.
Certainly she wouldn’t be able to put a broom or a mop by the side of it—or anything, really. But she had a fridge, and she could now have real meals. In fact, she would go shopping right away...
Picking up her bag, and still in her coat, she opened the door to find—
‘Alistair!’
‘I dropped a glove...’
‘Oh.’ She cast her eyes around the bedroom/lounge and realised it must be in the kitchen. ‘I’ll go and have a look.’ She gave him a lovely smile. ‘Wait there.’
But he did not wait there...
It might have been disconcerting to have a man ignore her request to wait at the door, but they both knew exactly why he brushed past her and in two long strides reached her kitchen.
‘Good God!’ he said, when he saw how quickly she’d dismissed his instructions.
He yanked the fridge out, turned it off, and gave her a long and tedious lecture about oil and compressors...or something like that...
Yet he made ‘tedious’ sexy! She could have gazed into those velvet eyes for ever, whatever the subject matter.
‘Have you no patience?’ he demanded finally.
‘None,’ Libby admitted happily.
Absolutely none. Because though she had known him for just a few minutes, and had only met him for the first time earlier that day, she was suddenly frantic for his kiss.
‘I often tend to regret my impulsive decisions...’
Libby’s voice trailed off as she realised she was warning herself that chasing after a kiss from this gorgeous man was foolhardy at best.
After all, she barely knew his name.
‘Regret?’ he asked, with that lovely full mouth, and she saw his jaw was a touch darker than it had been this morning.
‘When I don’t think things through.’
He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then he chose not to. Bizarrely, she wondered if he might be thinking about kissing too.
Libby didn’t usually have such random kissing thoughts.
Clearly nor did he usually have the kind of thoughts he seemed to be having, because he suddenly seemed a bit shocked. He looked away and took a step to the side and swiped his glove from the floor.
‘Come on,’ he said, and took her arm.
‘Where are we going?’
‘For a drink and dinner. We’re going to wait out those three hours together. Have you got your keys?’
‘Yes, I was about to go to the shops.’
They headed down the steps and Libby took out her phone.
‘Where should we go? There’s a pub near the Tube station that looks like it does decent food...’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘I can give you a ride.’
‘Oh, no. I’m not getting on your bike.’ She shook her head.
It wasn’t her mother’s dire warnings that held her back. A stint on Orthopaedics and her time working in Emergency had put Libby off motorbikes for good. However, she did really, really want a drink and dinner.
‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘Why? I’ve got a spare helmet.’
‘I have a very strict rule,’ Libby said, smiling. ‘I don’t go on motorbikes. Or anything with two wheels, come to think of it...’
She thought it was probably still cold and wet outside, and since it was too far to walk and not look like a drowned rat, she said, ‘I’ll get a cab.’
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘No cheating, though.’
‘Cheating?’
‘Dashing back in...’ He glanced to her flat.
‘I don’t cheat,’ Libby said, thinking he really seemed to know her far too well.
Because she’d have loved to dash back in, tidy up a little—herself, rather than the flat—and not look quite so bedraggled for her evening with the sexiest, most perfect paramedic.
‘Look, I’m calling for a cab now.’
Annoyingly, he waited till her car arrived, and ten minutes later they were outside what appeared from the outside to be a very nice pub. Only, on entering it, they discovered it turned out to be one of those family ones, full of boisterous children and frazzled parents.
‘It’s noisy,’ Libby said, a bit taken back by all the people. ‘Should we have booked?’
But it would seem there was space for them after all.
They were led to a high table with bar stools, where they disrobed and de-leathered. Libby perched on her stool and tried to look at the menu rather than at his lovely forearms.
He wore a grey jumper, and he had gorgeous black hair on his arms and a jut of black chest hair at the base of his neck.
And he’d caught her looking.
She flushed and fought for something to say. ‘I’m getting this,’ Libby said. ‘I mean it.’ She would have no arguments. ‘I was going to get you some wine or whatever, for moving my fridge, so this makes it easier.’
‘Fine.’
Not even a smidge of protest!
He decided to have steak with pepper sauce, potato wedges, no salad and water, while Libby was tempted by the scampi, because she hadn’t had it in for ever. But she didn’t want to smell of fish. Not that they were going to be kissing, but she couldn’t help considering these things, because she considered everything—and hadn’t they shared a charged moment back in her flat, when he had confronted her about the fridge? Could kissing be on the cards after all?
She was being ridiculous.
Libby decided she would also have steak, but with salad. And, because she wasn’t going home on a motorbike and she was exhausted from worrying about her fridge, a glass of wine.
She returned from the bar with their drinks and two tokens. ‘We get a free trip to the dessert station!’
‘Cheers,’ Alistair said, and they chinked glasses. ‘Here’s to your fridge.’
‘It’s been awful not having one.’
‘It really wasn’t worth crying over.’
‘It might have been when my neighbours found out it was my fridge blocking the drive.’
‘True... How long have you worked at The Primary?’ he asked.
‘Three weeks.’ Libby sighed. ‘And I still feel like it’s my first day. I worked in Norfolk before, in a tiny hospital compared to The Primary. I can’t believe how busy it is...how much of an area it covers.’
‘And it’s getting bigger...’ he agreed.
Their meal arrived and Libby was glad she hadn’t ordered the scampi, as the steak looked delicious.
‘I’m starving,’ Alistair said. ‘So how come you moved from Norfolk?’
‘I just...’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘I was very happy there, but I wanted to know what it was like to work in a big trauma centre, and I really wanted a couple of years in London. So...’
‘You like Emergency?’
‘Reluctantly.’ Libby nodded.
‘Reluctantly?’ He frowned.
‘Well, it’s very...’ How best to say it? ‘I adore it, but I can’t stand it at the same time...’
He frowned again.
‘I worry about everything.’
‘Except fridge compressors,’ he pointed out, and Libby laughed.
‘As I said, when I don’t worry enough—or when I worry about the wrong things—I tend to regret it...’ She looked right at him. ‘I got caught, didn’t I.’
‘You did.’
Only, she wasn’t regretting it now!
And, from the way he held her eyes for easily seventeen seconds, neither was he.
Eighteen seconds.
Nineteen...
She dragged her eyes from his beckoning gaze and tried to get back to the question and best explain how the daily witnessing of the fragility of life affected her.
‘Take our friend today, who had the gaming controller accident.’
‘The long fall?’ he checked.
‘Yes. It’s put me off standing on a bed for life...’
‘Do you regularly stand on the bed?’
‘Yes.’ Libby nodded and he smiled, but then she asked a more serious question. ‘Does it trouble you? I mean, you must see far worse than I do.’
After all, he would see the patients who didn’t even make it to the hospital, and he would see seriously injured people outside of the relatively controlled and resourced environment of A&E.
‘Most of the time it’s a lot like social work,’ he said.
‘Not all of the time?’
‘No...’ He was clearly thinking about her question as to whether the sights he saw troubled him. ‘I guess it makes me appreciate life—and it’s perhaps taught me not to take unnecessary risks...’
‘Yet you ride a motorbike?’
‘Well, I was once thinking of being a rapid responder,’ Alistair said.
And thankfully he was looking down, slicing the last of his steak, so missed her little shudder.
Libby actually grimaced as she made a mental note never to fall for someone who zipped around on a motorbike for a living.
He looked up. ‘What do you think of London?’
‘I’m sure I’ll love it,’ Libby said, ‘when I get a chance to see it. My first round of days off was spent arguing with my estate agent.’
‘About...?’
‘I thought I was getting a one-bedroom flat. I signed the lease without viewing it...’
He stared, but thankfully didn’t tell her how stupid that had been.
‘How long’s the lease?’ he asked.
‘Three months,’ Libby said.
‘Well, at least you got that part right.’
‘All my things are in storage—as I soon as I saw the place I knew there was no way they’d fit. I do actually have glasses and a fridge of my own...even a bed...’ She let out a glum sigh. ‘I’ve had to put a hold on the delivery and just buy a sofa-bed and a few cups and a kettle and such while I work out what to do...’
‘And a fridge?’
Libby nodded. ‘I’ll probably sell it to whoever leases the flat after me. Although...’ She rolled her eyes heavenwards.
‘Go on.’
‘As much as the agent may have exaggerated the size of my dwelling, the price is on a par with the area and I really like it... I’m trying to decide if I can survive in a shoebox just to be close to the underground, the parks...’ She smiled. ‘It’s a lot greener than I dared hope. Do you live close by?’
‘A few miles,’ he said. ‘Regent’s Canal—just a short walk away. Do you miss home?’
‘There hasn’t been time, and I’m in touch a lot.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-eight,’ Libby said. ‘Well, twenty-eight and a half...’
He smiled.
He was just so easy to talk to...
They clicked—or at least it felt like that to Libby as she told him about her friend Olivia and her husband and baby.
‘I was telling her about this gorgeous bar, how incredible it sounded, and she said that when she came to visit she really wanted to try it. And do you know what happened?’
‘Yes,’ Alistair said.
‘You don’t.’
‘I do,’ he said, mopping up the last smear of pepper sauce with his steak. ‘She asked if you’d babysit.’
Libby’s mouth fell open. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because I work with a lot of parents of young children and they’re always on the scrounge for babysitters.’
‘Do they ask you?’ she smiled.
‘No, because when I congratulate them on their happy news I make a point of telling them upfront that I won’t be babysitting.’ He topped up his water. ‘Not even if I’m a godparent.’
‘Oh.’ Libby looked across the table to him. ‘And are you a godparent?’
‘Twice. Each year I take them to see a pantomime and the Christmas lights...’
‘Pantomime!’ Libby was delighted, and told him about the tiny little amateur theatre group she had been so heavily involved in. ‘I have to find one here. I mean, there are loads, but...’ She sighed. ‘I’ll be a very small fish.’
‘Were you a big fish at home?’ Alistair asked.
‘I played the narrator in Joseph,’ she told him proudly. ‘Admittedly, it was a very small production...’ She waved at him to go on. ‘Your godchildren?’
‘Well, I also try to do a daytrip in the Easter school holidays, and one in the summer—even if it’s just a visit to the ambulance station...’
‘They must love it.’
‘Oh, yes. So their parents know better than to jeopardise that by asking me to give up a Saturday night so they can go to a wine bar.’
‘I tend to get caught on the hop.’
‘Well, be careful,’ he warned, ‘or you’ll have your friend, husband and baby all crammed into your flat and you looking after the baby while they go to the bar...’
He must have seen her pressed lips.
‘Do not get a bigger place,’ he warned.
He was the first person to make her feel better about having the tiniest flat in the world.
‘If they want to come and see you then they can book a hotel—or tell them you’ll catch them the next time you’re home.’
‘I like your way of thinking.’
‘And find the name of a good babysitting service should they actually come and see you.’
‘They’ll never come!’ Libby laughed, and then her laughter faded because she knew it was kind of true...
Not so much the babysitting part—she loved babies—but she did feel a little adrift from her friends who had settled down...
Alistair made being single sound like an attribute—something to relish. Gosh, he made saying no to friends with children sound possible...doable. He was just so...in tune with his own priorities. He did not sway to please, and she liked that.
Really, really liked that.
‘So, you have a physical assessment tomorrow?’ said Libby. ‘Is that a work thing?’
Alistair nodded.
In fact he was near the end of a long application process to get into the Hazardous Area Response Team, and was eventually aiming to work for the Paramedic Tactical Response Unit.
In truth, he rather doubted he would get accepted into HART. Not because of the physical assessment or the studying or anything like that. It was the team player part.
He was very independent, and although he liked being in a team at times, he liked taking charge and working alone too. The HART application process was thorough, and there was no showing only your best side to advantage.
All sides were being scrutinised.
So he wasn’t letting anyone in on his plans. Well, a couple of colleagues knew, like Brendan and Lina, but aside from that he was trying to keep it under wraps. He didn’t want to discuss it now, with Libby, so he left his response at a nod and moved on.
‘Do you want dessert?’ he asked.
‘Always.’ Libby smiled and pushed a token towards him. It was then that their fingers brushed—or rather, their fingers met.
It felt electric.
But also more than electric. Because when you come into contact with electricity, the natural response was to pull back.
Neither of them did, so Libby amended her thought inside her head. It felt magnetic, because now his fingers were toying with the tips of hers.
And he didn’t let go. In fact, he turned her hand over and commented on the smooth pale skin.
‘For someone who must use alcohol rub a thousand times a day, you have very soft hands.’
‘Because I use hand cream a thousand and one times a day,’ Libby said, smiling. ‘Well, that’s possibly an exaggeration...’
She examined his very neat nails and rather lovely long fingers and thought how nice they felt, lingering in her own.
‘Yours are soft too.’ She looked up to his smile and met his eyes. ‘Do you use hand cream?’
‘Much to Brendan’s mirth, I do.’ He nodded.
For the first time in memory, Libby found she actually didn’t want dessert. Instead, she wanted to sit playing with his fingers and marvelling at the feel of his skin against hers.
‘I’m so pleased you dropped your glove and had to come back.’
‘I didn’t drop it,’ Alistair said, and she looked up from their joined fingers to chocolate-brown eyes that knew how to flirt. ‘At least, not by accident.’
‘Oh!’
She loved it that he didn’t hide it—that he didn’t pretend this night was an accident. She loved it that he had, in fact, engineered it. Thinking about that made a smile spread across her face. A smile watched by those gorgeous dark eyes.
Suddenly, that feeling she’d had beside the fridge was back...that feeling that she was possibly about to be kissed!
‘Dessert?’ Alistair said, separating their hands as a rather grumpy waitress came to clear their plates.
Gosh, she thought as she helped herself to ice-cream at the dessert bar, never in a million years could she have imagined that her difficult day would turn out to be so promising.
So very promising.
He made the rather noisy surroundings melt away into nothing, so she could imagine they were the only two people in the world. Alistair made a pub dinner exciting.
Special.
It was as if Libby had chosen the most romantic restaurant in existence.
Still, even with dessert they couldn’t stay at the table for three hours when the pub was this busy. They got up to leave, but both were happy not to part ways as they stepped out into the night.
In fact, with no plates or grumpy waitresses hurrying them on, they freely held hands. As naturally as if they’d been together a hundred years and held hands every day.
Libby went into the off-licence next door and bought Brendan a nice bottle of wine in a bag with a bow as his reward for helping with the fridge. Since she’d bought dinner for Alistair, they were even now.
Then they walked to a small corner shop, and Libby bought a couple of essentials for her new fridge—milk, butter, cheese...
‘It’ll be nice to have milk in my coffee in the morning,’ Libby said, and then pressed her lips together, because everything she said sounded as if she was flirting.
He didn’t answer that.
She selected two chocolate treats at the checkout.
Well, she selected one easily and then dithered over her second choice, her hand hesitating between a bar of hazelnut chocolate and one of chocolate-covered nougat.
‘Sorry,’ she said, glancing up to the shopkeeper, who she caught smothering a smile, and then looking to Alistair, who stood patiently behind her. ‘This one,’ she said, choosing the nougat, instantly regretting it, but trying not to show it.
She paid for her purchases and then Alistair bought a fondant-filled chocolate egg. ‘I’ll have it when I get home.’
Libby pouted as they walked out the store. ‘Now I want a chocolate egg.’
He didn’t answer—just looked up at the sky, which had turned to black as large drops of rain started to splash down.
‘I’ve got my umbrella,’ Libby said, opening up her vast bag. ‘I think...’
She didn’t have her umbrella.
‘I must have left it at home,’ she said, rummaging in it even as he steered them into a covered doorway. ‘Typical. The one time...’
She looked up, and suddenly umbrellas really didn’t matter because he was pulling her close.
‘Are we going to wait it out here?’ Libby asked.
‘It’s been almost three hours since we left the fridge,’ he said. ‘Aside from that, I don’t think the rain’s going anywhere.’ As she reached for her phone, to summon a cab, his hand gently caught her fingers to stop her calling. ‘I said it’s been almost three hours. Can’t risk you turning that fridge on...’
‘Oh...’ She happily put her phone back in her bag. ‘Well, it’s true that I don’t have any patience.’
‘Exactly,’ he agreed, and pulled her into him.
She gave in then. She had waited three hours, after all, and when it came to it she found she had never known a kiss like it.
God, he was so sexy—because there wasn’t any awkwardness. It was just a thorough rainy night kiss.
She was suddenly mindful that at any moment the little handles on Brendan’s wine bag might break, so they stopped kissing for a second so she could put it carefully into her shoulder bag, and then got back to their deep kiss.
His lips were divine—firm and incredibly thorough—and he held her so firmly she didn’t even have to lean on the wall for support.
He even took care of the carrier bag with her fridge food in it, grabbing it and lowering it to the floor.
‘Luckily no glass in that one,’ she said, and then his hands slid inside her coat and they got back to kissing again. She had never—not once in her life—wanted someone so badly, so urgently. It felt as if she’d been wanting him since this morning—and she undoubtedly had.
She was pressed against him, and it was very clear he wanted her too. But just when she was going to suggest they make a run for the flat—because it felt imperative that they must not part—it was he who pulled her hips and his mouth back.
‘We’re going to stop,’ Alistair said. ‘Because I have to strip off tomorrow during my assessment and I don’t think we’re going to be gentle, do you?’
Libby gulped, because usually she was so boring at sex. She didn’t think it was anything special, if past experience was anything to go by. But she wanted to pinch him, and taste him, and just...
He brought out something in her that no one ever had before.
‘I think you’re being very sensible,’ she said.
‘Sometimes,’ Alistair said, caressing her hips and looking at her with a hunger that had nothing to do with food, ‘I wish I wasn’t so sensible...’
‘So do I,’ Libby agreed. ‘But you’re completely right.’ She was practically hanging off his neck. ‘Thank you for all your help today. When did you change your mind about coming to help with the fridge?’
‘I’m not telling you,’ he said, kissing her neck and cupping her breast through her jumper.
She leant against him and realised that she had never been so consumed by desire for someone. So instantly attracted to another person. And the best part was that it was clearly entirely reciprocated.
‘Please tell me...’ she whispered. ‘When did you change your mind?’
‘I was always going to come.’
‘Were you?’ She smiled and could feel the pressure of his hands as he resisted pulling her back in.
‘Call for your cab...’ he said, and she reluctantly did so.
Unfortunately, her car was all of two minutes away, which left time for just one more kiss before her phone bleeped again. ‘It’s approaching... Damn!’
He laughed at her angry hiss. ‘Thank you for dinner.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ She looked at the torrential rain. ‘How will you get home?’
‘I’m used to it,’ he said, zipping up his jacket.
She stared out onto the street and watched a zillion headlights glaring, then a silver car pulled up. ‘I’m going to go and plug in my fridge now.’
‘Hold on.’ He halted her, pulling her back into the doorway. He took her phone and checked the registration of the arriving car against the one she had ordered. ‘Yes, it’s good. Always check!’
‘Okay!’
‘I mean it. Don’t just jump into some random car...’
‘Yes, Alistair.’
‘And remember—next time you buy a fridge, or whatever, measure twice, cut once...’
Libby laughed and made a dash for it in the pelting rain.
As she sat in the car for the short drive home she felt an unexpected bulge in her pocket. She reached her hand in and found a shiny foil-wrapped fondant-filled egg...and let out a happy sigh of surprise.
She was still wearing a smile as she let herself into her teeny-tiny flat. She immediately plugged in the fridge and turned on the switch, admiring her own restraint as she waited before opening the door.
‘Let there be light!’ Libby said.
And there was.
And also, suddenly, a booming clap of thunder.
More sheets of rain had started to fall, and if she’d had Alistair’s number she’d have texted him to make sure he’d got home okay—and not just because she was a worrier.
It was filthy weather out there.
And while eating her lovely chocolate egg, she peered out at the storm-laden night and worried about him on his motorbike.
Worried a lot.
