Helping Sarah

Chapter 27

Sarah

Michael wanted me.

The jazz hands were having a party in my stomach, and those once familiar sensations that had been missing for three years were joining in. If I had still been sitting down, I would have squirmed in my seat.

But that was the only interpretation I could come up with for that look Michael had given me, the way he'd held my hand, when he'd said it wasn't Bridgette he wanted.

He had said outright that he wanted to kiss me. There was no misinterpreting that.

I glanced at him beside me. We had just left the restaurant and were walking back to his house with Charlie between us holding my hand.

I wanted Michael too. With a fierceness I had forgotten was possible. It was no use trying to pretend otherwise, not when my body was alive and aware and dancing again, my heart hammering so loudly in my chest I was surprised he couldn't hear it.

Maybe he could. Michael smiled at me over Charlie between us, and my breath tangled in my smile.

A small doubt at the back of my mind still whispered to me that I was wrong. That Bridgette was beautiful and I was... not.

Yes, yes, I know I'm not a complete fright and I do have lovely, clear skin, but it was impossible to be near another woman who could pull off a tight, white dress without an unsightly bulge, bump or muffin top in sight and not compare.

Part of me wanted to draw back from Michael, thank him for all that he'd done and then leave, flee, before he could fail me, but a larger part of me wanted to simply jump him, kiss him, right there in the street in front of Charlie and anyone passing.

I turned my eyes ahead again, breathed in. It wasn't late, but the sun would soon disappear behind the buildings around us, and I was glad of the cardigan I'd brought. We were only moving at a slow pace. Charlie was flagging. It was almost his bedtime and he was on the brink of overtired. It wouldn't be long before he would be impossible to get to sleep without a tantrum or two.

As if on cue, my son halted in the middle of the pavement and hooked his arms over his narrow chest. "I not walk more."

The belligerent statement drew a sigh from me. "I can't carry you all that way, sweetie. You're too heavy. Can't you walk just a little bit more?"

"No. My legs urt." Charlie's face crumbled, and his pouted upper lip started to tremble.

My shoulders fell. I pushed my bag behind me and made as to crouch down and pick him up, but Michael beat me to it. He squatted down to Charlie's eyelevel.

"Charlie, do you want me to carry you?"

My son stared pitifully at him, then nodded and held up his arms.

I have to admit that my mouth fell completely open when the lovely, wonderful, handsome man by my side easily and willingly hoisted my son up to sit on his arm, Charlie's arms around his neck, and then walked on as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

The jazz hands took off in sheer excitement, but there was more to their frenzy than just lust, though that was a large part of it. Michael was so unlike Andrew that before I'd met him I would have scoffed at the idea of ever finding his careful, restrained and unpretentious manners attractive.

Where my husband had been bold and self-confident, and sometimes had needed more than one request before he did what I asked, like putting his socks in the laundry, Michael rarely spoke just to hear his own voice and he simply helped me when he saw that I needed it. Before I even realised that he could help me.