Read Online His Perfect Bride? by Louisa Heaton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louisa Heaton
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her, he thought, his face flushing again at the thought of slowly peeling away her clothes to reveal a veritable teasing trail of tattoos.
He stood up abruptly, clearing his throat. ‘I ought to go. Leave you to your rats and spider.’
‘Are you on call?’
‘No, Dad’s covering tonight.’
‘I like your father. He seems a good man.’ She looked up at him, her face glowing in the reflection from the warm fire.
Olly nodded. ‘He is.’ This was better. His father was a safer topic.
‘What happened? With your mum? You don’t mention her.’
What could he say? That he had no memories of her—only the stories that his father told about the amazing woman that Olly struggled to recall? How it hurt to admit that he didn’t remember how it had felt to cuddle her, what she’d sounded like, what she’d smelt like?
He sank back down onto the edge of the sofa. ‘She died when I was two.’
‘I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like not to have a mother. Your real mother, anyway.’
She looked it, too. Truly sorry.
‘That’s okay. It was a tragic accident. No one could have done anything about it.’
‘Do you remember her at all ?’
He shook his head. ‘No. But my father tells me about her, and we’ve got lots of photos and some family videos. There’s one of me and her lying on a picnic blanket, facing each other. She’s laughing and smiling and beaming at me with such joy and pride on her face…’ The memory of the picture, describing it to Lula, hurt. Olly cleared his throat. ‘Dad loved her very much.’
‘I’m glad. Though not that you lost her. In a way, I guess it means you had something missing from your childhood, too?’
Olly nodded. Definitely. He’d always been aware that there was a giant mother-shaped holein his childhood. During his schooldays he’d hated the times when everyone but him had made cards or gifts for Mother’s Day. Or when only his father turned up for assemblies or sports days or parents’ evenings. When he was still small he’d used to imagine what it must be like to snuggle up to a mother at bedtime. Or to have one stroke his fevered brow when he was sick. To spoil him a bit.
His father had been good at dismissing a lot of his childhood illnesses: ‘ It’s just a cold’ or ‘It’s just a tummy bug’ . He’d done his best, though, occasionally sitting on the edge of Olly’s bed when he was poorly, but it had always been hard for him to switch from ‘doctor mode’ to ‘father mode’.
‘I guess so.’
Stuck for something to break the tension, he handed her his mug and thanked her for the hot chocolate.
She walked him to the front door, opened it. He walked out into the snow, his footsteps crunching on its crispy surface. He turned to say goodbye.
‘Thank you for your help today, Olly.’
‘It was nothing.’ He smiled.
‘No, I mean it. You’ve really been so kind about me taking your grandmother’s cottage and putting my little zoo in it. I appreciate they must have been a shock.’
He looked deeply into her warm brown eyes. ‘I’m learning to expect the unexpected with you, Lula. Don’t worry.’
She smiled, then leaned forward to stand on tiptoe and peck him on the cheek.
As her lips brushed against his face he froze, his eyes closing in surprised delight at the feel of her soft, warm lips against his skin. Close up, he could smell her slight perfume, but couldn’t identify it. Whatever it was, it was delightful. Summery and warm. A hint of jasmine…?
Quickly he regained control of himself, knowing he probably looked a bit idiotic with his eyes closed, inhaling her scent like a kid on a gravy advert. Flushing, he stepped back further into the snow and wished her goodnight, his heart sinking as she closed the door and he was no longer exposed to the warmth and light of the cottage.
Olly trudged back to his four-wheel drive, his thoughts as deep as the snow.
What was going on?
Am I developing feelings for Lula? I can’t be…
He stood up abruptly, clearing his throat. ‘I ought to go. Leave you to your rats and spider.’
‘Are you on call?’
‘No, Dad’s covering tonight.’
‘I like your father. He seems a good man.’ She looked up at him, her face glowing in the reflection from the warm fire.
Olly nodded. ‘He is.’ This was better. His father was a safer topic.
‘What happened? With your mum? You don’t mention her.’
What could he say? That he had no memories of her—only the stories that his father told about the amazing woman that Olly struggled to recall? How it hurt to admit that he didn’t remember how it had felt to cuddle her, what she’d sounded like, what she’d smelt like?
He sank back down onto the edge of the sofa. ‘She died when I was two.’
‘I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like not to have a mother. Your real mother, anyway.’
She looked it, too. Truly sorry.
‘That’s okay. It was a tragic accident. No one could have done anything about it.’
‘Do you remember her at all ?’
He shook his head. ‘No. But my father tells me about her, and we’ve got lots of photos and some family videos. There’s one of me and her lying on a picnic blanket, facing each other. She’s laughing and smiling and beaming at me with such joy and pride on her face…’ The memory of the picture, describing it to Lula, hurt. Olly cleared his throat. ‘Dad loved her very much.’
‘I’m glad. Though not that you lost her. In a way, I guess it means you had something missing from your childhood, too?’
Olly nodded. Definitely. He’d always been aware that there was a giant mother-shaped holein his childhood. During his schooldays he’d hated the times when everyone but him had made cards or gifts for Mother’s Day. Or when only his father turned up for assemblies or sports days or parents’ evenings. When he was still small he’d used to imagine what it must be like to snuggle up to a mother at bedtime. Or to have one stroke his fevered brow when he was sick. To spoil him a bit.
His father had been good at dismissing a lot of his childhood illnesses: ‘ It’s just a cold’ or ‘It’s just a tummy bug’ . He’d done his best, though, occasionally sitting on the edge of Olly’s bed when he was poorly, but it had always been hard for him to switch from ‘doctor mode’ to ‘father mode’.
‘I guess so.’
Stuck for something to break the tension, he handed her his mug and thanked her for the hot chocolate.
She walked him to the front door, opened it. He walked out into the snow, his footsteps crunching on its crispy surface. He turned to say goodbye.
‘Thank you for your help today, Olly.’
‘It was nothing.’ He smiled.
‘No, I mean it. You’ve really been so kind about me taking your grandmother’s cottage and putting my little zoo in it. I appreciate they must have been a shock.’
He looked deeply into her warm brown eyes. ‘I’m learning to expect the unexpected with you, Lula. Don’t worry.’
She smiled, then leaned forward to stand on tiptoe and peck him on the cheek.
As her lips brushed against his face he froze, his eyes closing in surprised delight at the feel of her soft, warm lips against his skin. Close up, he could smell her slight perfume, but couldn’t identify it. Whatever it was, it was delightful. Summery and warm. A hint of jasmine…?
Quickly he regained control of himself, knowing he probably looked a bit idiotic with his eyes closed, inhaling her scent like a kid on a gravy advert. Flushing, he stepped back further into the snow and wished her goodnight, his heart sinking as she closed the door and he was no longer exposed to the warmth and light of the cottage.
Olly trudged back to his four-wheel drive, his thoughts as deep as the snow.
What was going on?
Am I developing feelings for Lula? I can’t be…
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