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In the background of a blurry photo of kids dancing—musical statues?—April spotted a cardboard box. Just one. Beside it was a stack of newspapers, and beside that a stack of books.
But in the photo of Hugh and his mum together she was still smiling. Her hair was still lovely, her eyes sparkling. Hugh was smiling too, looking up at his mum.
April’s throat felt tight and prickly.
It seemed impossible, given she’d now spent weeks surrounded by the hoard, but until now she hadn’t really thought about the actual compulsive hoarding that must have occurred for this house to be in this state.
Maybe because the house was very neat—for a house full of boxes. And April associated hoarding with those unfortunate people you saw on television documentaries, with rotting food and mountains of rubbish. Vermin. This place wasn’t like that.
But that didn’t mean accumulating all this junk was normal.
April went back to the photos. For Hugh’s tenth birthday there had been no party. Possibly he just hadn’t wanted to have one, but April doubted it.
There weren’t any party photos the year after, or any of the years after that.
Instead it was just pictures of Hugh and his mum and—in the background—more and more boxes...
‘Boxes suck as party decorations.’
Hugh’s voice made April jump.
Her stool wobbled dramatically, and his hand landed firmly at her waist, steadying her.
She was wearing a chunky knitted jumper with a wide neck. The wool was soft against his fingers and the shape of her waist a perfect fit against his palm. But he made sure his hand dropped away the instant the chair was still.
A moment after that April practically leapt from her seat, turning to face him.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ she said, unnecessarily.
Her gaze roamed over him—just briefly. He was wearing his normal uniform of sorts: jeans, T-shirt, hoodie, trainers. Completely unremarkable.
And yet he sensed April’s appreciation. She liked how he looked.
Although hadn’t he known that since he’d helped her out of that stripy top? He’d certainly appreciated how April looked from the moment he’d first seen her.
Today was no different.
She wore light-washed jeans, and her jumper was pale lemon, oversized and slouchy, revealing much of her golden shoulders and a thin silver chain at her neck. Her dark hair was scraped back from her face in a high ponytail. It was neater than normal—probably because it was early in the day, and all those rogue strands hadn’t had the opportunity to escape.
He gave himself a mental shake. It wasn’t important. Wasn’t he supposed to be annoyed with her?
That was what he’d meant to do when he’d walked into the kitchen to find April so absorbed in those photos that she hadn’t heard his approach. He’d meant to ask her, What the hell are you doing?
Although, he reflected, that would have been a dumb question.
She was looking at photos. Duh.
But why? There was no need any more. The photos were his responsibility now. And something about having her look through them felt...almost intimate. Crazy when a few days ago she’d done the same thing with his school photos and he hadn’t cared.
Or at least hadn’t let himself care. He’d still been telling himself the photos were worthless and meaningless to him, after all.
But that hadn’t been true.
So maybe that was why his instinctive reaction was anger—anger that she’d been looking at images he now accepted meant something to him. Just what they meant he could work out later. They were his, and they were private photos. None of her business.
But by the time he’d gone to speak he hadn’t been angry at all.
Boxes suck as party decorations.
‘You stopped having birthday parties,’ April said, reading his mind.
‘Yeah,’ Hugh said.
He stepped closer to the bench, picking up a bundle of the photos she’d been studying with such concentration. He’d dump them in the box to take down to his flat. He would go through the photos later. It had been nice of April to offer to help him, but it wasn’t necessary.
‘I didn’t notice at first,’ he said. ‘You know...all the clutter, I mean. I was a kid. It was just my house. When I was old enough to tidy I kept my room pretty neat, but the rest of the house... I don’t know. Like I said, it was just my house.’
Hugh hadn’t intended to continue the conversation. At all. And yet—he continued.
‘The other kids didn’t notice either. Why would they? Their parents may have, but I wouldn’t have known, and Mum never would’ve cared.’
‘Really?’ April asked with raised eyebrows.
Hugh shook his head. ‘No. At first it wasn’t that bad, and my mum had always been pretty forthright about people accepting each other for who they were. She figured if the house was a bit untidy what was the big deal?’
‘But you didn’t like it?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘And it just got worse. And as kids get older they notice things. I had a friend over one day after school, before it got really bad, and he had a box fall on him while we were playing. He was fine, but I remember his mum talking to my mum in this really low, concerned voice, asking if she was okay and if she’d like some help. My mum didn’t like that. She laughed, I remember, and said she’d just had a busy week and really needed to get all the stuff to the charity shop.’
He was flipping through the photos, but not looking at them.
‘That was a lie. I knew she was never going to do that. Although I suppose maybe she was telling herself that she would one day. I don’t know. But—anyway—my mum never lied. Ever. And that combined with the other mum obviously thinking something was wrong... Well, then I knew something was wrong. So I didn’t have anyone over again.’
April hadn’t moved from where she stood. She just watched him, letting him speak.
‘Things got worse after that. Mum was always really sociable. I remember when I was really little that she’d have these elaborate dinner parties where she’d always try something fancy out of this fat hardcover cookbook she’d get from the library. But they stopped, too. She’d still go out and see her friends—we had a nice neighbour and I’d go and stay with her and watch TV—but the house was just for us. Us and the damn boxes.’
‘That must have been hard,’ April said.
Her words were soft. Kind. That was the last thing he wanted. Kindness. Pity. He didn’t know her. Why was he telling her this?
‘I was fine,’ he said, his words hard-edged. ‘I managed.’
She stepped close to him now and reached out her hand, resting it just below his elbow.
Instinctively he shook his arm free. ‘What are you doing?’
She looked surprised—at her action or his, he couldn’t be sure.
April swallowed. ‘Sorry. I...’ There was a pause, then she straightened her shoulders. ‘I wanted to touch you,’ she said. ‘I thought it might help.’
He shook his head. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘A long time ago?’ she prompted, her forehead wrinkled.
Hugh ran a hand through his hair. ‘I mean since I had to live like that. Mum—’ He hadn’t intended to explain, but he couldn’t stop himself. ‘When she met Len I was in the Lower Sixth, and she got better. She got the help she needed—did this cognitive behavioural therapy stuff, got in a professional organiser—and then, when she married Len, we moved here. She was good for a long time. It only started again when Len died, and—honestly—I did all I could. Everything I could think of to stop it happening again, to stop her filling the emptiness she felt after my father left and Len died with stuff. Objects she could cling on to for ever, that would never leave her—’
Her hand was on his arm again. His gaze shot downwards, staring at it. Immediately she removed her touch.
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind. It felt good.’
She placed her hand on his arm again.
Her touch through the fabric of his hoodie was light against his skin. Her fingers didn’t grip...they were just there.
‘I’m a hugger,’ April explained, her gaze also trained on her hand. ‘I can’t help it. I hug everybody. Happy, sad, indifferent. Hug, hug, hug.’ She sighed. ‘It’s sucked, really, not having anyone to hug since I’ve been in London.’
‘You want a hug?’ he asked, confused.
Her head shot up and she grinned. ‘No!’ she said. ‘I was just explaining.’ She nodded at their hands. ‘The touching thing. Because I’m guessing you’re not a hugger.’
A rough laugh burst from his throat. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not a hugger.’
Her lips curved upwards again. ‘I thought so.’
He rarely touched anyone except by accident. When would he? He had no family. A handful of friends. He worked remotely. He was resolutely single. And when he dated touch was about sex. Not this—not reassurance or comfort. This was touch without expectations.
It should be strange, really, to find comfort in the touch of a woman he was attracted to. The few times they’d touched before had been fleeting, but charged with electricity. And, yes, that current was still there. Of course it was.
But what she was offering was straightforward: her touch was simply to help him calm his thoughts and to acknowledge the uncomfortable memories he’d just shared.
It was working, too.
His gaze drifted from her hand to the photos he still grasped. On top was a photo taken of him in bed the morning of his tenth birthday. He’d just unwrapped his present: a large toy robot that he’d coveted for months. His mum had used the timer on her camera, propping it on his dresser, and she sat beside him, her arm around him, his superhero pillows askew behind them.
He and his mum were both smiling in the photo, and Hugh smiled now. A proper smile at a happy memory.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
For making him keep the photographs. For listening.
‘My pleasure,’ said April.
Then she squeezed his arm and her touch fell away.
‘Wait,’ he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HUGH’S VOICE WAS LOW. Different from before.
April went still. Her hand fell back against her thigh, already missing his warmth.
He stepped towards her, close enough that she needed to tilt her chin up, just slightly, to meet his gaze.
He studied her intently. ‘Why did you leave behind all the people you used to hug?’ he asked.
Her gaze wavered.
She put on a smile. ‘Early midlife crisis,’ she said.
Best to keep it simple.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Why are you here? Why are you working for me?’
She shrugged. ‘I told you the other day. Credit card debt.’
He looked her dead in the eye. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Ah. He was echoing her own words...the way she’d been challenging him.
She hadn’t expected the tables to turn.
She twisted her fingers in the too-long sleeves of her jumper...the fabric was all nubbly beneath her fingertips.
She wasn’t used to being secretive. She did, after all, document her life for millions of strangers. But this was different.
Hugh didn’t talk the way he just had about his past very often. Ever, maybe. April knew that—was sure of it. She understood what he’d revealed to her. How big a deal it was for him. So he deserved her honesty—she knew that.
But her reticence wasn’t just about hiding April Molyneux from a man who thought her to be April Spencer—it was more than that. There was something about Hugh—something between them that was just so different. So intense.
Until today they’d only teased the very edges of that intensity, and neither had taken it any further.
They’d both resisted temptation. The temptation to touch. To kiss.
Right now—with these questions, this conversation—it wasn’t as primal as before, although all that continued to simmer below the surface. But it was still a connection. And it still felt raw. As if sharing any part of herself, even her past, was only the start of a slippery slope.
It would lead to more. Much more.
And that was as tempting as it was frightening.
Frightening?
What was she scared of?
She didn’t answer her own question. It didn’t matter. Because she hadn’t come all the way to London to be scared of anything.
‘My husband left me,’ she said.
Silence.
She’d expected him to recoil. Because surely this wasn’t the conversation Hugh Bennell wanted to have with her?
Instead, he nodded. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked simply.
She smiled. Genuinely this time. ‘Yes,’ she said with confidence. ‘Now. Sucked for a bit, though.’
He smiled too.
‘I needed a change. So here I am. Unpacking your boxes and stacking supermarket shelves. Trust me, it’s not as glamorous a midlife crisis as I’d expected.’
‘What happened?’ he asked. Gently.
‘We fell out of love,’ she said. ‘Him first, but me too. I just hadn’t realised it. So I’m okay. Not heartbroken or anything. But it was still sad.’
‘Not heartbroken?’ he prompted.
Her gaze had travelled downwards, along his jaw and chin. Now it flew upwards, locking with his.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
Her gaze was heated. Hot. Deliberately so.
Nope. Definitely not scared any more.
‘No,’ he said, his voice deliciously low. ‘I don’t think you are.’
And just like that weeks of tension, of attraction, of connection were just—there. No glancing away, no changing the subject, no pretending it didn’t exist.
It was there. Unequivocally.
Oh, God.
His eyes were dark, and intensely focused on her. He’d moved closer again, so that only centimetres separated them, and there was no question about what he wanted to do next.
He leant closer. Close enough that his breath was hot against her cheek and then her ear.
‘I want to kiss you,’ he said, and the low rawness of his voice made her shiver.
How did he know? April thought. That she needed that? That she needed a moment? That despite the crackling tension between them doubts still tugged at her?
Could she trust her instincts after what had happened to her marriage? She’d got it all so very wrong. And, even more than that, could she actually kiss another man?
It had been so long—so very, very long...
‘Kiss me,’ she said, because she couldn’t wait another moment.
Although it turned out she had to.
His lips were at her ear, and he didn’t move them far. Instead he pressed his mouth to the sensitive skin of her neck, at the edge of her jaw. Suddenly her knees were like jelly, but strong hands at her waist steadied her.
The sensation of his lips against her neck and his hands against her body was so good, and April’s eyes slid shut as a sigh escaped from her mouth.
Her fingers untangled themselves from the sleeves of her jumper and reached for Hugh blindly, hitting the solid wall of his stomach and sliding up and around to the breadth of his back.
Hugh dotted her jaw with kisses that were firm but soft. And glorious. But not even close to enough. More than almost anything, she wanted to turn her head to meet his mouth with hers—but she didn’t. Because, even more than she wanted that, she wanted this anticipation to last for ever. This promise of Hugh’s kiss that, she realised, had been growing from the moment they’d met.
But he was definitely going to kiss her now—this mysterious man who was so different to anyone she’d ever met—and the wonder of that she wanted to hold on to. Just a few seconds longer.
By the time his mouth reached hers April felt about as solid as air. His hands pressed her closer, and then her own hands drew his chest against her breasts.
His mouth was hot against hers, and confident.
If she’d been tentative, or if her brain had been capable of worrying about her kissing technique or other such nonsense, his assuredness would have erased it all.
But, as it was, April didn’t feel at all unsure. In fact, Hugh made her feel that this kiss was about as right as anything could get.
His tongue brushed a question against her bottom lip and her own tongue was her crystal-clear answer. Her hands slid up his chest to entwine behind his neck and in his hair, tugging him even closer.
Their kiss was as intense as every moment between them, and as volatile. He kissed her hard, and soft, and voraciously. As if he could kiss her for ever, and as if they had all the time in the world.
But April was impatient.
She took the lead now, kissing him with everything she had and more. More than she’d thought she was capable of: with more passion, less control.
This was raw and passionate and...near desperate.
April wanted to be as close as she could be to him. She wanted him pressed up hard against her. She wanted to feel his solidity and his strength.
She wanted to feel his skin.
Her hands drifted down his back, skimming wide shoulder blades and the indentations of his spine. And then they slid beneath jacket and T-shirt to land at the small of his back. Against smooth, gorgeous, hot skin.
His hands followed a similar path, and his touch made her sigh into his mouth as it moved against her back, her stomach, and then upwards—against her ribs to the underside of her—
Something vibrated and Hugh went still.
He broke his lips away from hers, but not far. She could feel him breathe against her mouth as he spoke.
‘My phone,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too,’ she said, all husky.
His smile was crooked. ‘Yeah...’
Then he stepped away, and her skin felt bereft without his touch.
He fished his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. It appeared to have been a notification vibration, not a call, and he turned slightly to scroll through his phone.
When he turned back to her, he just looked at her for long moments. At her still slightly askew jumper, at her lips that felt swollen, at her eyes that she knew were inviting him to pick up exactly where they’d just finished.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he said, ‘That probably shouldn’t have happened.’
April blinked, her brain still foggy. ‘Why?’
‘Because you work for me. And your husband just left you.’
She shrugged. ‘You definitely didn’t take advantage of me,’ she said. ‘And the husband thing—that’s my problem, not yours. Nothing about what just happened was a problem for me.’
Mila and Ivy’s encouragement fuelled her. For all her misgivings up until their kiss, she didn’t regret it one bit now. She felt amazing: alive, and strong, and sexy and feminine...
‘I don’t want a relationship with you, April.’
Ouch.
It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.
‘And you thought the desperate divorcee must be keen to jump straight into another relationship?’ Her tone was tart. She didn’t give him time to respond. ‘And also, that if I did, I’d want a relationship with you? That’s rather presumptuous.’
April crossed her arms.
His forehead crinkled as he considered her words. ‘I suppose it is,’ he said. ‘I apologise.’
April nodded sharply. ‘Just to be clear—the last thing I want is a relationship. I was with my ex for a long time—I need to just be me for a while. That being said, I really liked what we just did. I’d like to do it again.’
She didn’t know where this bravado came from. She was practically propositioning Hugh Bennell. In fact, she definitely was. She was propositioning him.
Because that kiss... She’d never experienced anything like it. She’d never felt like this before and heat continued to traverse through her veins simply from the memory of his mouth against hers. His body against hers.
‘I’d like to do it again, too,’ he said. His gaze was steady and his words measured—as if he’d carefully considered her proposal before constructing his answer. ‘But, I’d also like to be clear. I date, but that’s it. I never take it further. I’m never anyone’s boyfriend. I’ll never be someone’s husband. You need to be aware of that before this goes any further.’
April found herself fighting a smile in response to his seriousness. ‘That seems a bit extreme,’ she said. ‘Never? Really?’
‘Really,’ he said.
He didn’t elaborate. He still looked at her with a determinedly serious expression.
‘Well,’ April said, smiling now, ‘I must say my experience of marriage wasn’t ultimately positive, so maybe you’re onto something.’
His lips quirked now. ‘It would seem so.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I can deal with that. No relationships. Deal.’
As she’d told Hugh, it was exactly the right thing for her. Quite honestly, the last thing she wanted was to leap from one relationship into another. But for some silly reason, Hugh’s rejection of anything more with her still stung.
There was another noisy buzz as his phone, now on the kitchen bench, vibrated again.
‘I need to go,’ he said. ‘I have a meeting. Can we do dinner? Tonight? I can email you the details.’
He was in business mode now, as efficient as his instructions and his emails.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But I only have a few hours before my second job.’
He paused, looking up from his phone. ‘How much extra would I need to pay you so you could quit that job?’ he asked.
‘Ah,’ April said, ‘that sounds like a conflict of interests. I don’t think HR would approve of that.’
‘I own the company,’ Hugh pointed out. ‘And I don’t like rushing dinner.’
‘Well, then, I don’t approve,’ April said firmly. ‘Let’s keep this professional.’
Hugh stepped closer—much closer. He leant down and spoke just millimetres from her lips. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘except for making out in the kitchen.’
Long minutes later they came up for air, and April lifted her fingers to her thoroughly kissed lips as Hugh finally walked away.
‘Agreed,’ she said, as the front door clicked shut.
The conference call was endless.
Hugh sat back in his chair, letting the wheels roll him back a small distance from his desk.
He’d docked his laptop, so the other attendees’ faces were displayed on the large slender screen before him. Everybody else allowed their faces to be shown, so Hugh could see each of them: the red-headed product manager in Ireland, his gaze focused on his keyboard, the dark-haired user experience manager in Sydney, her attention focused on the slides that the senior developer, also in London, was showing them...
The developer was talking directly into his camera as he discussed some of the technical difficulties his team was currently encountering, his purple dreadlocks draped over his shoulders.
Of course, Hugh’s face didn’t appear.
Hugh still insisted upon that, despite the recommendations of the digital collaboration expert he’d engaged to improve the effectiveness of his widely dispersed team. Yes, he could see how a video feed might—as the consultant had advised—improve both rapport and communication, but no matter how large his company became he was still in charge. Hence—no cameras. For him, anyway.Even now, so many years later, old habits died hard. Because, of course, it wasn’t about him. He didn’t care if his colleagues saw him and his slightly too long hair and three-day-old beard.
It was about his house. Everyone on the conference call was in their home. This meeting had a backdrop of contrasting wallpapers and paint colours, of artwork and photographs, of bookcases and blinds and curtains.
Hugh wasn’t going to contribute his home to that landscape. He didn’t let anyone into his home. In any way. Ever.
Except April.
It seemed April had become the exception to several things.