The Secret in His Heart

‘Hey, Slater!’

‘Hey yourself, Princess,’ he said on a slight laugh as his arms wrapped round her and caught her tight against him. ‘Good to see you.’

‘You, too.’

She hugged him hard, her body warm and firm against his for the brief duration of the embrace, and he hugged her back, ridiculously pleased to see her, because he’d missed her, this woman of Joe’s. Missed her warmth and her humour, missed the laughter she carried with her everywhere she went. Or had, until she’d lost Joe.

Don’t tell me you’re getting married again—please, don’t tell me that …

Swearing silently, he dropped his arms and stepped back, looking down at the great rangy hound standing panting at Connie’s side, tongue lolling as it watched him alertly.

‘So—I take it this is your rescued dog? I’d pictured some little terrier or spaniel.’

Connie winced ruefully. ‘Sorry. Teensy bit bigger. This is Saffy—Safiya. It means best friend. Joe sort of adopted her in Afghanistan on his last tour. He was going to bring her home, but—well, he didn’t make it, so I brought her back.’

Typical Joe, he thought with a lump in his throat. Big tough guy, soft as lights. And he’d just bet she’d been his best friend, in the harsh and desolate desert, thousands of miles from home. A touch of humanity in the inhumanity of war.

He held out his hand for Saffy to sniff. She did more than sniff it. She licked it. Gently, tentatively, coming closer to press her head against his shoulder as he crouched down to her level and stroked her long, floppy ears. A gentle giant of a dog. No wonder Joe had fallen for her.

He laughed softly, a little taken aback by the trusting gesture, and straightened up again. ‘She’s a sweetie,’ he said, his voice slightly choked, and Connie nodded.

‘She is. I had to bring her home.’

Of course she’d had to, because Saffy was her last link to Joe. If Joe had been soft, Connie was softer, but there was a core of steel in there, too. He’d seen plenty of evidence of that in the past few years.

He’d seen her holding herself together when Joe was deployed to Afghanistan for what was meant to be his final tour, and then again, just months later, when he came home for the last time in a flag-draped coffin—

‘So, this is the new house, then,’ she said, yanking him back to the present as he opened the gate and ushered her and Saffy through it.

He hauled in a breath and put the memories away. ‘Hardly new. I’ve been here over two years. I’d forgotten you hadn’t seen it.’

‘No, well, things got in the way. I can’t believe it’s that long,’ she said. She looked slightly bemused, as if the time had somehow passed and she’d been suspended in an emotional void. He supposed she might well have been. He had, for years. Still was in many ways, and it was a lonely place.

Take care of Connie.

Guilt ate at him. He should have been there more for her, should have looked out for her, emailed her more often, rung her. It had been months, and he’d just let it drift by. Too busy, as usual, for the things that really mattered.

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, so he took her into the house, looking at it with the critical eyes of a stranger and finding it wanting. Not the house, but his treatment of it. The house was lovely and deserved better than a quick once-over as and when.

‘Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. I haven’t done a great deal to it, but the people I bought it from left it in great condition so I just moved in and got on with other things. I’ve been so busy I haven’t even unpacked the books yet.’

She looked around and smiled. ‘I can see that. You haven’t put any pictures up, either.’

‘I’ve got the sea. I don’t need pictures,’ he said simply, and she turned and looked out of the window, feeling the calming effect of the breakers rolling slowly in, the quiet suck of the surf on the shingle curiously soothing.

‘No, I suppose you don’t,’ she said. She glanced around again. The living space was all open, the seating area at the front of the house facing the sea, the full-width dining and kitchen area at the back overlooking the marshes and the meandering river beyond. There was an unspoilt beauty about the area, and she could absolutely see why he’d bought the cottage.

‘It’s lovely, James. Really gorgeous. I was expecting something tiny from the name.’

‘Thrift Cottage? There’s a plant called sea thrift—Armeria maritima. The garden’s full of it. I don’t know which came first but I imagine that’s the connection. It was certainly nothing to do with the price,’ he said drily. ‘Coffee?’

She chuckled. ‘Love one. I haven’t had my caffeine fix yet today.’

‘Espresso, cappuccino, latte, Americano?’

She blinked. ‘Wow, you must have a fancy coffee machine.’

He grinned. ‘Some things have to be taken seriously.’

‘So do me a flat white,’ she challenged, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

Typical Connie, he thought. Never take the easy route or expect anyone else to. He rolled his eyes, took the milk out of the carrier bag he’d just brought home and started work while she and the dog watched his every move, Connie from the other side of the room, Saffy from her position on the floor just close enough to reach anything he might drop. Hope personified, he thought with a smile.

‘You do know I was a barista while I was at uni?’ he offered over his shoulder, the mischievous grin dimpling his lean cheek again and making her mouth tug in response.

‘I didn’t, but it doesn’t surprise me.’

She watched him as he stuck a cup under the spout of the coffee machine, his broad shoulders and wide stance reminding her of Joe, and yet not. Joe had been shorter, stockier, his hair a lighter brown, and his eyes had been a muted green, unlike James’s, which were a striking, brilliant ice-blue rimmed with navy. She noticed the touch of grey at his temples and frowned slightly. That was new. Or had she just not noticed before?

‘So how long did the drive take you?’ he asked, turning to look at her with those piercing eyes.

‘Just over two hours—about two fifteen? I had a good run but I had to stop to let Saffy out for a minute.’

She stepped over the dog and perched on a high stool beside him, and the light drift of her perfume teased his nostrils. He could feel her eyes on him as he foamed the milk, tapping the jug, swirling the espresso round the warmed cup before he poured the milk into it in a carefully controlled stream, wiggling the jug to create a perfect rosetta of microfoamed milk on top of the crema.

‘Here,’ he said, sliding the cup towards her with a flourish, pleased to see he hadn’t lost his touch despite the audience.

‘Latte art? Show-off,’ she said, but she looked impressed and he couldn’t resist a slightly smug chuckle.

He tore open a packet of freshly baked cookies from the supermarket, the really wicked ones oozing with calories. He wouldn’t normally have bought them, but he knew Connie was a sucker for gooey cookies. He slid them towards her as Saffy watched hopefully.

‘Here. Don’t eat them all.’

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ she said innocently, her smile teasing, and he felt his heart lurch dangerously.

‘I’ve never yet met a woman who could resist triple choc chip cookies still warm from the oven.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘Are they still warm?’ she said, diving in, and he watched in fascination as she closed her eyes and sank her teeth into one.

He nearly groaned out loud. How could eating a cookie be so sexy?

‘Murgh,’ she said, eyes still closed, and he gave a strained chuckle and trashed his own rosetta as his hand jerked.

‘That good?’ he asked, his voice sounding rusty, and she nodded.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, a little more intelligibly, and he laughed again, set his own coffee down on the breakfast bar and joined her on the other stool, shifting it away from her a little after he’d taken a cookie from the bag.

Her eyes were open again, and she was pulling another one apart, dissecting it slowly and savouring every bit, and he almost whimpered.