‘You answered the advert?’ Patrick gave a faint frown, as if he found that surprising. Then he gave a little shrug. ‘In that case, why are we all standing on the doorstep? Let’s show you the kittens.’
‘Kittens?’ It was Hayley’s turn to look confused. ‘What kittens?’
‘Our kittens. The kittens in the advert.’ Patrick pushed the sleeves of his jumper up his forearms in a casual gesture that made her stomach curl with desire.
How could a man’s arms be sexy? Those dark hairs were like a declaration of his masculinity. And why did he have to have such a good body? She’d spent an entire night exploring every muscular curve of his powerful physique.
Reminding herself that his wife probably did the same thing all the time, Hayley dragged her eyes away from his arms and his body and focused on the tumbled blonde curls of his daughter. His daughter. If looking at her didn’t kill her libido, nothing would. He wasn’t available. He’d never been available. Even for that one special night, he hadn’t been hers.
‘I don’t know anything about kittens.’ If he was making up some story to satisfy his son, she wished he’d at least make it plausible.
‘You said you answered the advert,’ he said patiently, and Hayley wondered why he was trying to make her look stupid.
‘I did. The advert asked for a live-in housekeeper over Christmas. Someone to cook a turkey.’
‘I didn’t advertise for a housekeeper.’
‘I spoke to you a few hours ago.’ How could a man look so good dressed in faded jeans and a black jumper? ‘I asked you about the children. You told me that you had two—a boy and a girl.’ He’d look good in anything, she decided. And nothing.
His eyes were narrow and assessing. ‘We were talking about the kittens,’ he breathed. ‘We have kittens that need a good home. A boy and a girl—which is what I put in the advert. No mention of a housekeeper. Nothing about turkeys.’
He was going to pretend he didn’t know?
Hayley dug in her pocket and pulled out the crumpled advert. ‘Here.’ She pushed it into his hand, noticing that the little girl had inherited her father’s killer blue eyes. ‘Someone who knows how to cook a turkey—that’s what it says.’
‘Can I see that?’ His fingers brushed against hers and that touch was sufficient to ignite the same powerful chemistry that had made her forget morals, common sense and her own rules and spend the night with a stranger.
Determined to look as indifferent as he did, Hayley yanked her hand away and pushed it into the pocket of her coat. If her hands were in her coat then she couldn’t give way to the temptation and touch him, could she?
‘I don’t know anything about this advert.’ He scanned it swiftly, a puzzled frown on his face. ‘It’s our phone number, but—’ His voice tailed off and he slowly turned his head and looked at his son, his blue eyes suddenly dark with suspicion. ‘Is this the reason you’ve been so jumpy all day?’
Pinned by his father’s sharp, questioning gaze, Alfie shrank against the door. ‘I can explain…’
Patrick was ominously still. ‘I’m waiting.’
Alfie fiddled with his sweatshirt and gave an audible gulp. ‘Uncle Dan was placing that advert for the kittens when you were away having that interview in Chicago and he was looking after us. He kept saying, “Problem solved,” and I thought if we got ourselves a housekeeper, that would be another problem solved.’
‘Are you saying that Uncle Daniel placed this advert for a housekeeper?’
Alfie stared up at his father in silence, apparently frozen to the spot. ‘No.’ His denial was a tiny squeak. ‘That was me. I did it. It wasn’t Uncle Dan.’
Hayley wondered why the child’s mother couldn’t cook the turkey. Was she hopeless in the kitchen? Or maybe super-stud kept her too busy in the bedroom, she thought miserably. Or perhaps his wife thought cooking was beneath her, like her stepsister did.
Hayley watched as Patrick gradually coaxed the truth from his son. She sensed that he was angry—he had to be angry—and she braced hers
elf for him to yell.
Suddenly she couldn’t bear it.
The little boy was so sweet, he didn’t deserve to be yelled at by a father who couldn’t keep his trousers zipped.
But Patrick didn’t yell. Instead, he hunkered down in front of his son. ‘You advertised for a housekeeper over Christmas?’
‘We need someone, Dad,’ the boy blurted out. ‘You’re good with babies, but you’re hopeless with turkeys. And the rest of the Christmas stuff. And you’re bound to be called to the hospital because you always are and then you’ll call Mrs Thornton—and I hate Mrs Thornton. Her lips are too red. It’s like she’s drunk blood or something.’ The child glanced at Hayley and she gave a sympathetic shrug.
‘That can happen with red lipstick,’ she muttered. ‘You have to be really careful with the shade. I once had one that made me look as though I’d been punched in the face. Hopeless.’
Alfie gave a delighted laugh while Patrick looked at her with incredulous disbelief.