Chapter Eighteen

      Alex didn’t take no for an answer and a taxi ride later he showed her into his penthouse apartment. He ran Maggie a warm bath and filled it to the brim with bubbles.

      “This is kind, but there’s no need for a fuss.”

      “I’ll be the judge of that.”

      “It was just jitters.” She straightened her shoulders, composing herself. “The scare threw me, but I’m fine now. Really. I don’t need to stay, but I wouldn’t say no to dinner.”

      “You’ll not say no to breakfast either,” he said firmly, “Because you’re staying here tonight. I have to be sure that you’re okay.”

      She lolled in luxury, letting the warmth seep into her bones, the twin news taking root in her mind. Calmly she told herself, “You can do this. You’ve thought it through from every angle.” She trailed her hands through the bubbles, her nails a bright-orange contrast to the white froth. “Except the one where you get two babies for the price of one.” With twins, being a single mum was certainly going to turn out tougher than she’d expected, but she didn’t have any regrets.

      Wrapped in a bathrobe she padded about barefoot on the soft carpet, a warm mug of tea cradled in her hands. Thanks to Alex’s upmarket bath soak she smelt unusually spicy; grapefruit and bergamot top notes, the bottle said. Through floor-to-ceiling glass, lit-up London was spread out all around.

      “The closest I’ve come to a view like this was on the London Eye,” she said.

      Alex stood next to her. “It’s over there.” She picked out the distant circle of lights and the Houses of Parliament beyond.

      Stripped of his wet clothes, he’d changed into one of his new shirts.

      “I’m modeling my new look for you. What do you think?”

      She gave him the thumbs-up. She’d forgotten all about the makeover.

      He tore off the shirt that she’d okayed and stood in the center of his minimalist living room, completely filling up the space with his fabulousness.

      She’d fallen into the trap of wondering what it would be like to have Alex in her life as more than a friend once before. She didn’t intend to make the mistake again.

      Maggie rummaged in a bag. It was killing her trying not to think about touching that body, being touched back. Sun-golden skin. Taut muscle. Broad chest. Divine six-pack. The dark arrow that speared down from his navel. She pulled out a shirt.

      “Here. Enough of the fashion parade, already. You’re too fab for words. And I have complete faith that it all looks great on you.” She threw it across the room and he caught it. His body was driving her to distraction. “Put that on. It’s got dinner-cooking-shirt written all over it. I’m going out of my mind with hunger over here.”

      He grinned, shrugged his muscular arms into the shirt and quickly did up the buttons. In his hurry he’d done them up wrong. Her stylist’s compulsion to fix it got the better of her. “Something’s not right. You look a bit squiffy.”

      “I haven’t touched a drop,” he protested, mockery in his eyes.

      Maggie’s hands hovered over the fabric covering his chest as she undid and redid the offending buttons. For an electric moment she craved his kiss. Her head spun. An out-of-control compass point, she ached to lose herself in him. It wasn’t going to happen.

      “That’s better,” she said primly. She walked away, putting some space between herself and Alex, feeling all the while as if she was attached to a bungee and that if she dared to let go she’d ping straight back into his arms.

      “Right. Dinner,” he said decisively. He headed into the kitchen area of the amazing open- plan space and set to work, taking out pans and hunting out ingredients from the huge fridge. She couldn’t help noticing that it contained a row of champagne bottles, just sitting, chilling, waiting for someone suitable to come along and pop the corks. A twinge of agony spiked through her, knowing that she wasn’t that someone suitable. She hitched herself onto a stool, and Alex passed her a glass of iced water. As he cooked dinner the ice cubes slowly melted.

      Twenty minutes later he’d magicked up tagliatelle with smoked ham and mushrooms in a red pesto and crème fraiche sauce. It was on the tip of her tongue to say “I could get used to this”. She held back, biting down on her bottom lip. He sat on the stool next to her at the kitchen island. “Did I forget something?” he asked. “Black pepper? Parmesan?”

      She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s perfect.” You’re perfect.

      “Where’s the spare bedroom?”

      “There isn’t one. I’ll sleep on one of the sofas.”

      Like all things delicious, one more glass of wine or cracking into the second layer in a chocolate box, Alex was too much of a good thing, and Maggie knew she ought to go. She didn’t want to, not if she didn’t have to, so she stayed.

      Alex produced some fresh linen and together they stripped and remade the bed. Until Alex she hadn’t realized just how good having a man in her life to rely on could be. It threw her decision to become a single parent by choice into sharp focus. Was she being selfish? Was she even up to the task? She wouldn’t get bored and make a shambles of being a parent like her mother. She’d tracked her down and filled her in via a video chat. She’d seemed quite enthusiastic about becoming a grandma. She’d also had some news of her own. She was selling the beach bar, returning to the UK, and getting married.

      “My mother’s leaving Spain.” Maggie stuffed a pillow into a fresh white pillowcase. “She’s met someone called Frank from Scotland. He’s a builder. A widower. He has three grown-up kids, and a two-year-old grandson. They’re planning a small wedding in a Scottish castle, no less, just as soon as she finds a buyer for the bar.” Alex raised his eyebrows and together they straightened the duvet. “Anyway she’s promised to be there for the birth, and to help out whenever she can.”

      “With the best will in the world, Scotland and Cornwall are at opposite ends of the country.”

      “She’s genuinely making a new start. She’s promised to try and be a cool granny.”

      “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

      Maggie threw a pillow at him. “Not necessarily,” she insisted. “Mind you, she was disappointed to find out that you’re not the dad. She was pretty excited at the idea of having a celebrity in the family.”

      Looking at each other from opposite sides of the bed they both rolled their eyes.

      When the bed was made, Alex took a blanket from his wardrobe and went off to sleep in the living room. Alone in his very big bed Maggie lay on her stomach, turned onto her side, flipped over on her back, turned onto her other side, and started the whole cycle again. Fifteen minutes later she was no closer to falling asleep. She got up and went to find Alex, dragging the king-size duvet behind her.

      “Alex?” she whispered.

      He