Second Chance Hero (17 page)

I look back to the headstone, but I can't think of
anything to say. Eventually I settle for the topic of Jenna and sit on floor
where she did moments ago.

“Hi, Dad.” I start, feeling stupid, “I’m sorry I
haven’t been to see you but it doesn’t feel the same. Jen said she talks to you
a lot, I wish she’d talk to me. I wish you could tell me what she says, I think
you’re the only one who knows what she’s thinking.”

I look back at the truck, but Jenna is facing the
other way, giving me privacy.

“I think she’s pregnant, Dad. And it might be mine.
It was stupid, an ignorant mistake on my part, but I want it. The thought of
Jenna carrying my child drives me crazy. Is that what it was like for you when
Mum got pregnant?”

I sigh, thinking about my parents and the love they
had. They argued, everyone does, but I don’t have one memory of them unhappy
together. We all used to dance in the kitchen to Frank Sinatra, my dad twirling
my mum and holding her close. They would always hold hands, Mum would curl up
on Dad’s lap at night and watch TV and they would never go to bed without each
other. My eyes sting as I think about my mother sitting alone the night he
died, watching the front door and waiting for him to walk through it.

“She misses you. She’s lonely and I haven’t been
around much. I’m trying to live up to the man you were; I’d be happy with a
fraction of your character. But how do you know when it’s enough? How do I know
if I’m good enough? I wish you could give me the answers, because I pushed
everyone away when I lost you and Jen. I’m struggling and I need you.”

            I stand up, unable to do it anymore, and
take a deep breath. Jenna is still waiting for me, sitting on the bonnet, and I
walk straight up to her, sliding my waist between her swinging legs.

            “Thank you.” I say and I can feel the
emotion in my voice. That was harder than I thought it would be.

“You’re welcome.” She strokes her thumb under my
eye, wiping a tear away that I didn’t know had escaped.

And then she pulls me into her, wrapping her arms
around my neck and holding me close to her chest. I squeeze my arms around her
waist and hold her to me. I don't want to let her go. She could have told me to
do this by myself, spouted the shit that I needed to do it. She could have
shied away from talking to Dad, but she spoke first to give me the confidence
to do it. And she gave me space; not the kind where she looked without me
catching her, but the kind that respected someone’s privacy, and the difficulty
of what I’ve just done. And now I’m crying into her summer dress, finally
letting the grief of losing my father take over.

“It’ll be okay.” She says resting her head on top of
mine, “Your dad would be proud of you, of everything you’ve done. I’ll bet he’s
even scoring you for all the hot women you’ve pulled.”

I look up at her and she’s smiling down at me. For
once she’s not mocking my method of coping, but using it as something else my
dad would have patted my back for. I don't know if that’s true, or if he would
have lectured me for taking advantage of women, but I like to think he’s got
his score cards out up there.

“They didn’t mean anything.”

“I know.” She nods and smiles. She believes me.

And in that moment as empathy and kindness pours
from her in an aura of summery colours, I fall in love with her all over again.
I know we’re not at the point where I can tell her it’s only ever been her,
explain everything about my ‘trait girls’ as she likes to call them, but I will
tell her when she’s ready to accept it and believe it. And I will spend the
rest of my life with this incredible, selfless woman.

“What do you want to do now?” I ask her, stepping
back and holding her hand to help her down.

She takes off across the courtyard and I chase her
to the toilets. She fails to shut the door before I reach it and I hear her
throwing up. Oh, yeah. I had almost forgotten about that.

“Jen?” I push the door open as she sits back and
wipes her mouth with a tissue.

“I attempted to make cola cakes today. Apparently,
they don't work.”

“Why would you make cola cakes?”

“I thought it would be fun for the kids at the
fete.” She stands up and washes her hands before splashing water on her face
and rinsing her mouth out.

I want to believe she made horrible cakes, but I’ve
never known any of Jenna’s recipes to fail. Her spewing and the fact I saw her
at the hospital hits the nail in the coffin about my suspicions on Jenna’s
pregnancy. She’s pregnant. It might be mine, it might be Kip’s, but that arse
isn’t here. I’ll look after Jenna. I made it my life mission when I was five.

Jenna

            God, I was so ill yesterday. I read
online that cola cakes are a huge hit with children at parties; I planned to
put some vanilla butter cream on them and decorate them with cola bottles. But
no, cola cakes are not successful and my night spent in the bathroom throwing
up everything I ate for two days proved that.

            So I’m back in the bakery today, trying
out some other fun recipes. I’ve made small batches of popcorn cakes, choc chip
cookie cakes and chocolate cakes decorated to look like monkey faces. I’ve also
made some vanilla cupcakes and arranged them on a tray to look like a robot. I
decorated them with vanilla icing coloured orange and I’ve made some model nuts
and bolts and buttons to decorate each one with to create the picture. I’m
excited when I see the robot come to life and I stand back to look at my work
when it’s done. Perfect.

            “Those ones won't make you throw up will
they?”

            I jump in the air, tipping the tray.
Luckily they stay in one piece and I turn around to see Deacon standing in the
doorway of the kitchen.

            “What the hell?” I laugh, “You
frightened the life out of me.”

            “I thought you heard me come in.”

            “Clearly I was lost in my work. How long
have you been standing there?”

            I can't ignore his appearance as my eyes
rake in his cut off jean shorts, and dust covered grey t-shirt.

            “Long enough to watch you wiggle your
hips to the music.” He smirks and I reach over and turn the music off.

            “What do you want?” I try to ignore the
heat coursing through me at the thought of Deacon watching me. I should be
embarrassed, I was probably dancing like an idiot.

            “Do you really want me to answer that?”
He cocks one eyebrow and I know what’s going through his head. I’m thinking the
exact same thing.

            But I smile and shake my head, “No. Why
are you here?”

            “Well if I’d have known how much you
like Bruno Mars I would have been here ages ago. But actually, I brought you
something. Put the kettle on.”

            He smiles and saunters back to the front
of the shop and I do as I’m told, making us both a cup of tea. I hand it to him
as I join him in the shop front and notice a box shaped gift on one of the
tables, wrapped up in paper with little cupcakes on it. He’s actually brought
me a present.

            “What’s that?” I ask, sitting opposite
him, the box in the way of looking at him.

            Deacon slides the box against the wall
and I can see his beautiful face again. I don't know why God would make a man
that looks that good. It makes everyone else in the world look like mere
mortals, while Deacon’s chiselled jaw, piercing blue eyes and kissable lips
make him look like a god himself.

            “Well, it was to thank you for
yesterday.”

            “Was?”

            “And then I realised it was just because
I wanted to get you something.”

            A schoolboy grin spreads across his face
and he’s excited to see me open his present.

            “Can I open it?”

            He nods quickly and I’m not one for
saying men look cute, but he does. I can see he’s nervous, wondering if I’ll
like whatever is in the box. I don't care what’s in there, I’ll like it because
he’s giving it to me, and thinking about me as much as I think about him.

            “Go on.” He urges, as I run my fingers
along the fold of the wrapping paper.

            I smile and rip it open. I expected the
box to be a ruse for a small present inside, but the pictures on the box tell
me Deacon has more money than sense.

            “Why would you buy me this?”

            “Have a look inside.”

            So I do. The mixer inside the box is top
of the range, but the incredible man sitting opposite me has had it
personalised. It's pink with black polka dots, like the theme of my shops, and
has ‘Jenna’ in cursives along the top in silver.

            “This is incredible.” I whisper, pulling
out the Styrofoam and tugging the mixer out. Deacon holds the box, and puts it
on the floor so I can inspect the appliance, “You stupid man.”

            “I thought you’d like it.” He looks
offended but I laugh.

            “I love it, I just don't understand why
you would spend so much money on me.”

            “You’re worth it. Plus you can have two
recipes on the go.”

            “Thank you.” I fight back the emotion.

            “Wanna try it out?” He asks, looking
nervous again.

            “With you?” Deacon nods, “Yes.”

            He picks the mixer up and the box with
all the attachments in the bottom, and I follow him to the back with the cups
of tea.

            “So what are we gonna bake, chef?”

            I laugh, “What do you want to bake?”

            “I can't bake for shit Jenna and I have
no creativity when it comes to food. I cooked beef stew for Christ sake. And
that’s as far as my culinary skills go.”

            I giggle, pulling on my apron and
grabbing my recipe book.

            “Wash your hands. And clean your shirt.
You don't want to eat cakes with dust in.”

            My breath catches as he makes his way to
the sink and takes his shirt off, throwing it on the floor. Does he realise
what he does to me? Of course he does, he does it to every girl. The thought
unsettles me and I turn back to the recipe book, unclipping a recipe for
vanilla cupcakes.

            “Vanilla?” He makes me jump, inches from
my ear and I know he’s half naked behind me. I swallow hard, as I feel his heat
radiate into my pores.

            “Sometimes the simplest ones taste the
best.”

            “Mmm.”

            “It’s what you do with them afterwards
that makes them magic, or ruins them.”

            Suddenly I’m not talking about cakes,
and I think the thought hits him as hard as it does me. I instantly regret it,
remembering how sweet he’s been recently. But remembering beach night has us
both feeling uneasy; I can sense it pouring off him.

            “Just divide the ingredients in half. We
don't want to waste a load of cakes.”

            I turn around, leaving the sheet on the
counter and plug my new mixer in.

“How will you make a shop full of cupcakes every
day?” Deacon asks, spooning butter in the weighing scales.

            “Most cakes are made from a basic sponge
mix. I’ll make a big batch of that and then make the changes for each cake in
portions. I can start off in the morning with a few batches of cakes and make
new cakes throughout the day. In London we have people baking while people
serve and we take it in turns to bake late. But I won't need to do that here.”

            “Will you cope running this place by
yourself?”

            “Yeah, I think so. I ran the Covent
Garden shop before I found Carl. Jade said she’ll come help while Pip’s at
school if I need a hand.”

            He nods, satisfied, and turns the mixer
on.

            “Do you wanna go for dinner?” Deacon
asks after a long silence, whilst shaking a sieve over his mixing bowl. The
flour is flying everywhere.

            “Here.” I step behind him, and slink my
arms under his. Partly because I want to help him get the mix right, missing
flour doesn’t make for a light fluffy sponge, but mostly because I’m desperate
for some intimacy with him. I hold the handle of the sieve on top of his hand
and hold his other hand in mine. I shake the sieve, tapping it against the heel
of his hand.

            “That’s clever.” He rasps.

            “Stops the flour going everywhere.” I
step back to my Eton mess mix, cutting up the strawberries, “So, dinner. When?”

            “This weekend?”

            “I can't.” He deflates and I haven’t
noticed before now, how he does that when he thinks I’m going to reject him, “I
have to go to London at the weekend. But I can do dinner tonight?”

            “Really?” He looks surprised, but I
didn’t miss him tense when I mentioned London.

            “Yeah... if you get those cakes right.”
I wink and get back to my cakes, folding the chopped strawberries into the mix.

            The way Deacon looks at me doesn’t go
unnoticed, as if he’s dying to touch me but something is holding him back. I’m
both relieved and disappointed that he doesn’t make a move, but I think I need
to keep my head clear, which is impossible when his hands are on me. But I
won't ignore, or deny the way I feel every time his hand touches mine, when his
arm brushes my shoulder, sending luscious little flicks of desire through me
with every piece of covert yet intentional touch.

            “How are you going to decorate them?” I
ask, shutting the door of the oven.

            When I turn around Deacon is leaning
against the counter with his hands fisted at his sides, his eyes burning into
me. It’s clear he saw the tattoo again, when I stretched up to the top shelf of
the oven. I don't why my tattoo does things to him, but I know it does.

I got it on a night out with Abbie; she has a thing
for ink, and a spur of the moment decision in my depression over not being able
to get over Deacon had me lying on a black leather tattoo chair, having a
complicated rose design with a hidden ‘D’ in the middle inked into the bottom
of my back.

It’s the way he looks when he’s seen it that has me
feeling caught, called out again like he did when I drunk dialled him. I feel
like he knows that tattoo ensures I carry him around with me where ever I go. I
was already with Kip when I got it too, which makes it even worse that I had a
man’s initial tattooed into my skin.

“What?” I ask, thinking he’s finally going to ask me
for the story behind the only tattoo I’ve got; the only one I’ll ever get.

But his fists fly forward and he opens his hands and
flour flies into me in a cloud of powder and I look like I’ve jumped into a tub
of talc.

“Hey!” I laugh, shaking like a dog, and reach for
the flour.

He shields his face but I get enough of him to
ensure he looks as messy as me, flour gathered in his hair and on that naked
chest. Oh god. I want to touch it, to brush the powder off and then run my
tongue along every line of muscle visible; but I take off as he grabs another
handful and throws it in my direction. I grab the bag and chase him around the
counter in the middle of the kitchen, laughing as I throw cloud after cloud at
him. But I realise this was his plan, when he stops and turns in one swift
movement and grabs my waist as I run straight into him.

“You’re dirty.” I stutter, trying to ignore the look
in his eyes.

“Yes. I am.” He doesn’t break our gaze as he speaks,
and I know he’s not talking about the flour.

“Deacon-” I start, but he effectively shuts me up by
lunging into me, crushing his lips to mine and bumping me into the counter.

I want to tell him to stop; that we can't do this
until we figure out what’s going on. It’s much more than lust between, I know that;
but this is how we communicate, and I prove this by snaking my tongue into his
mouth and catching his bottom lip between my teeth. God, he tastes delicious,
like vanilla sponge mix and I smell it as he moans into my mouth.

“You taste like vanilla.” I whisper pulling back and
look into his primal stare.

“Where else would you like my vanilla mouth?”

I can't answer as he grazes his teeth along my jaw
and down my neck, nipping gently on my sensitive skin, and moves along my
collar bone. Deacon slides the straps of my vest down my arms, brushing my skin
with his fingertips as his mouth follows the vest’s journey to my waist and the
straps slide down my frozen hands.

“You want me to stop?” He asks, looking up from
where he kneels before me with a devilish grin.

I swallow and lick my lips, my mouth is so dry. I
want to tell him to stop, that this isn’t right, but I shake my head and push
my hips into his kneading hands.

Deacon bites his bottom lip and makes short work on
the button and zip of my jeans. I’m glad I wore matching underwear today and
shaved in the shower last night, because my pink boyshorts join my jeans on
their descent to my ankles. And I’m left in my bra with my vest bunched at my
waist and my bottoms in a pool at my feet. I gasp as Deacon nudges my legs open
with his nose and presses his face to the top of my thighs. My hands fly to the
lip of the counter and hang on for dear life as his tongue traces along my seam
and his finger eases inside me. I throw my head back, my hair tickling my hypersensitive
skin.