Phoebe nodded. ‘She enrolled me in a couple of free “come and try” dance classes. I loved it. Ballet, particularly.’
‘Did you continue to study?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘She couldn’t afford it. Nor could she get me to class reliably. She often worked two jobs, just to cover our bills.’
Sympathy softened his eyes but Phoebe tilted her chin. ‘She was an incredible woman. I will always be proud of her for how hard she worked. She tried her best, every day. And it wasn’t easy. She wanted better for me.’ Phoebe pressed her palm to her stomach. ‘So you can imagine how I felt when I realised I was going to be returning home to walk in her footsteps—a single mother, with a father who may or may not want anything to do with us.’ She blinked quickly. ‘At least, that’s what I thought, when I found out I was pregnant.’
His voice was soft, but rumbly. Deep, as if drawn from the very depths of his chest. ‘That would never have been your fate. From the moment I learned of the pregnancy, I have wanted to be here, to support you, to be a father.’
Tears threatened. She blinked again. ‘I know that now.’
He expelled a breath and she had the sense he was holding something back, perhaps waiting until later. ‘What did she want for you, Phoebe?’
Her mother. Phoebe pressed her fork into the paella thoughtfully. ‘Just something better.’ She tasted the rice, swallowed, then took a sip of her water. ‘But then she got sick, and I had to leave school.’
More sympathy in Octavio’s eyes. She focused on a point over his shoulder. His sympathy made her want to cry. Worse, it made her want to stand up and walk around the table, sit in his lap and let him put his arms around her. To hold her until his strength seeped into her and she felt whole again.
She’d been strong for so long. Strong on her own. It had been such a burden to carry, but she couldn’t share that with Octavio. She couldn’t ask it of him. That’s not what they were. His words were burned into her brain, and she knew she’d need to hold them like a talisman in order to keep a cool head in all this.
‘What kind of sick?’
‘Cancer.’ She toyed with her hair, pulling it over one shoulder. ‘She only lived a year after her diagnosis. It was very aggressive.’ Tears sparkled on Phoebe’s lashes then. ‘I was devastated.’
‘You must have been. What happened to you, Phoebe? You were only seventeen and an orphan. Where did you live?’
She shrugged softly. ‘I just didn’t tell anybody. I kept paying rent until the lease ended, I kept going through the motions, but meanwhile, I was packing up Mum’s stuff and working out what the hell to do with my life. I missed her so much it felt like I’d been shot.’ She shook her head. ‘I was just in a grief fog, I think.’
He nodded with genuine understanding.
‘When did you get the job at the school?’
‘That’s what I was doing all along,’ she clarified. ‘When my mum got sick and I needed work. An old teacher of mine had moved there—she got the job for me. It was just basic admin work.’
He reached across then, finding the hand she’d withdrawn from him earlier, and weaving their fingers together, making it harder for her to pull away from him. Not that she wanted to.
‘And eventually, you met Christopher.’
Her stomach dropped. She thought of Christopher, his steely blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, short blond hair. She thought of the way she used to look at him and believe him to be the most handsome, perfect man in the world. She thought of all the things she’d thought and how wrong she’d been, and it was a perfect reminder that she couldn’t trust her instincts. Shecouldn’t trust that what she felt was actually true. She’d been so wrong about him.
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me,querida, what was the age difference between the two of you?’
Her skin prickled with goose bumps at the easy way he slid the term of endearment into the question. It meant nothing though. He’d used the same phrase the first time they’d been together. It was just habit for Octavio, it didn’t mean anything. None of this did.
Reluctance held her silent a moment. ‘He was older.’
‘How much older?’
She bit into her lip. ‘About ten years.’
Octavio’s eyes darkened. ‘And did he know about your mother?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘One of the teachers said something. He’d remarked on me being very quiet, so she’d told him why.’
