Page 19 of Worth Every Risk

Mr Hawkston winces a little. It clearly pains him to let her down, but he does it anyway. “I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to go back to work.”

“No! Daddy, no—”

“I’m sorry. There’s a big deal that’s supposed to complete tomorrow and I—”

“I hate you.” She stamps her foot and clenches her hands into tiny fists that hang at her sides. “You’re the worst daddy in the whole world.”

Mr Hawkston stiffens, and although he doesn’t look at me, I sense he’s acutely aware of me watching this interaction. “Lucie.” Her name is a harsh reprimand. “That’s no way to talk to your father.”

Lucie’s face crumples and she lets out a roaring wail, drawing the attention of people nearby. Mr Hawkston’s face looks like thunder.

Trying my best not to scowl at him, I place my hand on Lucie’s shoulder and crouch down to her level. “It’s so disappointing, isn’t it? That Daddy can’t stay?”

The wailing stops as she stares at me with watery eyes. Her chin dimples, and she bites her quivering lip. Her little arms weave their way around my neck and she sobs into my shoulder.

Mr Hawkston’s glare scratches my skin, as if all my clothes have turned to hessian. I try to ignore the discomfort, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

After a moment, his features soften and he touches the tips of his fingers to Lucie’s head, but she burrows harder against me, and his fingers slide off, making something in my chest pinch. “I‘ll see you later,” he whispers. “Come find me this afternoon.”

Lucie twists her head and glowers at her father. “I’ll spend the day with Ariel.” Then she sticks her tongue out and blows a raspberry. “I like her more than you.”

Mr Hawkston’s nostrils flare, but he backs off, casting one last lingering look at his daughter before he turns and marches away, disappearing between display cases and other museum visitors.

“Don’t worry,” I say to Lucie, whose tremulous gaze is fixed on her father’s retreating form. “We’re going to have the best day ever.”

By the time we get home, it’s after 4 pm. I’m exhausted, and Lucie is weary too. I did my best to cheer her after Mr Hawkston’s departure. We had pizza in South Kensington, and afterwards we spent a couple of hours in Kensington Gardens. Despite the fact that we had a car to drive us around everywhere, I still spent a lot of time standing and my feet are aching.

“What shall we do now?” I ask, once we’re back in the house. I slide off my shoes, unbuckle Lucie’s sandals, and leave them in the boot room in the basement.

“Popcorn and a movie,” Lucie suggests, flashing me an irresistible smile.

We make our way to the kitchen, and Lucie directs me to a cupboard where there are multiple bags of posh popcorn in every flavour imaginable. She picks the salted caramel, and we take it to the cinema room.

It’s entirely dark in here because there are no windows, but when we enter, four elegant wall lights flick on. They cast a golden glow over the room, making it feel like a real cinema. The carpet is a plush deep red, and the cinema chairs are wide and luxurious. The screen is enormous too; larger than any TV I’ve ever seen in a private house.

Lucie hops up onto what’s effectively a large love seat in the front row and taps the cushion next to her. “Sit with me.”

We settle on the sofa, choose the newest DreamWorks animated movie on Netflix, and Lucie shouts for the lights to go off, which they obediently do.

She nestles into me, and her hair smells like baby shampoo. Her readiness to trust me, a complete stranger only yesterday, tugs at my heart. She’s so innocent, so vulnerable, and I find myself thinking about how harshly Mr Hawkston reprimanded her today at the museum. She’d clung to me after I’d expressed the tiniest hint of empathy. Does she ever get that from her father? It’s clear she loves him, given how excited she is whenever he appears… but how often is he too busy to attend to her emotional needs?

In the cinema room, we share the popcorn until the bag is empty. The room is warm, the seat incredibly comfortable. It’s not long before Lucie falls asleep, but I let the movie run. I don’t want the sudden silence of turning it off to shock her intowakefulness. In the cosy darkness, it's not long before my eyes drift shut too.

I wake, confused.Where am I?The empty packet of popcorn crinkles in my lap as I rouse, and I remember. The cinema screen is blank, and panic shoots through me. I must have fallen asleep.What time is it?I fumble for my phone, wishing briefly that I had one with a torch on it.

The screen lights up. 6.07 pm.Thank goodness it’s not too late.

Lucie is still sleeping beside me, the low rumble of her snoring filling the room. I stretch and yawn as I ease myself out of the seat. I’m about to lift Lucie too, when I hear a noise somewhere further down the corridor. It’s the whirring pulse of machinery and the thump of quick footsteps.What is that?I creep down the darkened corridor, following the sound.

The door to the gym is wide open, casting a rigid box of light across the dim hall, and the cold air conditioning filters out, penetrating the warmth of the corridor as though I’m standing before an open freezer door. I tiptoe forwards and peer inside, keeping to the shadows. The gym walls are white, and there are multiple high-end gym machines, weights, and everything else you’d expect in a public gym. There are even duplicates of some machines. Perhaps Mr and Mrs Hawkston used to exercise side by side. The idea doesn’t sit well, like a film of grease sliding over the contents of my stomach. But why should it bother me? They were married. It’s only natural that they did things together. I shake off the odd sensation.Maybe I ate something bad.

Mr Hawkston is running on the treadmill. He’s wearing only a pair of grey shorts, while what looks like a damp t-shirt hangson the bars of a standing bike nearby. I don’t know how long he’s been here, but it’s long enough to have worked up a sweat all over. His broad, muscled back shines like he’s coated in oil. There’s a mirrored wall in front of him, and I can see his chest, which is just as slick and as defined as his back. The ridges of his abs are practically cliffs and ravines. It’s the definition of a washboard. Just how much time does he spend down here?

His face wears a pained expression and he’s blowing breaths out, his legs and arms pumping hard. There’s a raw masculinity pulsing off him that’s hard to resist. I tilt towards him, desperate to get closer. What would it feel like to touch that body? What would this man be like in bed? His skin, sweat-slicked, and his muscles firm against me?

Shit.A low, aching pulse of arousal begins between my legs. I should stop staring and leave, but I don’t want to. My heart is thumping like a fist beating against a wall.

He presses a button to stop the treadmill, his footfall slowing. He reaches for a nearby towel, wiping his face and the back of his neck.Holy hell, he is breathtaking.

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