Free An Inconvenient Desire by Alexia Adams

his. He swept the last drop of moisture off her cheek with his thumb. “Sit here.” He led her toward the love seat. “I’ll get you a cool cloth and a glass of water.”
    He returned a minute later and passed her the water and flannel as he sat beside her. She wiped her face and drained the entire glass, then took a deep breath. The wobbly smile she gave him made his breath catch in this throat. Here was the vulnerability he’d caught a glimpse of in the car on the way to Brisighella. Now it was laid bare and placed before him like an offering.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never cried like that before.” Her voice was raw. “I soaked your shirt.” She ran her delicate hand over his wet shirt. The heat of her fingers through the damp fabric set off sparks of awareness.
    “The shirt will dry,” he murmured, steeling himself against her touch. It wasn’t the time. “Do you want to talk about it?” The tentative smile faded from her face and he wrapped his arms around her again. She melted against him, unleashing another wave of longing. After a couple of deep breaths, she straightened.
    “It’s not a pretty story. But I’ll tell you, for Hannah’s sake. I know, in my heart, that her situation is nothing like mine. But maybe it will help you understand why it is so important that you show her how much you love her. The only other person who knows my past is Sophia. If it weren’t for her, I’d be dead for sure.”
    He shifted in his chair. Was he ready for this? But how could he tell her he didn’t want to know? That if she told him, he might feel things for her he didn’t want to feel? He didn’t want to risk getting even closer to her. He opened his mouth, but the words died on his tongue. It was already too late to keep his distance.
    She reached for her wine glass and took a long sip. When he stretched his arm along the back of the chair, she shifted, putting her head on his shoulder. Her long, slender fingers stroked the wine glass in a sensuous caress. He dragged his mind back from imagining her hands on his body.
    “My mother, Ellen, was seventeen when she became pregnant with me. She was already an alcoholic and drug addict. Her parents kicked her out of the house, and as far as I’m aware, never spoke to her again. Apparently, she made a botched attempt at a homemade abortion. When one of her friends told her that she could probably get a council flat as a single mother, she decided to keep me.” Olivia’s voice was soft, detached.
    “And your father?”
    “Not even my mother knows who my father is—evidently there were so many possibilities. It would seem, from my coloring and hair, he was black, but that only narrowed it down to three or four suspects. But it didn’t matter to Ellen. She had no plans of making a
happy family
with any man. Whoever my father is, he has no idea I exist.”
    That stung. If Celeste hadn’t tired of Hannah, he’d have no idea she existed. And despite his current dilemma, he wouldn’t want to not know her. “So, no grandparents, no father. It was just you and your mum?”
    “Yeah. Childhood was rough; we had very little. Ellen wasn’t really interested in being a mum. She never read to me or played. As long as I was quiet, things were okay. She battled her addictions, and she seemed to have control of them most of the time. But by the time I was eight, Ellen started going out at night, coming back in the morning drunk or high, often with some man. She’d get me ready for school and then sleep the day away.”
    “Wasn’t there anyone you could talk to—a teacher, social worker? Surely it’s illegal to leave an eight-year-old home alone, especially at night.” He forced his muscles to relax, to offer her comfort, support. There would be enough time for his outrage later.
    “She told me horror stories of children put into care, and said if I ever told anyone what happened at home I’d be taken away and made to live with