Blind-Date Baby

Blind-Date Baby
Fiona Harper

Urgent message: It’s a baby bombshell! Dear Noah It seems like just the other day when I met you on blinddatebrides. com. When my daughter signed me up I knew it was because she felt I sacrificed my life to bring her up alone. But you can still be forty and…flirty! I couldn’t believe my luck when my blind date was a tall, dark, handsome stranger – yet you turned out to be that and so much more…But now things have gone further and faster than I could have imagined, because – well, we’re pregnant! Noah – we need to talk. Love Gracewww. blinddatebrides. com From first date to wedding date!

Welcome to the www.blinddatebrides.commember profile of:Englishcrumpet (AKA Grace Marlowe)

My Ideal Partner… Young at heart, just like I am. No cardigan-wearers, please! My teenage daughter has just flown the nest and it’s high time I remembered what it’s like to be young, free and single. I’d be lying if I said I was looking for a soul mate—true love like that only happens once in a lifetime, and I’ve been there, done that, worn the black veil… But I’m looking for someone to share my life with. Preferably someone who loves rock music and cold Chinese takeaway!

Read the rest of Englishcrumpet’s profile herewww.blinddatebrides.com

www.blinddatebrides.com is running 25 chat rooms, 248 private IM conferences, and 15472 members are online. Chat with your dating prospects now!

Private IM chat between Kangagirl, Sanfrandani and Englishcrumpet:

Kangagirl:How was your date?

Sanfrandani:Weren’t you even just a little compatible?

Englishcrumpet:Erm…there might have been a little kiss…

Kangagirl:!!!!!!!!!!

Sanfrandani:And you turned down a second date? Why?

Englishcrumpet:He was too ‘grown up’ for me. And there was way too much chemistry.

Kangagirl:And that’s a bad thing?

Englishcrumpet:I can’t risk falling hard and then losing theman I love again. Surely I’m too old for allthat Romeo and Juliet stuff? That kind ofall-consuming passion only afflicts teenagers.Doesn’t it?

BLIND-DATE BABY

BY

FIONA HARPER

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

To my editor, Kimberley Young,

who urged me to dig deeper—somewhere else—

and I found unexpected treasure.

And to Jennie Adams and Melissa McClone—

even the (very) early morning IM chats were a blast!

CHAPTER ONE

GRACE MARLOWE and six o’clock in the morning weren’t normally on speaking terms. But here she was, standing in the middle of her darkened kitchen, the clock ticking in time with her heartbeat. Pearly light seeped between the slats of the blind, draining all colour from her funky little kitchen. She wrinkled her nose. Everything was grey, even the lime green mugs and the pink toaster. This truly was a repulsive time of day.

What was she doing here? Right about now she should be mumbling incoherently in her sleep, her left foot tucked over the top of the duvet to keep it nice and cool.

In a sudden flurry of movement she turned and headed towards a cupboard—any cupboard—and opened the door. It didn’t matter which one. She just needed to be doing something. Because she refused to think about why her little flat seemed like a gaping black hole this morning.

Bags of dried pasta and tins of tomato soup stared blankly at her from inside the cupboard. She shut the door carefully and tried the next one. Five boxes of breakfast cereal sat in a row, waiting for her to choose one of them. She closed that door too.

The kettle was within easy reach and she absent-mindedly flicked the switch. It roared into life, unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn stillness. She really must get around to de-scaling it some time soon. It boiled so violently when limescale had furred up the insides. The curse of London hard water…

Grace blinked. Just for a few seconds she’d forgotten to be miserable and lonely. That was good, wasn’t it?

She reached for her favourite mug, the oversized baby-pink one with the words ‘Hot Mama’ spelled out in crimson glitter. A present from Daisy last Mother’s Day. Daisy shared Grace’s love of kitsch and had known her ‘hot mama’ would appreciate the sentiment of the slogan and the garish colours.

Daisy had given the mug to her with a twinkle in her eye that had made Grace chuckle, pleased to see proof that her daughter had inherited her sarcastic genes. But when the laughter had subsided, she’d mourned. No more pigtails and scraped knees. Daisy was all grown up and ready to fly the nest.

In fact, she’d already flown.

It was Mother’s Day again in a couple of weeks and, for the first time ever, she wouldn’t spend it doing something totally fabulous with Daisy. Last year they’d gone to the ice rink and had spent the whole afternoon falling on their bottoms. Then they’d eaten a Chinese takeaway so huge it had gone down in family history as ‘the one that could never be surpassed’. But this year Daisy would be in Paris or Romania or Prague. She was going to be away for a whole year. And after backpacking there was university…

Grace hugged the mug to her chest. She missed her daughter already and she’d only been gone eighteen hours. How completely pathetic.

She dropped the mug to the counter with a clunk and stood there, her arms folded and her brows pinched together. Come on, Grace! You’re supposed to be the cool one, remember? The mum that all Daisy’s friends wished was theirs. The mum who had once worn fishnets and thigh-high boots to parents’ evening. The mum who had dressed up as Santa, complete with beard and potbelly, when little Joseph Stevenson’s dad had been too hungover to play the role. The fact that it had been Grace’s tequila that had caused the hangover in the first place was neither here nor there…

But Grace didn’t feel cool. For the first time in nineteen years she felt old and lonely. And not just wandering-round-not-knowing-what-to-do lonely. There was an ache deep inside her that could only have been caused by someone sneaking into the flat in the middle of the night, carving a huge chunk off her soul and stealing it away. She had a funny feeling that chunk might currently be sleeping in a youth hostel in Montmartre, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.

She made the tea and forced herself to turn the light under the cooker hood on. Sitting here in the dark would only give the impression that she was depressed, she thought as she slumped into a chair and lay her head on the table. Steam curled from the mug in front of her and she watched it rise gracefully on unseen currents and drift away. Eventually, she peeled her face from the table top and reached for the mug to take a sip.

Yuck! She stuck the tip of her tongue between her lips and grimaced. What the heck was wrong with her tea this morning? Looking into the mug gave her a pretty big clue. No teabag. Lukewarm water with milk in it was really not her thing.

Sighing, she hauled herself up from the table and crossed to the cupboard where the teabags lived. She reached inside and pulled out the Earl Grey. As she did so, a small pink envelope fell out of the cupboard and fluttered onto the floor.

Teabags forgotten, she bent to retrieve it and stood for a long moment looking at the familiar rounded scrawl that simply read ‘Mum’. She smiled. Ever since she’d been able to write, Daisy had had a habit of making her cards and notes, leaving them in unexpected places. Over the years the indecipherable crayon drawings had been gradually replaced by scribbled messages in a neat, even hand, but the flush of joy Grace felt at seeing each one had remained the same. She greedily tore open the envelope and began to read.

Dear Mum,

Please, please, please don’t be angry withme for this…

Grace frowned. She knew it! Daisy had borrowed her favourite David Bowie T-shirt last week, and she’d warned her daughter not to get any thoughts about ‘accidentally’ packing it in her rucksack. Little rascal. A smile turned up one corner of her mouth and she carried on reading.

…but I’ve got you a little going-awaypresent. I know how much you sacrificed tobring me up on your own, and now it’s timefor you to have some fun.

Grace stopped reading. A burning sensation tickled her nose and the backs of her eyes. She took another sip of hot water, shuddered and pulled herself together.

No one could have asked for a better daughter. And, somehow, Grace felt that God had blessed her with Daisy to make up for Rob being snatched away from her after such a short time together. Killed by a landmine on active duty in Iraq at the age of twenty-three. Where was the justice in that? He hadn’t even lived to see Daisy take her first steps or hear her say ‘Dadda’.

Grace sucked in a breath, overcome by the sudden urge to cry, but she shook her head, refusing to give in. She had Daisy. She had to focus on Daisy. Because Daisy had been the reason the sun had kept rising and setting for the last eighteen years.

She looked round the kitchen. Although she knew it was stupid to think so, it was easy to imagine the sun just wouldn’t bother to put in an appearance today.