Starting Point (37 page)
I squeezed Matt’s fingers now. My voice squeaked. “What medical reasons?”
“He’s deaf.”
My eyes sprung with tears and when I looked at Matt, I covered my mouth and laughed.
“It’s a he?” Matt asked. His grin was huge and he was buzzing with excitement.
“Yes,” Tann answered. “Do you want me to send the file? I can email it to you now if you’d like?”
“Yes,” Matt and I answered at the same time.
Tann laughed into the phone. “Sending it to Kira’s phone now, so I can stay on the line to Matt’s phone.”
I pulled out my phone and clicked on the message icon. While we waited for the file to download, I looked at my family sitting with us. Mom was crying, even Dad was teary and Claude was grinning and bouncing in her seat. I put my hand around Matt’s shoulder and with a shaking hand, I pressed the file.
The picture was of a little boy, with longish brown hair, wide brown eyes and chubby cheeks.
His name was Nicholas.
Matt choked out a ragged breath and tears fell down his cheeks. He looked at me and nodded. I leaned my head against his and looked back to the picture on the phone.
This little boy, this little perfect human, was going to be ours.
“He’s perfect,” I said, unable to hide the tears in my voice.
Tann laughed again. “So, are you ready for your lives to change forever?”
I looked at my family, and I looked at Matt, and together we spoke into the phone, “Yes.”
Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:
Taxes and TARDIS
N.R. Walker
Excerpt
Chapter One
Traffic on a Friday afternoon in the central business district was hell. After two laps around the block, I finally found a parking space. I pulled my truck into the too-damned-small spot, grabbed the old shoebox off the front seat and walked quickly back to my intended destination.
It wasn’t very often I ventured into the business district. And as I walked into the building fronted by glass, I remembered why. My reflection was a stark reminder of just how underdressed I was. Compared to the expensive suits walking around filled with their own importance, my work boots and plaid overshirt were somewhat outclassed.
Following the signs, I walked down the expensive hall to the expensive office with the expensive desk. “Brent Kelly,” I said, introducing myself to the receptionist. “I have a three o’clock appointment.” I looked at my watch. “Which I’m a little late for.”
I smiled apologetically at her, hoping my scruffy blond hair, dark blue eyes and three-day growth would come off as rugged charm. I knew my looks could work in my favour with most women. Not my usual intended target, but hey, whatever worked.
She looked at me, my clothes, and the box in my hand, and she smiled. “Take a seat, Mr Kelly,” she offered kindly. “Logan will be with you shortly.”
Logan. My new accountant.
I hadn’t believed it when I’d phoned my old accountant to make my annual tax appointment and been told she’d been taken ill. I’d used the same accountant for years—she understood that I was hopeless, and now I had to explain that I was accounting-challenged to someone new. All her clients were being referred to new accountants downtown. Well,
they
weren’t new—they were just new to me. They were quite old and reputable, and I could just picture this Logan as a bean-counting dinosaur.
My accounts were a shambles. I knew that, and so did my old accountant. I’d gone to her for years. I’d hand over my shoebox of receipts and tax invoices with a warm smile, and she’d just do it all for me. Now I’d have to start from scratch, explaining everything to this new guy.
I was going to be there for hours.
“Mr Kelly?” I looked up to see the receptionist now standing in front of me. “Logan will see you now,” she said with a professional smile. She walked towards the open door at the other end of the room, and I presumed I was to follow.
She led me down the dark mahogany hall and about halfway down the corridor, she showed me into a dark office with a wall of books where a guy sat behind the desk, scribbling in a file. With another professional smile, and not another word, the receptionist turned and left, and there I was standing in front of a desk and a guy who still hadn’t even looked up.
I cleared my throat nervously. “Um…”
Only then did he look at me. “Yes, Mr Kelly, please take a seat.”
I noticed his English accent first. Then the fact that he wasn’t old like I’d presumed he would be. In fact, he didn’t look any older than me, maybe twenty-four, twenty-five. He had short, dark brown hair, pink lips and blue-grey eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses.
He looked at me for half a second, blinked, and looked back down at his paperwork. Typical pen-pusher. Typical bean-counter.
Nerd.
Geek.
I rolled my eyes in frustration, took a seat across from him and put my shoebox on the seat next to me. “Sorry I was late. I got held up at work then traffic into the city was bad. Took forever to find a parking space.”
He looked up from his desk at me. “That’s okay.” Then he cleared his throat and shook his head. “I’ve been going through your files sent over from your previous accountant,” he said casually, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I thought the shoebox might have been an exaggeration.” He smiled, as though he found me amusing.
I sighed. “Uh…no. It’s been my filing system for years…”
“Yes, that’s what it says here,” he said, tapping the file in front of him.
“Oh.” I couldn’t help being a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, um… Accounts are not my forte.”
He pulled out a clean piece of paper, pushed his glasses back up on his nose, and looked at me. “So, Mr Kelly—” he started.
“Please, call me Brent.”
“Okay, Brent, I’ll need some background information.”
So I started at the beginning. I told him I was an electrician by trade, self-employed and subcontracted to one of the biggest construction companies in San Antonio.
He asked questions about superannuation, taxes and insurance. He pulled my shoebox over and started leafing through the mess inside while he talked about income, expenditures, write-offs and whatever else, stopping every now and then only to push his glasses up on his nose.
His accent made everything he said sound musical and soft, which was a weird thing for me to notice. As was the colour of his shirt. It was a normal long-sleeved business shirt, but it was the bluest blue I thought I’d ever seen. He wore a darker blue tie and had a black vest on over the top.
I watched his fingers, his long, slender fingers, as he tapped them lightly on the page in front of him, and how he held the pen, and I watched his lips as he spoke. He had pink, even lips, and his pale British skin was like cream. He really wasn’t my type at all. I’d never been one for the studious kind. I preferred the athletic, adventurous type, but I found myself staring at him.
I didn’t know why I couldn’t stop staring as he spoke, the way his lips moved, his accent—God, his accent—how the too-blue shirt looked against his slender, pale neck, how the shirt highlighted the flecks of blue in his eyes, how his glasses didn’t make him look geeky, just smarter, cuter. I stared at him as he talked numbers, wondering…daydreaming…fantasising about what he smelt like, what he tasted like…
“Brent?”
My name snapped my attention back to what he was saying, rather than where my mind had just gone. I shook my head. “Yeah?”
“I asked if you’d categorised your tax holdings?”
“I’m sorry.” I shrugged. “You lost me at superannuation.”
He smiled and put down his pen. He really did have a pretty smile. “It’s obvious you’re not interested—”
“Yes, I am,” I said too quickly, interrupting him. Interested? In him? Oh, hell…
He blinked, seemingly surprised by my quick response. “Interested in your accounts?”
“Um, I try to be,” I said with a shrug, looking around the room. “It’s just that I’m not very good at it.”
“Hmm,” he hummed with a thoughtful nod. “This will take some time…” he murmured, though I think it was more to himself than to me. His long, delicate fingers rubbed over the smooth skin of his jaw. “I guess I could work on it over the weekend.”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” I told him honestly. One eyebrow lifted behind the dark rim of his glasses, as though he didn’t believe me. “If there’s anything I can do…” I stopped talking when I realised how stupid I sounded. “Well…” I cleared my throat. “If there’s anything I can do besides being better at my accounts.”
He looked at me and grinned. I think he almost laughed.
I nodded with a chuckle. “Yeah, I’m really not very good at anything with numbers.”
He chuckled that time and looked pointedly at the shoebox of receipts. “I can see that.”
I smiled at him and nodded, and in that moment of silence when I shouldn’t have said anything, I opened my mouth. “Your shirt is really blue.”
He blinked, taken aback by my not-related-to-accounts comment. “Oh,” he mumbled, a little embarrassed. “It was a birthday gift from my sister.”
“It’s very blue. Is it like a peacock blue?” God, why couldn’t I just shut up?
“Um, no.” He shifted in his seat. “It’s TARDIS blue.”
TARDIS…TARDIS…what the hell was a TARDIS? “TARDIS?”
He swallowed loudly. “Time and Relative Dimension in Space,” he murmured. “The telephone box from
Doctor Who
.”
“Really?” I snorted. Was he kidding? Oh, my God, no, he really wasn’t.
He stared at me, unmoving, and mumbled, “Yes. I happen to like
Doctor Who
.”
Oh, fuck. “Sure,” I amended. “I’m sure it’s great. It’s just that I’m not that familiar with it, that’s all.” I groaned inwardly. Talk about awkward. I changed the subject. “So about these accounts…”
He pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “I’ll have a look over them this weekend,” he told me.
“Um, I don’t want to interrupt your plans.” Then because my brain-to-mouth filter was on vacation, I said, “If your girlfriend doesn’t mind…” His eyes widened as the stupidity poured out of my mouth, so I tried to fix it. “Or your boyfriend. I mean I don’t want you to think you have to do it this weekend. I’m sure I can take my box of stuff and sort them, at least…”
His mouth fell open in shock, and he blinked. Twice.
“Oh, Jesus,” I mumbled, horrified. “Sorry…”
He blinked again.
I closed my eyes, wishing that my stupidity would just disappear. “Sorry. I didn’t… I mean…” I groaned, and taking a deep breath, I started again. “How about I take these,” I said, reaching out and picking up my old shoebox off the desk, “and give the office a call when I have them sorted?” I stood up, mortified at my inability to think or speak in front of this guy, and walked towards the door.
“Brent?”
I turned around, thinking he’d tell me he’d hand my files over to another accountant. He surprised me by walking around the desk towards me. And there we stood, facing each other, him in his expensive suit pants and vest, and me in my dirty work clothes and boots, with my stupid mouth. He reached out and took the shoebox from me. “I’ll take these,” he said, clearly amused.
I wasn’t expecting him to be as tall as me. His height surprised me, and as I opened my mouth to say something, only more stupid came out. “You’re tall.”
He laughed at me, and I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. But then I was suddenly aware of how close he was, and how he matched my six-foot height, how his eyes were in direct line with mine. He was still smiling. “Do you always struggle in social situations?”
I looked into his blue-grey eyes and shook my head slowly. “Not normally, no.”
He stared at me, tilting his head to the side. “And to answer your assumption before, no, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Neither do I,” I blurted out. Then I let out an embarrassed huff and tried to talk some sense. “Have a boyfriend, that is. I mean, yes, I’m gay, but I’m not seeing anyone.”
And he smiled at me. Not an I’m-glad-you’re-single kind of smile, but more of an I’m-smiling-because-you’re-an-idiot kind of smile.
I shook my head. Me, Brent Kelly, who played football, who could pick up any guy with just a suggestive nod, was being bent all out of shape by a bean-counting nerd.
A tall, delicate bean-counting nerd. A totally cute, funny, really smart, British bean-counting nerd with pink lips and long fingers. And a TARDIS-coloured shirt.
Still smiling, he walked back to his desk. “I have your details if I need anything else,” he told me. But then he put down the shoebox and picked up a business card. “This is me,” he said, handing me the small slip of cardboard. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “If you need to contact me, you can phone my cell out of hours.”
And just like that, he very smoothly gave me his number.
I took the card and read his name. “Well, Logan Willis, BCA, I might just do that.”
The corner of his mouth almost lifted in a smile, but he tilted his head as though he was trying to figure something out. His eyes were intense behind his glasses, like he was trying to find the answers on my face.
I stared back at him, wondering what he was looking for, and I wondered what he found when he huffed quietly and shook his head. “Okay, then,” he said with a puzzled smile.
“Okay, then,” I repeated with a nod.
I left him with the shoebox of receipts and papers, took his phone number with me, and went home on a mission. I really needed to ease the ache in my dick. And I really,
really
needed to find out what the fuck a TARDIS was.
About the Author
Who am I? Good question…
I am many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer.
