“It’s Alfie’s Feet, lovey,” corrected Gemma. Toby had developed a strong sense of identification with the little blond boy in Shirley Hughes’s books and demanded the stories so often that Gemma knew them by heart. Kneeling, she took the book from him. “I’ll tell you what, darling. Why don’t you go back in your room and find Dogger, too. Then I’ll read them both to you before bed.” She gave him an encouraging pat on the bottom as she stood and faced Duncan again. “I’m not quarreling,” she said. “You’re being patronizing.”

“You’re making a fuss over nothing, Gemma,” he said, leaning back and propping his hip against the black half-moon table that served as both dining area and worktop in her tiny flat. “You wouldn’t be so upset if I’d agreed to do this for someone else.”

“That’s just too bloody condescending,” she hissed at him. “You wouldn’t have done it for someone else!”

A shadow passed across the uncurtained garden windows, then a moment later came a tap at the door. Gemma took a breath and rubbed at her already flushed cheeks.

“Expecting someone?” Kincaid asked. Arms folded, he looked maddeningly unperturbed.

“It must be Hazel.”

Gemma gave him one last furious look, crossed the room, and slid back the bolt. When Gemma had given up the house she’d shared with her ex-husband and moved into the garage flat in Islington, she’d acquired an unexpected friend in her landlady, Hazel Cavendish, and Toby an ally in her daughter, Holly.

“Hullo, love.” Hazel greeted Gemma with a hug, then brandished a video in one hand while waving at Kincaid with the other. “Hullo, Duncan. We’ve rented The Lion King-again-and I thought maybe Toby could watch it with us before bed. And if the kids should happen to fall asleep on the sofa in front of the telly, we’ll just tuck them up and let them snooze.” She gave Gemma and Duncan a conspiratorial grin.