by Lily Malone
When she next looked up, he had the white bird on his shoulder and was standing in front of the cage, about to put the cockatiel inside.
He turned towards her, eyes all tired and haunted. ‘Do you like gin and tonic, Taylor?’
‘Moving on to the hard stuff now, are we?’
‘I make a mean G&T. I’ll mix you one. It’s one of my skills. That, plus I reckon I need it. Been a long day.’
‘He bakes scones and he makes cocktails. Will you marry me?’ She smiled to show she was teasing and he laughed, but it didn’t sound real.
‘That’s why I worry about you and me, Doc. I don’t believe in dreams anymore. I don’t believe in soul mates. You said it yourself. It doesn’t last.’
‘Well, just make me the damn drink then. I withdraw my proposal.’
He moved to Ella’s fridge, taking an old-fashioned ice-block holder out of the freezer, then to the plastic bag on the countertop, making it crackle as he pulled out a heavy-based clear bottle.
‘Will Ella have a cucumber, do you think? It’s the secret ingredient.’
‘I think so.’ She checked the crisper in the fridge. ‘Yes.’
His eyes were on her as she straightened, a little stiff, a little sore.
‘How are your feet holding up?’ he asked her, eyeing her shoes.
‘They’re okay.’
‘Liar.’
He peeled the cucumber lengthways in long thin strips and her attention was caught by his hands—long and strong, nimble fingers that reminded her of a surgeon’s, like her friend Izzy’s, only Abe’s were bigger.
The cucumber slices got threaded around the inner edge of a tumbler. Two slices in each glass, cut so skilfully thin they were transparent. Then ice cubes chinked to the bottom. He sliced lime, squeezed the juice on top of the ice, and he added a slug of gin—a very healthy slug—and finally the tonic, bubbling up to the top.
Abe tasted, added another squeeze of lime to his own drink, squeezed the lime again in hers, stirred with the reverse end of a spoon, then picked up the glass and handed it across the bench. ‘Here you go.’
She took the glass and he held out his arm to indicate the couches set off from Ella’s kitchen. He made her feel like his guest.
Taylor chose the end of the couch where a rug sat folded, wool and warm, with her John Sandford book atop it. She moved both those items and sat, toeing off her Rollies, stretching her legs. It felt great to put her feet up and she arched and then flexed her toes.
‘I could give you a foot rub,’ Abe said.
‘No way are you touching my feet. They’ve been in shoes and socks all day.’
‘It won’t worry me.’
‘You are not rubbing my feet,’ she said, tucking them beneath her on the couch.
Foot rubs were for Balinese beaches and holidays. Not couches in dark corners with troubled (young) men.
She dared a sip of the drink. It nearly singed her eyebrows, and she gave the glass a shake to make the ice cubes rattle. Hurry up and dissolve. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk, Abel? This is very strong.’
‘Definitely crossed my mind,’ he said, folding his body into the other end of the couch, bringing one knee up and resting his drink on his thigh. With dark jeans and a dark t-shirt, he merged into the furniture, though his hands, arms, throat and face were paler shades, easier to see.
The kitchen lights remained bright, but the lounge felt hidden away. With the music drifting, cocooning them, there was no hiding how intimate the nook became.
He lifted his glass to his lips, rolled the liquid for a few moments on his tongue and swallowed.
Taylor cleared her throat and took another sip herself. Warmth spread through her throat, branched into lungs and danced in her tummy.
‘So, Doc. I’m gonna be blunt about something,’ Abe said, and the intensity in his tone made her heart skip.
‘And what’s that?’
‘This foot rub.’
‘Not again.’
‘It’ll make you feel better, I promise.’
‘You’re not touching my feet, Abel.’
He put his glass of gin and tonic on the floor beside the couch and leaned closer, sending delightful flutters through her belly.
‘I’ll make you a deal.’
‘No foot rub.’ She twitched away from him with a giggle.
‘Let me rub your feet and I’ll answer any question you want to ask,’ he coaxed.
Taylor’s gaze flew to his face, and the giggle on her lips died. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To find out what happened to Abe today at the café? To learn where his demons lay and how she could help him slay them?’
‘I know you’re dying to ask me all that stuff you learned in that fancy shrink school. How about it? Give me your foot.’
He was right, the smart bugger. Right now it was Abe she wanted to get to know, and her questions would be about Abe. Not Amanda. Not Will.
Here, inside Ella’s house, her world had changed.
CHAPTER
11
Dangerous territory, sure. So what? There was nowhere else he would rather be right now than with this woman, on this couch, drinking damn strong G&Ts.
Taylor was fun. She didn’t bullshit him. Sure, he liked her hair and her eyes, her butt and her boobs, her expensive European coat, her fingernails and her dog, but he also liked her—the woman who’d given up her day to help him make coffee and drag him up off the floor on a day he’d almost gone under.
Yes, she wanted something from him (who didn’t?), but it wasn’t all take, take, take with Taylor, the way it had been with … nope, not doing that anymore.
It wasn’t all take, take, take with Taylor.
Full stop.
‘I’m good at foot massages, okay? I give a foot rub every bit as good as I make a G&T. It’ll make you feel good. I promise.’
‘Any question I want to ask?’ she muttered in the dim light beside him.
He’d kick himself later, but, ‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Go your hardest. How do you want me?’
Legs spread and laughing, sprang to mind, but he didn’t say that. Even he wasn’t that blunt, or that drunk. Not yet. ‘Here is good. Just give me your foot. Socks off.’ He pressed his back further into the couch behind him, making room.
Gingerly, she pulled off her socks, and stretched her right foot up towards him. ‘I hate having my feet touched. I’m ticklish. I hope they don’t smell.’
‘This won’t tickle. I promise.’ He lowered his head, playing with her, pretending to sniff then pinching his nose. ‘Pew!’
Her foot flinched in his hand and she squealed in protest. Her toes were like little planks, all twitchy to get away.
‘I’m joking. I’m joking. Taylor, they don’t smell.’
‘Go on then, hurry up. Get it over with.’
He promised himself he’d have her groaning with satisfaction before he was done.
He started with her right foot, rubbing his palm briskly up and down the sole as if she were a child and had complained her feet were cold.
Once she got used to that and relaxed, he dug his thumb along the arch, kneading, and a little later he heard her expel a small breath. Her lips made that popping sound which meant her mouth was opening, a question was coming. What would it be? Something to do with her brother? Something to do with Amanda? Or would it be, ‘why did I find you on the floor of the café today?’
‘If you had to give up one of these things, which would it be?’ Then she stated, slowly and precisely, as if each word was precious, ‘Beer. Wine. Or gin and tonic?’
The laugh sputtered from him. ‘Is this part of the softening up process, Doc? What sorta question is that?’
‘Just answer it.’
He thought about it. ‘Wine.’
‘What about these three: music, movies or books?’
‘Movies.’ He cupped her heel, rolled it back and forth. The skin there was soft, buffed smooth.
‘Eating. Drink
ing. Or laughter?’
‘Laughing. I can’t give up the others, right? I’d die.’
‘The ability to see, smell or hear?’
‘See.’ His world was foggy and grey most of the time.
‘Smell. Hear. Or taste?’
What sort of foodie would he be if he couldn’t taste or smell? ‘Hearing.’ He’d been concentrating on her toes, but now he looked up. ‘These the kind of questions they teach you to ask in a smart shrink school?’
She jiggled her foot. ‘Hey, have you stopped rubbing?’
He switched his attention to the soft flesh beneath her big toe and said, ‘No.’
‘Do you ever feel that your life is hopeless, Abe?’
He let out a breath of relief. This was common ground. This was what he’d anticipated. This was stuff he could rehearse answers for. ‘No. No, I never think I’m hopeless. No, I don’t think about ending it all. No, I don’t think the world would be a better place if I wasn’t in it.’
‘Do you feel like your life has slowed down?’
‘Sometimes. Financially it has. I’m further from retiring on a beach in the Bahamas, thanks to that bitch.’ The line about the Bahamas was a joke, and he hadn’t meant to add thanks to that bitch. That slipped out before he could stop it. Like a beer burp.
‘Do you enjoy doing the things you’ve always enjoyed?’
‘Like what would those be?’ he asked, buying time because the previous question had rattled him more than he liked.
‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘Cooking. Baking. Spending time with family. Making love to your girl?’
‘I’m not sure on the last one. It’s been a while.’ And he couldn’t resist, ‘You volunteering, Doc? Check me out? See if I still enjoy it?’
She ignored him. Probably just as well. With her foot warm in his hand, her skin whispering beneath his, his mind was definitely starting to think along those lines. His mind had been thinking on that line for a while.
Abe pinched her heel between his thumb and index finger, squeezing.
‘Which of these would you give up? Your mother. Your father. Or your brothers?’
His spine chilled. His fingers froze. ‘You can’t ask that.’
‘Course I can. You said I could ask any question I wanted, as long as you were doing the foot rub.’
He leaned low to his side and picked up his drink.
‘Or have you stopped rubbing?’ she queried him.
Abe put the drink down and picked up Taylor’s foot, pressed his knuckles in the hollows where the ball of her foot finished and her toes began. One word burned inside him, forced through his throat from the pit of his gut, like a volcano.
‘My father,’ he uttered, and felt something inside him shift.
David Bowie sang Fame. Taylor said nothing. He should put the cover over the bird cage. He should maybe get the hell back to the farmhouse while he could still drive.
Her foot bumped his knee, a warm nudge peppered with an offer of comfort. He pulled her smallest toe gently, rotating it, moving along to the next, working his way across.
‘Where’s the place you most feel at home, Abe?’
‘Gawd. I don’t know.’ It used to be his tapas restaurant in Perth. Now? Was it Chalk ’n’ Cheese? The café? Was it the family farm? He loved his Nanna’s house, and that would have been his answer, except Nanna’s house was his café now. The café by the bridge. And he didn’t feel at home there. He wasn’t happy there.
The knowledge hurt.
So did the answer that worked its way into his mind.
‘It’s this couch, Doc. I feel at home right here. With you.’
She gasped on an inward breath.
Vibrant and biting, awareness sprang between the skin of his fingers and Taylor’s toes, super-charged between them, high voltage.
His fingers stilled on her toes but he didn’t let go.
He bent low, lifting at the same time, supporting her calf with his other hand so that the sole of her foot caressed his jaw.
‘I wish I could see your face,’ he said.
She didn’t answer.
All he could see was the glint of her eyes.
He turned his cheek and pressed a kiss to the flat pane of delicate skin beneath her ankle, and closed his eyes.
He didn’t need sight, nor taste, nor smell right now. He didn’t need his hearing either. All he needed was touch. Give him that—the velvet slide of Taylor’s skin—and it would last him forever.
They held that pose for a beat, all Abe’s concentration on the weight of her foot in his hands and the skin beneath his lips. Then he opened his eyes to see Taylor at the end of the couch, the fingers of one of her hands against the pulse in her throat.
Tenderly, Abe gave Taylor’s foot back into her care.
Even in the dim light, he could see the shuddering breath she took and the wry smile as she tilted her glass at him. The ice had long ago melted. There was no tinkling chink.
‘I think I need another one of these,’ Taylor said. ‘Then you can do the other foot.’
* * *
Her pulse drummed in her throat, a live thing under her fingers, and she was hot all over, flushed in her polka-dot skirt. She was glad the lights were low because her face would be like a tomato right now and a redheaded tomato was never a good look.
Taylor circled her right foot. It felt marvellous, lazy and sensual, and she found her voice. ‘You are good at foot massages.’
‘Told you.’ His voice was Johnny Cash in Folsom Prison, singing ‘Folsom Prison Blues’.
The fridge door opened and closed. He peeled more slices of cucumber and placed those in the glass. Gin poured. Tonic bubbled. Ice chimed.
That sound would intoxicate a nun.
He put the cover over the cockatiel’s cage while he was up, stretching the corners, making it fit just so, and then he was back at the couch carrying two fresh drinks.
With the kitchen light at his back, Abe was a dark shadow, lithe and trim. ‘Gonna make room for me?’
She scooted her legs out of the way. ‘Sorry.’
He handed her the drink. Tonic bubbled beneath her nose as she put her lips to the cool glass and took a sip.
‘I don’t think I should stand up in a hurry,’ she said, as the cushions depressed with Abe’s weight.
He arranged himself in the corner. ‘You don’t have to. You can sit right there and I can do your other foot.’
Taylor sighed, a little too theatrically because she didn’t want to seem eager … and she gave her left foot into his care.
For those few seconds, she lost herself in the delicious rubbing, kneading sensations going on in her foot. He held this foot a little differently. She couldn’t remember his hand being quite so supportive of her calf before.
Yep, he was definitely doing some ankle stroking.
Abe’s head bent and she almost yelped as he took a gentle bite at the lowest point of her calf, then nibbled a path along her Achilles tendon towards her heel.
‘Um, is that move in the foot massage manual?’
He chuckled, a gravelly sound that puffed warm air over her toes, and she was glad that he was happy. She made him happy.
‘Do you think you’ll stay in Chalk Hill, Abe?’ she asked him.
He lifted his head but his hands kept kneading her foot. ‘I’m not sure. For now I’m stuck here. I have to make the café work. I owe it to Jake and the family. They bailed me out last year, with … everything.’
‘But Chalk Hill doesn’t feel like home for you?’
‘Not really. It never did.’
‘Is that something to do with your father? Your relationship with him?’
‘Do I need to lie down on the couch now, Doc?’
‘You’re still rubbing. I’m allowed to ask.’ She pointed to where his hands circled her foot.
‘I get on fine with my dad.’
‘When did you last see him?’
He had to think about it. ‘They left after Chri
stmas on their round Australia trip in the caravan. They reckoned they’d be about a year.’
‘So you saw them at Christmas?’
‘Nah. I didn’t make it last year.’
‘So what. A year? Two years?’
‘I saw my mother when she came to Perth to see her sister. I haven’t seen Dad since Nanna Irma’s funeral, gotta be close to two years. I hadn’t been here at the farm till I came down to see Jake in March. That’s when I met Ella. She was trying to sell Nanna’s house. Anyway, we didn’t sell it. We made it into the café instead. Long story.’
Abe put her foot on his thigh and reached for his drink on the carpet. She took a sip of hers too. The alcohol most definitely was making her light-headed, and the foot rub, the darkness, the food in her belly … she fought off a yawn.
Abe drank as his thumb stroked softly across the top of her foot.
‘I never had the same relationship with my dad as Jake and Brix did.’ It had the tone of a confession.
Swinging her legs gently to the floor, Taylor bent to retrieve her socks and put them on her feet. Then she shunted herself across the couch to be nearer him, clutching her drink. He stretched his arm across the back of the furniture, and when she was within reach, he lowered his arm around her shoulders. It felt perfectly natural. Not weird at all.
Thank you, gin and tonic.
‘Thank you for talking to me,’ she said, sensing the weight of his eyes on her face in the dark. ‘For telling me.’
‘Am I supposed to feel better now?’ he teased.
She turned her head to see his face. The answer to that was ‘no’, but there was a note of pleading behind the tone and she didn’t have the heart to say it.
But she wasn’t going to lie and say ‘yes’.
So she didn’t say anything, and after a moment she leaned her ear into his shoulder and snuggled there, breathing Abe in, both of them in a happy place.
CHAPTER
12
Prisoners rattled tin cups on the bars of Folsom Prison, banged tin cups on tables in the cafeteria, stamped their feet—
Taylor woke slowly, then all at once, sitting straight. The rug slid from her body as fast as the dream.
She’d fallen asleep on the couch.
Abe was in Ella’s kitchen. The noise that woke her was the rhythmic stirring of the fork in Abe’s hand as it circled a glass mixing bowl.
