“Can I get you anything while I’m up?”
“A bucket?”
“Seriously?” He looked alarmed.
“Joke. I think.”
“Oh. Good.”
He lifted Charlie, carefully tucking him against his shoulder. Angie felt a pang in her chest as she saw the tender, utterly devoted expression in his eyes as he looked at his son’s sleeping face.
“He’s just about perfect when he’s sleeping,” he said quietly.
“Yeah. He’s not bad when he’s awake, either.”
Michael walked slowly from the room. Angie lay with her eyes closed, listening to the chirpy music emanating from the iPad. After a few minutes it occurred to her that she couldn’t hear Eva playing anymore and she opened her eyes. Sure enough, Eva had succumbed to the sirens’ song of a full stomach and was now dozing, her head resting on her loosely clenched fists.
“You have another customer for the sleepyland express,” she said when Michael returned to the living room.
“Wow. Maybe I need to reconsider the no junk food rule if it knocks them out like this.”
Eva blinked to wakefulness as Michael lifted her. “I don’t want to go to bed yet.”
“I don’t think your body agrees with you, sweetheart.”
“No, I want to stay up with you and Angie.” Eva pushed at Michael’s chest, wanting to be set down.
“Here’s a deal for you. You go to bed now, and if you can’t sleep or you get up later, you can hang with us. How’s that?”
Eva considered for a moment before settling against her father’s chest. “Okay.”
Michael returned in under five minutes. Angie heard him moving around in the kitchen and could only shake her head.
“Please tell me you aren’t considering eating more food,” she called.
“I’m opening a bottle of wine. You want a glass?”
Angie consulted her stomach and discovered it was surprisingly silent on the subject. “You know, I might.”
“Just as well, because I’m not getting drunk on my own.”
She watched as he strode from the kitchen, two glasses and the wine in hand.
“That bad, huh?”
“Better than I’d thought it would be. But I’m still getting drunk.”
She used her elbows to wiggle herself into a more or less upright position and held out a hand for a glass. “The least I can do is ably assist you.”
“Good. Because I’m planning on doing this right.”
Michael poured the wine and passed a glass over to Angie.
“To Billie,” he said.
“To Billie.”
Michael dropped his head back and finished his glass in one big, greedy swallow.
Angie hesitated, then followed suit. Apparently it was going to be one of those nights.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“REMEMBER THE TIME Billie got really wasted at her twenty-seventh birthday party?” Angie asked.
“That’s the night she slept in the bathtub, right?”
“That’s the one.”
Billie had been out-of-control funny that night. Angie had laughed so hard her stomach had hurt the next day.
“Yeah. I remember.”
“And her doing her Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction impersonation? God, she was good.” Angie held out her glass for a refill.
They were onto their third round and the world was getting nicely fuzzy around the edges.
“Yeah. She could move.”
“She could. She could boogie like no one else I know.”
“Remember when she decided to take up the cello?” Michael said as he filled her glass.
Angie laughed, nodding. “You had to drive to Albury to pick up the one she’d bought on eBay.”
“Three hours there and back. And the bloody thing sat in the garage for two years before she admitted she was never going to learn how to play it.” Michael’s words brimmed with affection and fond frustration.
“To be fair, the cello was almost taller than she was,” Angie said.
“The first clue it wasn’t going to fly. Like learning how to surf and French lessons and life drawing and karate…”
Angie sipped her wine, thinking of her crazy, wonderful friend. “She was a ratbag, wasn’t she?”
Michael remained silent and she glanced at him. He was staring into his glass, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
She searched for something to say, something to distract him from the pain he was no doubt feeling.
“Did I ever tell you how I met Billie?” She launched into the story, telling him how Billie had arrived at the rural boarding school Angie had just started attending and caused a stir with her posh London accent and cool European clothes and the fact that her parents were assigned to the British High Commission in Canberra. As Angie had hoped, the tight look left his face. One story led to another and, somehow, one bottle of wine became two. Angie sank deeper and deeper into the softness of the couch, pleasantly buzzed and more than a little mellow.
“I never understood what you were doing at that school,” Michael said when she finished telling him about the time Billie had scared their biology class to death by rampaging into the room bearing the gardener’s huge chainsaw—engine off, fortunately—her own special take on the The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. “I got why Billie was there, because her parents were idiots and she was a handful and they didn’t want her interfering with their diplomatic duties, but what was your parents’ excuse?”
Angie leaned forward to set her glass on the coffee table. “Honestly? I think it was half about wanting the best for me and half about not knowing what to do with me. My mum was forty-six when she had me, my dad fifty. They’d tried for years and given up on kids before I came along. I was this precious unexpected thing, and they loved me to death, but they were also a little scared, I think, that they would mess it up. My mother in particular wanted me to have every opportunity, to think beyond the farm and the town. If she could have, she’d have sent me to a school in the city, but Dad wouldn’t have it so New England Girls’ School was the compromise.”
“What did you want?”
She smiled, recalling the terror with which she’d faced the prospect of leaving everything that she knew and held dear.
“I wanted to cling to them like a limpet on a rock. But my mother told me that she knew I was shy, but I needed to learn to be brave or the world was going to pass me by. I cried myself to sleep for the first two weeks before Billie arrived and was assigned to share a room with me.”
“Why do people always think that introverts are afraid? As if all those loudmouths out in the world aren’t desperately braying to cover up some inadequacy.”
She gave him a knowing look. “I gather you had the ‘be brave, little camper’ speech, as well?”
“Every time Dad got reassigned and we had to pack up and move. Like a pep talk was going to change who I was and the situation we were in.”
Angie rolled onto her side so she was facing him more directly and wedged a cushion under her head.
“Did you hate it? The moving?” She was aware from past conversations that Michael’s father had worked for a big multinational corporation and Michael and his family had relocated no less than six times during his school years.
“At first. But after a while it felt like a get-out-of-jail-free card. If things were shit, if I had a bad teacher, if something went wrong at school, I never got too bent of shape because I always knew Dad would come home sooner or later and tell us they wanted him to ‘help out’ at another office and the packing tape and boxes would be out again. Two years was the longest we ever spent anywhere.”
“I don’t know how you stood it. I hate moving,” Angie said.
“So do I. With a
passion.”
“In fact, I can’t wait until I’m in my forever home. I’m going to fill up the cupboards with crap I don’t need and collect knickknacks and become so settled they’ll need a bulldozer to dig me out of the place.”
“Why aren’t you married?”
It was such an out-of-left-field question that she blinked. “Wow. Where did that come from?”
“It’s something that’s been bugging me for a while. You’re hot. You’re sane. You’re funny and smart. Why aren’t you already in your forever house with some lucky bastard, filling it up with knickknacks and kids?”
Angie’s alcohol-soaked brain scrambled to keep up with what Michael had thrown at her. Apparently he thought she was hot and smart and funny. And he couldn’t understand why she was still single. “Thanks. I think.”
“It’s a compliment.” He swallowed a mouthful then looked bemused when he discovered the glass was now empty.
“I happen to quite like being single.”
“You don’t get lonely?”
“Of course. But there are other pluses. Doing what I want when I want it. Not having to compromise.”
Michael pushed to his feet. “See, those things don’t even come close to counterbalancing the pluses of a good relationship in my book.”
He headed for the kitchen and Angie twisted her neck so she could follow him with her gaze.
“They look pretty good when you measure them against a bad one, though.”
He glanced at her before pulling another bottle from the pantry. “I take it you’re referring to the infamous Finn?”
She subsided onto the couch as he returned.
“Why does everything always come back to Finn?”
“Because he was the great love of your life?” Michael suggested.
She held out her glass for a top-up. “He was my first serious boyfriend. Or partner. Or lover. Whatever you want to call it. It was intense. It ended badly. But he was not the love of my life.”
“Billie seemed to think so.”
“Billie liked the drama of that idea. She liked Finn, too. I’m sure she secretly hoped we would one day get back together. Fated lovers reunited blah, blah, blah. But I refuse to believe that he was as good as it’s going to get for me. There’s something better out there. There has to be.”
“Ouch. I’m feeling a little sorry for Finn now.”
“Don’t be. He was incapable of fidelity, as well as possessive, demanding and moody.”
“God, no wonder Billie liked him. He sounds like Heathcliff.”
Angie smiled. “I knew there was a reason I could never finish that book.”
Michael set the bottle on the floor, presumably so he wouldn’t have to reach too far to pour himself more. He settled into the cushions, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, his glass resting on his flat belly as he gazed at the ceiling. They were both silent for a long moment.
“I miss sex, though,” Angie mused. “I will admit that. Not just the sticking tab A into slot B bit, but being naked with someone and trusting them enough to make stupid orgasm faces and noises and lying in bed afterward talking about nothing and everything…”
There was no response. Belated heat flowed up her neck and into her face. Should have edited herself. She glanced toward him.
“Too much information? Sorry.”
The hand gripping his glass was white-knuckle tight. She was about to apologize again, sure she’d offended or embarrassed him, when he took an abrupt, noisy swallow of his wine as though bracing himself for something arduous or awful.
“I had a dream last week. A sex dream.” The words sounded as though they had been dragged from him, a reluctant confession. Yet clearly he wanted to talk about this or he wouldn’t have brought it up.
“What sort of sex dream? About Billie, you mean?” she asked cautiously. Their friendship may have deepened in recent months, but this sort of intimacy was a whole new ball game.
“No.” He seemed on the verge of saying more but lapsed into silence.
Angie couldn’t decide if she should push or not.
“Was it about someone else?” she finally ventured.
“It was dark. I couldn’t see her face. I could only feel her body, her skin…”
Unbidden, an image popped into her mind: Michael’s hands on a woman’s body, shaping her curves, caressing her. Angie immediately pushed it from her mind, but it was too late, her body was flooding with unwanted, illicit heat.
She squeezed her thighs together, willing the desire away, profoundly aware of what a betrayal her reaction was—of both Billie and Michael.
“This is going to sound stupid, but I honestly thought that part of me was dead. You made that crack about Popeye the other day, but I haven’t so much as looked down with intent in all these months… And then suddenly there’s this dream and it felt so real, as though she was there and we were really having sex—” Michael ran a hand over his face. “Sorry. That’s definitely too much information.”
Angie tried to push past her own discomfort and embarrassment to respond to what he was telling her. She could deal with her own reaction later. Much later. Michael was sharing this because he’d clearly been troubled by the dream. She owed it to him, to their growing friendship, to be worthy of his trust.
“You feel guilty because you were turned on in your dream?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t. Like I said to you the other day at the pub, you’re thirty-five years old. No one in their right mind would expect you to live the rest of your life like a monk now that Billie is gone.”
“I don’t want it.”
She frowned, confused. “Sorry?”
“I don’t want to want someone else. I don’t want any of it.”
She smiled sadly. “Ever heard the saying ‘life goes on’? You can’t stop the world from turning, Michael. Even if a part of you wants to.”
“Jesus.” He rested his forearm across his eyes, obscuring his face.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s hard.”
Her voice seemed to echo in the room and after a few seconds it occurred to her that given the subject of their discussion, she could have chosen her words more carefully. She snuck a glance at Michael and saw that the corner of his mouth was a little crooked. As though he was trying to suppress a smile.
“Bad choice of words. Sorry,” she said.
“You think?”
She could hear the amusement in his voice but there was something she wanted to say before they both happily swept this conversation under the carpet.
“Don’t punish yourself for being human, Michael. Billie is the last person who’d want you to lock yourself away from life.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “I know. Doesn’t make any of it any easier, though.”
“I know.”
Michael reached for the bottle. “More?”
“I think I’m done. Actually, I think I was done a while ago. Now I’m well done. Time to call a cab.”
Michael looked surprised. “I thought you were staying the night.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about it….”
It was something she used to do when Billie was alive, on the rare occasions when she’d had too much to drink to drive home safely.
“You’re always welcome. You know that.”
She knew she should go, especially given her reaction to his sexy dream confession but it was an expensive cab ride and she didn’t want the hassle of having to deal with collecting her car tomorrow.
“All right. If it’s cool with you.”
“I’ll grab you a pillow and blanket.”
She sat up as he went off for the bedding. Her head swam as she collected the glasses and bottle and ferried them all to the kitchen
. Even though she knew she was way too tanked to totally ward off a hangover, she poured herself a glass of water and gulped it.
“I brought you a quilt as well as a blanket, in case it gets cold,” Michael said as he entered, his arms full.
He dumped his burden on the couch before joining her. She filled her glass again and offered it to him wordlessly.
“Like that’s going to make a difference,” he said drily.
“It’s worth a shot.”
He swallowed the water in one long gulp then handed the glass to her. “Thanks.”
Her gaze fell to the strong column of his throat and she remembered the defined planes of his bare chest and belly.
“Bed for me.” She took a jerky step backward, away from him and her own reactions. She misjudged how close she was to the sink and Michael reached out to stop her as she collided with the counter. “Ow.”
His hand gripped her shoulder a second too late. “Duffer.”
“It’s not my fault someone moved your house around while I wasn’t looking.”
“Idiot. Did you hurt yourself?”
“I’ll survive.”
He wasn’t prepared to take her at her word, however, drawing her forward and then sliding his hand from her shoulder down her back to her hip.
“Was it here?” he said, his hand rubbing gently but firmly against her hip through the soft fabric of her yoga pants.
“Yes. It’s fine. Really.”
She kept her gaze focused over his shoulder as his palm rubbed heat into her skin, telling herself all the while that he’d do exactly the same if Eva had hurt herself and pretending that her whole body wasn’t lighting up like a flare at his touch. Awful, confused panic rose inside her, mixing with desire. She didn’t understand why this was happening, why she’d suddenly lost control of her own body.
“Better?” he asked.
“Thanks.” This time she stepped to the side as she moved past him. “See you in the morning.” She made her way toward the living area, not looking back.
“Turn the heating on if it gets too cold out here, okay?”
“I will.”
Within Reach Page 10
