When he pictured his father in his mind’s eye, he saw him leaning over an engine, hands grubby with grease and oil, an absorbed, patient expression on his face as he puzzled out a problem. His father was ageless in his imagination, the setting never changing. His father’s work and, by extension, the workshop, were who his father was. Always had been, always would be. It had never occurred to Harry that his father would opt out at some point.
But his father was opting out, and his decision had forced Harry to recognize something he’d kept well hidden from even himself: deep in his heart of hearts, he’d believed that the workshop would always be there, equal parts opportunity and obligation, ready for him if and when he ever decided he wanted to take the plunge. In the same way that he’d always imagined that he might meet the “right” woman and settle down sometime in the hazy, distant future, he’d imagined that there might come a time when the moon and stars aligned and the partying was over and he’d surfed enough beaches and raised enough hell that he’d be ready to step into his father’s shoes. And that when he chose to do so, those shoes would simply be waiting for him, ready to be filled.
It was an arrogant, careless, childish belief for a man of thirty to hold. It was a young man’s imagining of the future, nebulous and utterly self-focused.
He squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun on the water and dug the heels of his boots deeper into the sand.
He didn’t like thinking of himself as childish or selfish. He owned two cars, paid his bills and turned up to work every day he was expected to be there. If he said he’d do something, he did it, no questions asked. He wasn’t afraid of a challenge or a dare. He liked to think that he didn’t hold back in life.
Yet he’d been holding back in the most basic possible way for a long time now. He’d been living the life of Riley, keeping his father’s expectations and hopes at bay, telling himself he was choosing freedom and individuality over obligation and restriction—and yet all the time he’d had his little fail-safe measure tucked away, ready to deploy if and when it suited him.
And now his father had called Harry’s bluff, called bullshit on his claims that he wasn’t interested in the business. After all these years, his father was laying it on the line. Giving Harry the choice to put up or shut up.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, breathing in the scent of hot sand and salt and the faint tang of seaweed. The wind raised the hairs on his arms and cooled the back of his neck.
There was no question in his mind what his decision would be. Funny that after all these years of stalling the answer felt so certain. So unequivocal.
He wouldn’t stand by and watch something his father had built up from nothing pass on to a stranger. It simply wasn’t going to happen.
He waited for the heaviness of his decision to settle over him. He would be saying goodbye to the last remnants of his youth, after all, when he took over the reins of Village Motors.
Harry’s gut felt tense, but—surprisingly—it was adrenaline that was tightening his belly, not dread.
A part of him was ready for this. Maybe even wanted it. The next stage of his life. The next challenge.
He pulled his phone out and dialed.
“Hello?” Pippa’s voice came down the line, drowsy and distracted. He pictured her still lying in bed, shoulders bare, her hair dark against the pillow.
“It’s me.”
“Oh, hey.” She sounded pleased.
“Are you still in bed?”
“No such luck. I’m working on my big assignment. It’s due on Thursday.”
“I won’t keep you then.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d called, and he didn’t want to hold her up.
“You’re not keeping me. Did you talk to your dad?”
Something inside him relaxed as he heard the sympathy in her voice. “Yeah.”
“Did it go okay?”
“I’m going to take over the business.”
She exhaled in a rush. “Oh. Harry.”
He couldn’t tell if she was surprised, disbelieving, approving or disapproving. It was a little alarming how much he hoped it wasn’t the latter.
“You think it’s a bad idea?”
“I think it’s a great idea if it’s what you want. If you’re doing it for the right reasons and not because you feel obligated.”
“I’d be lying if I said there was no obligation. But it’s not just that. I guess I always figured I’d get around to stepping into the business at some point.”
Despite what he’d advertised to the world and himself.
“Kind of like I always imagined I’d do something with my degree sometime, huh?”
He didn’t need to see her to know she was smiling self-deprecatingly.
“Kind of like that.”
“Funny how life sneaks up on you sometimes.”
He stared at the glittering blue of the ocean, suddenly wishing he was there or she was here. He wanted to see her. He wanted to touch her. And it wasn’t just about sex.
“Your dad must have been pretty happy, huh?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
There was a small pause. “Then why are you talking to me?”
“Because I wanted to.”
Because the moment he’d made the decision he’d wanted to tell her about it. To hear her opinion. To have her approval.
“Talk to me later. Go put your father out of his misery.” She sounded stern. No-nonsense.
“Is that your teacher voice?”
“It will be, one day. I hope. If I can get this assignment done.”
“I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Call your father.”
He smiled. “I will.”
“Good.”
He ran his thumb over the screen on his phone after he’d ended the call, thinking about Pippa. Thinking about the future.
Harry stood, dusted off his ass and started up the hill.
* * *
HE CRUISED PAST the workshop but his father’s car was gone, so he went to his parents’ place. The roller door to the garage was up when he arrived, a sure sign his father was in there, tinkering on his current pet project. Ever since Harry could remember his father had had a restoration project on the go in the garage. Over the years he’d returned more than a dozen cars to their former glory, always selling them at a good profit.
The current work in progress was a left-hand drive 1976 Mustang. His father was at the workbench contemplating the carburetor when Harry entered.
“How’s it looking?” he asked.
His father glanced over his shoulder. “Like a forty-year-old carbie. In other words, shit-house.”
Harry joined his father at the bench, running a practiced eye over the part. The carb float was dark with fuel residue, the bowl equally coated in crud. “Got your work cut out for you there.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
Harry smiled.
“Your mum’s in the garden if you’re looking for her.”
“I wanted to talk to you. About the workshop.”
His father frowned and picked up a small open-ended spanner, loosening the nut on the carbie. “No offense, but I don’t see the point in going over it again. Let’s just let sleeping dogs lie, eh?”
His father shot him a look from under his eyebrows, seeking Harry’s agreement. Harry leaned his hip against the bench.
“I want in. I’ll give Leo six weeks’ notice, give him time to find someone to replace me. You can take off whenever suits you, come and go as you please. But I want at least a year of handover. And I’m buying in. You’re not just handing it to me on a platter, and you and Mom will need some money to fund this lifestyle you’ve got planned.”
It was something he’d thought about on the way over. He didn’t want to be a freeloader. He wanted to be invested. If he was going to do this thing, it would be all or nothing. It would mean increasing the mortgage on his house, but he figured he could handle it.
His father’s hands
stilled for the briefest of moments before resuming their work. His face was utterly impassive. “It’s a nice gesture, mate. But like I said this morning, it was never meant to be a choke hold.”
Harry tugged the spanner from his father’s hand. “It’s not a gesture.”
His father turned to face him squarely. “That’s not how you felt this morning.”
“Let’s just say it took a while for me to see past my own bullshit.”
Harry shifted his weight, self-conscious. Very aware that what he was about to admit didn’t reflect well on himself. “Turns out that maybe, in the back of my mind, I figured the garage would always be there as an option.” It was embarrassing saying it out loud to his old man, on par with admitting he still dreamed of being a rock star or a superhero or something equally juvenile.
His father nodded, once, then lowered his gaze to his hands. Harry waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. It took him a few seconds to register that his father’s mustache was trembling as his father worked to suppress strong emotion.
In thirty years, Harry had never seen his father cry. Mike Porter prided himself on his self-control, always had. But here he was, fighting back tears because Harry had finally pulled his head out of his own ass. It made Harry’s chest and gut tight. Made him wish he’d been smart enough to see through his own bullshit years ago.
“Dad…”
His father shook his head, lips pressed together, eyes swimming. Harry’s own eyes pricked with tears and he blinked rapidly.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
He flung an arm around his father’s back and hauled him close. After the barest second his father reciprocated, squeezing him so hard Harry was sure he heard a rib pop. They stayed like that for long seconds, both of them fighting back tears. His father thumped him on the back a couple of times, then released him, taking an abrupt step backward. There was a beat of silence as they both avoided one another’s eyes. For some reason Harry imagined what Pippa would say if she could see them both playing so tough and stoic, and a small laugh escaped him. His father looked askance at him, checking that Harry wasn’t laughing at him. He must have been reassured, because after a second he smiled, too.
“You got any beer?” Harry asked.
“Screw that. This is champagne territory. The fancy stuff. Your mother’s been hoarding a bottle in the back of the fridge. Let’s go commandeer it.”
Harry was more than happy to go celebrate, but there was something he needed to say first.
“I’m sorry for mucking you around for so long, Dad.”
His father shook his head. “No need for apologies. You’re supposed to live your life, not mine.”
Harry grimaced. His father was being generous. But he always had been.
“Come on, let’s go thrill your mother.”
Together they walked into the house.
* * *
PIPPA KNEW WHO it was the moment she heard the doorbell. Even though she was still knee-deep in her assignment, she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face as she made her way to the front door.
“Mr. Porter. This is a surprise,” she said as she swung the door wide.
He held a bottle of champagne and his gray eyes smiled at her. “Five minutes, tops, then I’ll let you get back to it,” he promised.
She gave him a rueful look. As if. There was no way she was sending him away after just five minutes and he knew it.
“I’m guessing your father took it well?” she asked as she led him to the back of the house.
“Yeah.”
There was a wealth of meaning and emotion in the single word. She cast a look at him over her shoulder. He met her eyes, his face filled with the emotion of the day. She stopped, turning to face him. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, then his lips, then the corner of his jaw.
“For what it’s worth, I think it’s a great decision. For all of you.”
“Thanks.”
He seemed pleased and sheepish all at once and she knew he was thinking about all the things he’d said to her about loving his carefree life and how he had it all worked out. She’d said the same sorts of things about her life, too, before Alice came along.
“Like I said earlier, life has a way of creeping up on you,” she said, reaching out to touch his forearm.
“No kidding.”
There was a light in his eyes as he looked at her. Something swooped in her stomach. Fear or excitement—it was hard to tell which. Then he blinked and the light was gone and he simply looked happy.
She was happy for him, too. As she’d said, this was a great thing for him.
They entered the kitchen and she grabbed some champagne flutes. He popped the cork and poured two foaming glasses. They clinked their flutes together.
“To the next big adventure,” she said.
“To late nights, debt and premature gray hair.”
She laughed. “Amen!”
They were both smiling after they’d taken their first mouthful. She asked him about the conversation with his father and he gave her a rundown of what had been said. He got a little choked up as he talked about his father’s reaction and she had to blink away sympathetic tears. He made her laugh, though, when he described his mother’s ecstatic response to the news. After twenty minutes he looked at his watch and put his glass down, his gaze flicking across to the table where she had her laptop and textbooks set up.
“I should leave you to it. I know your assignment is due.”
She shot a rueful look at the dining table. “Yeah. It is.”
It was so tempting to say “to hell with it” when he was standing there looking so sexy and happy and buoyant, but her assignment was not going to write itself. As attractive and compelling as Harry was, he was not her future, and teaching was.
“Call me when you’re done?” he said.
“Straight to the bat phone.”
Because she couldn’t help herself, Pippa stepped forward and kissed him. His arms came around her, his hands smoothing over her back before sliding to her ass and pulling her closer, snugging her hips more firmly against his. She made an approving noise when she felt his hard-on, all thoughts of study flying out the window. She curled her fingers into the muscles of his back and pumped her hips against his, inviting him to play. He deepened the kiss, hungry, demanding.
Then suddenly she was grasping thin air as he slipped away from her.
“Call me when you’re done, okay?” he said again. He was a little breathless, his eyes dark with need.
It took her a second to understand he was being as good as his word and leaving her to study, despite the blatant invitation she’d just issued. Even as her body protested, her heart expanded with warmth at his consideration. He knew how much this diploma meant to her, what a difference it would make to her future.
“Thanks, Harry,” she said softly.
He dropped a quick kiss onto her forehead before backing off. “Later.”
She followed him with her eyes as he made his way to the front door, not trusting herself to keep her hands off him if she went with him. He raised a hand in farewell as he opened the front door, then he was gone.
Pippa stared down the length of the hall at the closed door. Over the years, men had brought her flowers, chocolate, jewelry and sexy underwear. Harry’s respect and consideration topped them all easily. Hands down.
“It’s just sex. Just sex, just sex, just sex,” she said out loud.
Except it didn’t feel that way.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT DIDN’T FEEL that way when she called him at ten on Tuesday night, either, to let him know she’d written the five thousandth word and he told her he’d be there in ten minutes and made it in eight. It didn’t feel like just sex when he pressed her against the hall wall when he arrived and kissed her and kissed her until she was hot and wet and pliant and ready for anything.
It didn’t feel like just sex when he wrapped his arms around her afterward and fe
ll asleep in her bed. Which was why she didn’t wake him and send him on his way, in line with her own self-ruling on the matter.
She didn’t send him home on Thursday night, either, when he took her and Alice out for dinner, or on Friday night when he came over with a DVD to help her babysit Aaron again. She told herself that she had a grip on things, but it wasn’t until Saturday night that she realized exactly how deluded she was.
She’d planned to take care of her Christmas shopping in the morning, but Harry suggested breakfast at Lilo Café down on the Mornington foreshore and before she knew it she was watching him feed pureed apple to Alice and enjoying French toast with raspberries and vanilla mascarpone while looking out across clear blue water. They drove back onto the main street afterward and Harry followed her from shop to shop as she agonized over how to spend her meager Christmas dollars.
She bought luxury soaps and hand cream for her mother, an inveterate self-pamperer, then some gourmet sauces and jams for Gaylene, a small token of her appreciation and affection. Alice was next on her list and she led Harry into the toy store, expecting him to send up a protest at any second. They’d been walking around for over an hour and she kept waiting for him to start getting twitchy, but so far he was holding up well. A minor miracle.
She searched his face. “Are you secretly going stir-crazy and looking for the exits?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Sorry?”
“Shopping. You men are supposed to hate it.”
“I do. Normally.”
“But today it’s okay?”
“Yeah, it is. I know you’re wearing black lace under that dress.” He shrugged as if this explained everything.
She smiled, ridiculously flattered. He was so easy and fun to spend time with. He made her feel sexy and clever. Best of all, he made her forget that when he wasn’t around, her life was an obstacle course of stress, lack of sleep and not enough hours in the day.
She left him with the stroller while she went to investigate options for Alice. Her daughter was so young that any gifts for her were nonsensical, really, but Pippa was acutely aware that this would be her daughter’s first Christmas. She didn’t want to shortchange her little girl or cut corners—but there was also only so much money to go around.
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