The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance)

by Sarah Mayberry

  Mr. Smith pressed against her legs, his small body a welcome weight. She bent to run a hand over his salt-and-pepper fur.

  “I’m not giving up, Smitty. Not in a million freaking years.”

  She wouldn’t let Gordon write her off. She would walk back into her job, and she would claw her way into her old life. There was no other option on the table. She refused for there to be.

  She had a hot shower, then dressed in her workout clothes. Together she and Mr. Smith made their way to the large room at the front of the house she’d converted to hold her Pilates reformer and other gym equipment when she left the rehab hospital three months ago. She sat on the recumbent bike and started pedaling. Smitty reacquainted himself with the rawhide bone he’d left there yesterday and settled in for the duration.

  After ten minutes on the bike, she lowered herself to the yoga mat and began her stretches. As always, her body protested as she attempted to push it close to a normal range of movement. Her physiotherapist, Alan, had warned her that she might never get full range in her left shoulder and her right hip. She’d told him he was wrong and was determined to prove it.

  The usual mantra echoed in her mind as she stretched her bowstring-tight hip flexors.

  I want my life back. I want my job back. I want my apartment and my shoes and my clothes. I want to have cocktails with my friends and the challenge of juggling too much in too little time. I want to be me again.

  Gritting her teeth, she held the stretch. Sweat broke out along her forehead and upper lip. She started to pant, but she held the stretch. Her hips were burning, her back starting to protest.

  She held the stretch.

  Only when pain started shooting up her spine did she ease off and collapse onto the mat, sweat running down her temple and into her hair.

  Better than yesterday. Definitely better.

  The thought was enough to rouse her to another round. Teeth bared in a grimace, she eased into another pose.

  * * *

  THE MORNING SUN was rising over the treetops as Oliver turned onto the unmarked gravel road that he hoped like hell was Seaswept Avenue. He was tired and sleep deprived after a long drive from Sydney and more than ready for this journey to be over.

  Craning forward over the steering wheel, he checked house numbers as he drove slowly up the rutted road. Not that there were many houses to check. The lots were large, the houses either old and charming or new and sharp edged, and there was plenty of space in between. Aunt Marion’s was number thirty-three, and he drove past half-a-dozen vacant lots thick with bush before spotting a tired-looking clapboard house sitting cheek by jowl with a much tidier, smarter whitewashed cottage. As far as he could tell, they were the only two houses at this end of the street.

  He didn’t have enough optimism left to hope the tidy cottage was number thirty-three, and the rusty numbers on the letterbox of the shabbier house confirmed his guess.

  It seemed like the perfect ending to a road trip that had featured not one but two flat tires and a motel with fleas in the carpet.

  Driving from Sydney to Melbourne had seemed like a great idea four days ago. Four days ago, he’d been so sick of the burning anger that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his gut that he’d been willing to do almost anything to change the record in his mind.

  How could she do this to me? How could I be so freakin’ stupid? How could she do this to me?

  He pulled into the driveway and let his head drop against the seat for a few seconds. God, he was tired. Strudel made a forlorn sound from the backseat and Oliver shook himself awake and exited the car to let her out. She immediately availed herself of the nearest patch of grass. Would that he could be so lucky, since he’d cleverly tossed the keys to his aunt’s house into the bottom of his duffel bag. But he wasn’t about to start his stay in what was surely a close-knit community by exposing himself to his new neighbor.

  Stretching his arms over his head, Oliver grabbed his duffel from the rear. Strudel joined him on the weathered porch as he dug in among his clothes for the key. Miracle of miracles, his hand closed over it on the second dip. Moments later he was inside, walking around flicking on lights and opening windows to relieve the stuffy, musty smell. He passed quickly through the living room filled with heavy, old-fashioned furniture, and the two bedrooms with their stripped-bare beds, ending his tour in the kitchen.

  Aunt Marion had died over a year ago now, but neither he nor his brother, Brent, had been in a position to do anything about their joint inheritance until now. Traveling south to put things in order had seemed like the perfect excuse to be out of Sydney so he could lick his wounds and get his head together.

  If that was even possible.

  Of course it’s possible. Edie was your wife, not your whole life.

  Logically, he knew it was true, but it didn’t feel true at the moment. Six years of his life had been exposed as a lie. His whole marriage. He didn’t know how to deal with the anger and grief and humiliation he felt.

  Strudel whined, drawing his attention to where she was sniffing and scratching around the base of the oven. No doubt she’d found a nest of mice or something equally unpleasant.

  “Good girl, Strudel. Good girl.” Strudel came to his side and lifted her head for a scratch. He obliged, rubbing her behind the ears where she liked it. Some of the tension left him as he looked into her big, liquid eyes.

  For the next five weeks, he had no one but himself and Strudel to please. Edie and Nick were a thousand miles away, his job was on hold. This time was all his and he could use it to rage and be bitter and brood—or he could start putting himself back together again.

  He really hoped it would be the latter.

  He walked to the back door and stepped onto a broad porch that overlooked a yard thick with grass and overgrown garden beds. A shed huddled in the left-hand corner. He considered it briefly, then decided he would inspect it later.

  His gaze shifted to the cottage next door. It occurred to him that he should probably go introduce himself to his new neighbor, since they were more or less isolated at this end of the street. His aunt’s place had been vacant so long he didn’t want some old dear with three cats and a hearing aid freaking out because a strange man had moved in.

  Then maybe he’d head into town to grab some food and other supplies.

  It wasn’t much of a plan, but it would get him through the next few hours.

  * * *

  MACKENZIE RETURNED THE reformer carriage to the starting position and let her hands drop to her sides. She was officially done for another day, every exercise on her chart completed and ticked off. Even the ones that made her want to curl into a ball and cry, they hurt so much.

  She reached for her towel and blotted her sweat-dampened face and chest. The sharp taste of bile burned at the back of her mouth, a sure sign that she’d overexerted herself again.

  Well. A little nausea was a price she was willing to pay if it meant she made a faster recovery.

  She stood, running the towel over her cropped hair. Mr. Smith stood, too, tail wagging as he looked at her expectantly.

  “Yes, little man, it’s time for breakfast.”

  If she could stomach it.

  She wrapped the towel around her shoulders like a cape and headed for the kitchen. A sharp noise stopped her in her tracks before she’d gotten halfway. It had been so long since anyone had come to the door that it took her a full second to recognize the sound as a knock. She glanced over her shoulder. A dark form filled the pebbled glass of the door. She frowned. Who on earth would be visiting her at ten o’clock on a Thursday morning?

  Her first thought was that it was Patrick, but she dismissed it instantly. He was hardly going to drive an hour out of town to visit her—not when he hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone in more than four months. No, she had a better chance of finding Elvis on the other side of that door than her ex-husband, and an even better chance of finding a complete stranger who probably wanted to sell her somethin
g.

  The joy. Just what she wanted to deal with when she was shaky with fatigue and nausea.

  She swung open the door, ready to give short shrift to the cold-calling salesman on her porch.

  The man on her porch was definitely not a cold caller. Nothing about this man was cold, from the deep chestnut of his wavy, almost shoulder-length hair to his cognac-brown eyes to his full, sensual mouth. Then there was his body—nothing cold there, either. Broad shoulders, a chest Tarzan would be proud of, flat belly, lean hips. All wrapped up in faded jeans and a moss-green sweater that was the perfect foil for his coloring.

  “Hey,” he said in an easy baritone. “I’m Oliver Garrett. I moved in next door.” He gestured toward the house on the other side of the fence. “Wanted to give you a heads-up in case you saw me moving around and thought I was a burglar or something.”

  He smiled, so warm and vibrant and alive it was almost offensive. His gaze slid down her face, scanning her body in a polite but thoroughly male assessment. She tightened her grip on the towel, glad it was draped over her shoulders and arms. Managing a stranger’s shock then polite sympathy once he got an eyeful of the impressive scars on her left arm was not part of her plan for her morning.

  “Mackenzie Williams,” she said briskly, offering him her hand.

  They shook briefly, his much bigger hand dwarfing hers. She made a point of keeping her grip firm and looking him in the eye, a habit she’d acquired early in her career and one that had always alerted her about what kind of man she was dealing with.

  Oliver Garrett held her eye and didn’t seem surprised by the firmness of her grip. More importantly, he didn’t try to grind her hand into dust with his superior strength. Both marks in his favor.

  “I was hoping you could give me some guidance on where the best place is to grab supplies and whatnot,” he said.

  He hadn’t shaved for a few days and his whiskers glinted in the sunlight, a mixture of dark brown, bronze and gold.

  She tore her gaze away and concentrated on his question. “There aren’t many shops to choose from in town. One of everything, pretty much, which takes out the guesswork.”

  Her legs were starting to tremble. She needed a protein drink and a shower and half an hour on her bed. She took a step backward to signal that she didn’t intend to stand on the doorstep chitchatting with him, golden stubble or no golden stubble.

  “Figured that would be the case. It’s been years since I was here. But it doesn’t look as though much has changed.”

  Nausea rolled through her, tightening her stomach and making her mouth water. She gripped the door frame. Any second now she was going to either throw up or wind up on her ass, and she wasn’t about to do either in front of a complete stranger.

  “Listen, I have to go.” It came out more tersely than she’d intended, but there wasn’t much she could do about that.

  He looked a little shocked, but before he could say anything, a long, furry body rushed past her and onto the porch. For the first time she registered that he had a dog, too—a miniature schnauzer by the look of her. A miniature schnauzer that Mr. Smith was very pleased to meet, judging by all the tail-wagging and bottom-sniffing that was going on.

  “Smitty. Inside,” she said sharply.

  “It’s okay. He’s just saying hello, aren’t you, mate?” Oliver smiled indulgently and bent to scratch Mr. Smith between the shoulder blades.

  Her stomach rolled again. She swallowed and leaned forward to grab her dog’s collar. He was so involved with his new friend that she had to use considerable strength to yank him into the house, the effort only increasing the nausea burning at the back of her throat.

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  She wasn’t sure who she was talking to—her new neighbor, her shaking body, her overeager dog. It didn’t matter. The most important thing was that she was about to throw up.

  One hand restraining Mr. Smith, she took a step backward and shut the door. In the split second before it cut her new neighbor from view, she saw his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline with surprise. One hand pressed to her mouth, she raced to the bathroom. She almost made it, the spasms hitting as she stepped over the threshold. Bracing her hands on her knees, her stomach released its contents all over the tiled floor.

  For long moments afterward, she remained where she was, knees weak, a sour taste in her mouth. An emphatic reminder that her injured body had its limits. Finally she got down on her hands and knees and cleaned up.

  At least she hadn’t thrown up on Mr. Sunshine. There was that small mercy to be grateful for. No doubt he thought she was incredibly rude all but slamming the door in his face.

  She shrugged. There wasn’t much she could do about that, and it wasn’t the end of the world. They were hardly going to become bosom buddies, after all. She’d moved to the beach house for one reason and one reason only—to recover. She didn’t care who moved in next door or what he looked like or what he thought of her.

  She only wanted her life back. And she would bloody well do her damnedest to get it.

  * * *

  OLIVER HAD TO THINK about it, but he was pretty sure that no one had ever slammed a door in his face before. Not even an angry ex-girlfriend. So much for easing the concerns of his elderly neighbor.

  Not that there was anything elderly about Mackenzie Williams. If he had to guess, he’d say she was around the same age as him—thirty-nine—and judging by her firm, lean body, there was nothing remotely doddery about her. Nothing soft or warm or welcoming about her, either, from the cool, clear blue of her eyes and small, straight nose to her very short brown hair.

  From the second she’d opened the door she’d wanted him gone—he’d felt the force of her will like a hand shoving him away. More fool him for trying to do the right thing in the first place. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, not where she was concerned.

  He’d met a lot of women like Mackenzie over the years. Edie had gravitated to that type of woman—aspirational middle-class, with European luxury cars in their driveways, addresses in the “right” part of town, foreheads injected with Botox, fashionably skinny bodies and husbands who earned the big money in banking or law. The only wonder was that Mackenzie had taken time out from her no-doubt hectic social schedule to rusticate in the wilds of the Mornington Peninsula. Hardly the kind of place he’d expect to find an upwardly mobile, hard-edged woman like her.

  He paused climbing the steps to his porch, aware that there was a considerable degree of vitriol in his thoughts. Perhaps a disproportionately large degree, given the length of his acquaintance with Mackenzie Williams. They had been talking for all of two minutes before she’d slammed the door, after all. Hardly enough time to drum up a high level of ire.

  Before his life had turned out to be about as substantial as an empty cereal packet, he’d considered himself a pretty easygoing kind of guy. Not particularly prone to temper tantrums, reasonably long fuse, pretty quick with a laugh when something tickled his funny bone.

  Lately, though... Lately he’d noticed a tendency to see only the darkness, the ugliness in people and the world. And his fuse had shortened considerably. Six months ago, Mackenzie’s little stunt would have made him laugh and worry about her blood pressure. Today, it filled him with the urge to do something childish like put Led Zeppelin on the stereo and turn up the volume to bleeding-eardrum level so that it rattled her windows.

  He released his breath on an exasperated exhalation. It didn’t take a psychologists’ convention to work out where the impulse stemmed from and who his anger was really directed at.

  Edie.

  Except she was a thousand miles away and he hadn’t spoken to her for more than three months.

  Because he didn’t know what to do with all the anger Mackenzie had inadvertently triggered in him, he strode through the house and into the yard, aiming for the shed in the far corner. Nothing like a distraction to avoid dealing with his feelings.

  Strudel kept pace with him, h
er whiskered face bright with doggy anticipation. At least one of them was getting something out of this.

  He was struggling with the rusty latch on the shed when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen before deciding to take the call. It was Brent, his brother.

  “You there yet or still on the road?” Brent asked.

  “Got here a couple of hours ago.”

  “How’s the place looking?”

  “Old.”

  “Coat of paint will fix that. I’ve been doing some research. Looks like the big-gun real-estate agent in the area is Dixon and Lane.”

  Oliver gave the latch a thump with his fist. “It’ll be a while before I can call the agents in, mate.” The latch finally gave and he pulled the door open. “Bloody hell.”

  “What?”

  “The garden shed is stuffed with furniture.” His gaze ran over chairs, a sideboard, a dresser, a bed frame, all of it crammed cheek by jowl and covered with dust.

  “Any good stuff?”

  “I have no idea.” It all looked old-fashioned and heavy to him, but what did he know?

  “We should get an evaluator in. One of those guys who specializes in estates,” Brent said.

  “I guess.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “Lot of road between here and Sydney.”

  “That’s kind of the point, though, right?”

  Oliver shut the shed door and used his shoulder to hold it in place while he forced the rusty bolt home. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll let you go. Speak again tomorrow, okay?” Brent said.

  Oliver suppressed a sigh. Ever since he’d told his brother about Edie and Nick, Brent had been checking in with him daily. As though Oliver would “do something stupid” if he didn’t have his hand held.

  “You don’t have to keep up the suicide watch, you know. I’m pissed off, but I’m hardly going to end it all,” he said drily.

  For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant thunder of surf.

  “You’re not on suicide watch,” Brent said stiffly.

  “Whatever you want to call it. I don’t need my hand held.”