The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance)

by Sarah Mayberry

  “I half expected it, anyway.” She had no idea where the words came from, or her almost-casual tone. “Gordon warned me. So it’s not really that big a surprise.”

  Except it was, because she’d never really imagined that Gordon would choose Philip over her. Amazing to think that after all these years working in such a cynical industry she could still be so naive.

  “You should sue them. You’re still on sick leave, aren’t you? They can’t just give your job away.”

  “They can. They only have to offer me something similar. One of the game shows. Maybe the Christmas Carol special.”

  “You’re better than a game show,” Patrick said, his tone full of disgust.

  “Listen, I need to go. My guest is here,” Mackenzie lied. “I appreciate the heads-up, Patrick.”

  “Call me if you need to talk, okay? Anytime. Evidence to the contrary, I’m here for you, babe.”

  “Thanks and noted. See you, Pat.”

  She ended the call. She put the phone back on its cradle, then she turned on the outside light and went to the kitchen.

  The ingredients for the pasta were lined up along the counter, neatly sliced and diced and ready to go. Two of her pretty Japanese glazed bowls sat to one side, waiting to be filled. In the living room beyond, the table was set with cloth napkins and shiny cutlery.

  The last thing she wanted to do right now was entertain a virtual stranger. The thought of smiling and making small talk with Oliver when the rug had been pulled from beneath her life made her want to drop her head back and wail like a child. Yet she couldn’t cancel on him. This dinner was a thank-you, an acknowledgment that he’d put himself out for her. No way could she pull the pin on their evening. It simply wasn’t an option.

  Instead, she turned to the fridge and grabbed the bottle of local white wine she’d bought to accompany their meal. She twisted the cap off and poured herself a big serving. She sipped as she gazed grimly off into space. Waiting for Oliver to arrive.

  Waiting for this evening to be over so she could crawl into bed, pull the quilt over her head and hide from the world for a while.

  Because even feisty, scary, too-many-coffees-intense women were allowed to have moments of weakness. Weren’t they?

  * * *

  OLIVER SMOOTHED A HAND over his damp hair. His other hand gripped the neck of a bottle of wine and Strudel’s lead as he stood on Mackenzie’s doorstep, waiting for her to respond to his knock.

  Dumb, but he was nervous. About what, he had no idea.

  Annoyed with himself, he turned to study the paved area in front of her house. Unlike him, she hadn’t done a thing about the damage from the storm so mud and gravel and debris were still strewn across the expanse.

  The snick of the lock had him spinning around as the door opened. Mackenzie smiled at him, pulling the door wide.

  “Right on time. The perfect guest.”

  Mr. Smith rushed out, launching himself at Strudel. A complicated exchange of sniffs, licks and tail wags took place, both dogs quivering with excitement.

  “Well. That’s them settled for the evening,” Mackenzie said.

  She looked different. It took him a beat to work out what it was—makeup and real clothes instead of workout gear. Small changes, but enough to make him realize something he hadn’t admitted to himself before tonight. She was an attractive woman. Verging on beautiful, with her delicate features and striking blue eyes.

  He offered her the bottle. “Not sure if you’re a red or white person or an equal-opportunity wine swiller like myself, but this looked good.”

  She examined the label. “It is. One of my favorite local vineyards, actually.”

  She gestured for him to enter, making him clue in to the fact he was still hovering on the doorstep like a nervous schoolboy. He shrugged, feeling stupid and self-conscious, and stepped into her small entryway. Strudel strained at her leash, eager to cavort more fulsomely with her new beau.

  “Hope you like pasta. And I bought a lemon tart for dessert,” Mackenzie said.

  “Sounds great.” It did, too. Lunch had been hours ago, a cheese and Vegemite sandwich he’d shoved into his face one-handed while sorting through one of the many boxes of books in the back bedroom. “Is it okay if I let Strudel off the leash?” Before she choked to death trying to get at Mr. Smith.

  “Of course.”

  He unclipped the lead and Strudel and Mr. Smith rampaged down the hall, disappearing in no seconds flat.

  “No worries, guys, we’re cool. We can look after ourselves,” Mackenzie called after them.

  He smiled at her wry tone. “Hard not to feel like chopped liver sometimes, eh?”

  “I think Smitty would be more interested in chopped liver, to be honest.”

  She led the way to the kitchen, her perfume leaving a scented wake.

  “I never got around to asking, is this a permanent move for you or have you bought next door as a holiday place?” she asked as she opened the fridge and extracted a bottle of wine.

  Let the small talk begin.

  “Neither, actually. Marion was my aunt, and she left the place to me and my brother. We’re both Sydney based so we decided it was best to sell.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry for your loss. I know it was a while ago, but she was a great old bird. I used to enjoy chatting with her over the fence whenever I was down here. I was really sad when I heard she’d died.”

  “Thanks. To be honest, I didn’t know her that well. She lived so far away, we didn’t see her much. Mostly it was Christmas cards and the occasional phone call.”

  “Right.”

  He thought over what she’d said. “Does that mean you don’t live here permanently, then? I thought you were a local.”

  “I’m a city girl. But I’ve been masquerading as a local for the past few months so I can concentrate on my rehab.” She handed him a glass of wine. “So you’re the sucker who gets to prepare the house for sale, huh?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “That’s a big job. Your aunt had me over for tea a couple of times and that place is stuffed with furniture.”

  “And books and clothes and knickknacks. Then there’s the shed out the back.”

  “You’re a good brother,” she said.

  “Not really. It suited me to get away for a few weeks, that’s all.”

  She raised her glass. “To being temporary neighbors, then.”

  He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Cheers.”

  “Grab a seat while I make this happen.” She waved him toward the stools parked beneath the overhang on one side of the counter.

  He sat and watched as she moved around the kitchen, setting water to boil and washing a bunch of parsley. There was a restrained energy to her actions, as though she was constantly holding herself in check. Or perhaps it was her injuries that were doing that. He wondered what she’d been like before the accident.

  Unstoppable, he suspected.

  His gaze dropped and he couldn’t help noting her small, round backside again. He wondered what it would feel like in his hands.

  He forced himself to look away. He wasn’t the kind of guy who went around checking out women and wondering what they looked like naked. He didn’t make a habit of it, anyway. Yet somehow his thoughts always seemed to head in that direction when he was with Mackenzie. Even though she wasn’t his type.

  “So, what do you do when you’re not clearing out old furniture?” Mackenzie asked.

  “I’m a sound engineer. My business partner, Rex, and I have a small recording studio.”

  Her gaze was bright and assessing. “What sort of things do you work on? Music, commercial stuff?”

  “A bit of everything, but mostly session work for albums.”

  “Interesting. How did you get into that?”

  He shifted on the stool, not liking the direction of the conversation but he had no easy way of changing it. “I was a musician—long time ago. It seemed like the logical next move once the band broke up.
”

  “You were in a band? What was it called?”

  “Salvation Jake.”

  She set down the knife, her eyes wide with surprise. “Get out of town. Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I loved you guys. I practically wore holes in your first CD.”

  Which, coincidentally, was also their one and only successful album.

  He could feel his shoulders getting tight. It always made him uncomfortable talking about the band. It was so long ago, like a distant dream. The gold records, the packed gigs. He was well aware that he ticked more than enough boxes to qualify for the washed-up ex-rocker cliché. Eking out a career in an associated field, tick. Days of glory long behind him, tick. Anonymous, tick.

  “Your lead singer, Edie Somers... She had such a sexy voice. So much gravel. And such an amazing stage presence.”

  “Yeah. She was something.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was talk about Edie. He took a big swallow of wine and focused on Mackenzie.

  “How about you? How do you pay the bills?”

  Her gaze dropped to the cutting board and she concentrated on brushing the parsley she’d just chopped into a small bowl.

  “I work in TV. Producing, that kind of thing.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met a producer before.”

  “We’re not a very exciting bunch. More or less glorified field marshals.”

  “What shows have you worked on?”

  She shrugged, her head still down turned. “Game shows, dramas. Most recently Time and Again. Really, it’s pretty dull. I’m more interested in knowing what it’s like to be a rock god.”

  “I was the bass guitarist. I don’t think I even qualified as a demigod.”

  “No underwear flying your way, then? No groupies hanging out at the stage door?” Her words were light, but her grip was white-knuckle tight around the bowl of her wineglass, as though she was holding on for dear life. He studied her face, seeing past her smile to the misery in her eyes.

  Something was wrong. He had no idea what, but he could feel it, and he had the sudden, odd urge to simply lay his hand on hers. Anything to ease the terrible turmoil he sensed in her.

  Those were disturbing thoughts. He didn’t go around touching strange women to reassure them. He wasn’t about to start now, either. Particularly not with this woman, who had already proved that she could be prickly and difficult at the best of times.

  “You’re not going to go all shy on me, are you, Oliver? I was hoping for some salacious tales of decadence and excess. At the very least I was hoping for some scuttlebutt.”

  She gave him what he could only describe as a cheeky look and he realized that whatever was going on, she had no intention of telling him. She was being a good hostess, keeping things light and easy breezy. The least he could do was follow suit.

  As for touching her... No. That would not be a good idea.

  So he talked about the band. He answered her questions and made her laugh with stories about how gauche and spoiled and dumb they’d been as they enjoyed their brief moment in the sun. She volunteered her own embarrassing stories, and before he knew it he was looking at the bottom of an empty pasta bowl, they’d finished one bottle of wine and she was opening the bottle he’d brought over.

  “I’d better not,” he said when she attempted to top up his glass. “The saddest thing about pushing forty is not being able to handle hangovers.”

  “Oh, God, I never could, even when my liver was young and pink and squeaky-clean. But it’s not going to stop me from having more. Not tonight, anyway.”

  There was a determined, bright note to her voice but all he could see was the deep sadness in her eyes. For the second time that night he was gripped with the urge to ask her what was wrong. Then he reminded himself—again—that it was none of his business. She’d said it herself—they were temporary neighbors. Besides, his own life was mostly in the toilet. He was hardly in a position to offer anyone comfort or advice.

  He looked away from her sadness and focused instead on the dogs. They’d settled in the corner on what was clearly Mr. Smith’s favorite lounging spot, a big floor cushion made from coffee-colored corduroy. Strudel had claimed the prime real estate in the center of the cushion and Mr. Smith had curled his long body around hers. His head nestled on his outstretched paws, and he watched her every move with a single-minded devotion.

  “I think we might have a romance on our hands,” he said.

  She followed his gaze. “Smitty’s definitely enthralled. And she doesn’t seem to mind it too much.”

  “I’d say she was eating it up with a spoon.”

  “Speaking of which, time for dessert.”

  She cleared the plates. He watched her walk to the sink, his gaze drawn yet again to her small, pert bottom.

  “You want ice cream or cream or both?” Mackenzie asked.

  “At the risk of imminent cardiac arrest, both, please.”

  She was smiling when she returned with two plates bearing lemon tart, ice cream and cream. “Man after my own heart condition.”

  The lemon tart was just that—tart and sharp and sweet and sour and so good that an involuntary moan of pleasure escaped him.

  “That good, huh?” she asked.

  “Lemon is one of my favorite flavors, and it’s been a while.”

  “I always make it a rule never to go too long between good desserts. Life is too short.”

  “That’s a pretty good rule.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  Her expression seemed self-satisfied, although not in a bad way, and once again he was struck by how attractive she was. It wasn’t just her eyes, although they were spectacular. It was the shape of her small nose and the plumpness of her lower lip and the laugh lines around her mouth.

  Her smile faltered a little and he realized he was staring like...well, a little like poor, dumbstruck Smitty, if he were honest.

  Mackenzie put an inordinate amount of attention into scooping up the last of her ice cream and he tried to pretend he couldn’t feel heat climbing into his cheeks.

  He was really, really out of practice with this man-woman stuff. Not that this was a proper date with any expectations attached to it or anything like that, but still. Apparently he needed to brush up on his social skills before he ventured out too far in public.

  “That was really delicious,” he said. “The whole meal was great. Definitely better than the canned spaghetti I had last night.”

  “That’s a rather low standard you have there.”

  “What can I say? I’m a man of simple tastes.”

  He wasn’t sure how, but somehow his words came out sounding loaded. As though he was talking about tastes other than the ones that originated in his mouth.

  “So, will your wife be enjoying this lovely, restful break in delightfully wintery Flinders with you?” Mackenzie asked.

  For a second he was thrown. How did she know he was married? Then he realized she’d probably assumed he was. Not the craziest assumption given his age, and one that would have been accurate four months ago. He opened his mouth to tell her he was in the process of getting a divorce—then the memory of the last time he’d told someone about him and Edie popped into his head. He hadn’t stopped at sketching in the bare details, hadn’t been able to stop, and all the sordid, messy ugliness had come pouring out. Trying to extricate himself—and the poor person who had been on the receiving end of his spewing—from that embarrassing situation had been almost as bad as baring his soul.

  So no way was he gutting himself in front of Mackenzie like that. He’d already made her uncomfortable with his dopey staring and rusty social skills. Discretion was definitely the better part of valor in this circumstance.

  “No, she won’t.”

  “That’s a shame,” Mackenzie said.

  He made a noncommittal sound as she poured herself more wine. The dogs stirred, shifting positions on the cushion. Mackenzie smiled indulgently.

&nbs
p; “How old is Strudel?” she asked.

  “Eighteen months. How about Mr. Smith?”

  “Nearly three now. Poor little guy. He was so confused when I had my accident. He had to live with my friend Kelly for nearly eight months. I was worried he’d forget me after all that time, but he still did the happy dance when he saw me.”

  He knew what she was referring to—the complicated little dance Strudel did whenever he came home, complete with crazily wagging tail, bright eyes and lolling tongue.

  “Gotta love the happy dance.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  Her gaze rested on her dog, her expression suddenly pensive. “You know what I love about having a dog? They don’t have moods.” Her gaze met his, very intense and maybe even a little fierce. “He’s always happy to see me. He always wants to be tickled on his belly. He’s loyal and steadfast to a fault. Utterly and completely reliable. I know he’ll never let me down. Ever. He’s always got my back, no matter what.”

  A single tear trickled down her cheek as she finished speaking. She shook her head slightly and wiped her cheek. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

  “You’re okay. No worries.”

  She nodded and smiled but when she blinked two more tears slipped down her cheek.

  “Sorry...” The look she gave him was anguished and self-conscious at the same time.

  “Hey, what are a few tears between temporary neighbors?” he said.

  Her chin wobbled, then her face crumpled and suddenly she was crying in earnest. He froze, unsure what to do, what to say.

  “I didn’t mean—” She stood abruptly. “Give me a minute.”

  Ducking her head, she strode from the room.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  OLIVER STARED at her empty seat, feeling sideswiped and stupid and more than a little inadequate.

  He should have said something. He should have at least told her that he didn’t give a shit if she cried. God knew, he’d shed his fair share of tears in recent months, deep in the dark of the night when no one would know that he’d compromised his all-important masculinity by letting his emotions get the better of him.