He checked his phone. It was barely six o’clock. Awesome. Now he would have to cool his heels for a couple of hours while he waited for a more civilized time to call on his neighbor.
“Come on, Strudel,” he said, grabbing the flashlight from his tool kit and heading for the back door.
He strode through frost-damp grass to the shed and tucked the flashlight under his arm while he struggled with the lock. It gave grudgingly and he opened the door and played the beam around the dusty interior. He immediately realized how futile his task was—there was no way he could effectively sort through the dark, overcrowded space with only the aid of a flashlight. He’d have to wait until daylight and bring each piece out onto the lawn to assess it properly.
So much for occupying himself with something constructive for a few hours. He shut the door and pushed the rusty bolt home, then contemplated the house. As though pulled by a force beyond his control, his gaze moved over the fence to Mackenzie’s place. Light spilled out of the kitchen window, signaling she was up already, like himself. For a moment he toyed with the idea of throwing convention to the wind and going next door to say his piece despite the early hour. Anything to get past the moment where he had to look into her eyes and acknowledge his own poor judgment.
He teetered on the edge of temptation for a few seconds before sanity prevailed. Arriving on her doorstep at this hour smacked of desperation and preoccupation. Turning off the flashlight, he trudged toward the house.
“Oliver. Is that you?” Mackenzie’s voice traveled clearly over the fence.
He stopped in his tracks, ankle-deep in wet grass. “Mackenzie.”
“You’re up early,” she called.
“So are you.”
He moved toward the fence and stepped up onto the first crossbar. Thanks to the reach of both their exterior lights, he could see her quite clearly. She stood on the other side looking at him, arms tightly crossed over her chest. She wore sunny yellow flannelette pajamas and an oversize navy cardigan, the sleeves rolled up several times to accommodate her small frame. Her hair was flat on one side, spiky on the other and her eyes looked tired.
“Hi,” he said.
Not great as openers went, but it would do.
“Hi.”
“Cold out.”
“It is.” She rubbed her hands over her biceps as though to generate some warmth. “Listen, Oliver. About last night...”
His belly tensed. Here goes...
“Yeah. I was going to come see you about that.”
“You were?” Her cheeks were pink, her chin tilted so she could look him in the eye.
“Yeah. Wanted to clear the air. So things wouldn’t get weird. If I upset you last night... I didn’t mean to leap on you or anything.”
“Oh, you didn’t. I mean, I didn’t feel leaped on. Far from it.”
Her cheeks were very pink now and she seemed to have trouble meeting his gaze—reactions that perfectly mirrored his own. Jesus, since when had being an adult gotten so hard?
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little out of practice with this stuff,” he said. “Which I guess is why I got my signals all wrong. So...sorry about that. Won’t happen again.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “Um, okay.”
There was a beat of awkward silence and her forehead creased into furrows.
“Better go feed Strudel. She usually starts trying to gnaw her own leg off if we’re up too long with no sustenance.”
“Sure. Of course.”
He lifted a hand in farewell. “See you around.”
“Yes. See you.”
He released his grip on the fence and stepped down to the ground, very aware that his armpits were damp with clammy, nervous sweat.
If he never had to have another conversation like that in his lifetime, he would die a happy man.
“Oliver?”
He took a moment to put his game face firmly in place before bracing his foot on the crossbar again and hoisting himself up so he could see her.
She was still frowning, but there was a determined tilt to her chin now.
“I didn’t— Your wires weren’t crossed. Me pulling away like that wasn’t about you.”
He nodded, even though he didn’t really understand what she was getting at. “Okay.”
She stared at him, her expression troubled. He waited for her to say more but she made a helpless gesture with one hand.
“I guess I’m pretty rusty with this stuff, too.”
“Good to know I’m not alone. Gives me hope.”
“Yes. There’s always comfort in numbers, isn’t there?”
They both fell silent. Against his will, his gaze shifted from her upturned face to the shadowy neckline of her pajama top. He hadn’t noticed before, but his vantage point gave him a perfect view of her cleavage.
Maybe it was just him, but it seemed like a really bad time to register that she wasn’t wearing a bra under all that yellow flannel.
“I should go,” he said abruptly, dragging his gaze to her face.
“Okay.”
For the second time he raised a hand in farewell before dropping to the ground. He mouthed a curse as he made his way to the house. He had no idea what their conversation had been about, apart from the fact that he’d apologized and she’d accepted. But he now knew that Mackenzie had the tiniest of freckles on the upper curve of her right breast and that her skin looked smoother than velvet.
You are officially beyond help. You know that, right?
He was. Only last night he’d spent an hour staring at the ceiling, regretting the stupid impulse that had led him to kiss Mackenzie, and yet here he was, eyeing her cleavage even as she let him off the hook for his unwelcome advance.
Shaking his head at himself, he went to make breakfast. Maybe food would bring his brain back online.
He flicked the radio on when he entered the kitchen, listening to a morning talk show as he put eggs on to boil. He was slotting two pieces of bread into the toaster when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and went still. Last night, Edie had caught him off guard because he hadn’t recognized the number she was calling from. Not so this morning. He let his breath out in a rush before taking the call. Might as well get it over with, since she’d only try again later if he didn’t answer this time.
“Edie.”
“Hi. Sorry to call so early. I didn’t wake you, did I?” She sounded guilty and nervous. As she had last night.
“I’m awake. What’s the problem?”
“I’m at the house, but I can’t find that file you were talking about. I’ve looked through both drawers in the filing cabinet.”
“It’s in the top drawer. Right at the back. Marked Insurance.”
“I looked. It’s not there.”
He sighed. Edie was a self-styled incompetent when it came to business matters and he’d taken care of all the administrative aspects of their life together—the mortgage, the bills, any residual band business. He hadn’t minded doing it, but he wasn’t about to pander to her laziness now.
“Then I guess you’ll have to look again.”
It was her turn to sigh. When she spoke, her voice was so quiet he almost didn’t hear her.
“For what it’s worth, I miss you. I miss us. I miss Strudel and going to the bake house on Saturdays for bagels and lattes. I miss listening to you play your guitar.”
The element in the toaster glowed red. Without thinking about it, he reached out and held his hand over the slots, absorbing the heat.
“Do you miss the lying?” It was a genuine question, but he was a little surprised to hear the lack of rancor in his own voice. He hoped it was a sign that her power to hurt and anger him was fading.
“You think I enjoyed that?” She sounded wounded.
“Part of you must have, Edie.”
She’d kept it up for nearly six years, after all.
“I hated lying to you. I hated myself for it. Every time I promised myself it would be the last.”
The toast popped up, golden-brown.
“Tell me something. Do you love him?” he asked.
There was the smallest of hesitations. He braced himself for more excuses and prevarications.
“Yes.”
Honesty. A refreshing change.
“Did you ever love me?”
“Of course, Ollie. Always. How can you doubt that?”
He made a rude noise. It was a stupid question and she was smart enough to know it.
“If I’d never met Nick, if he and I didn’t have this...thing between us, you would have been it for me, Ollie. If it’s any consolation to you, I know I’m going to regret losing you.” She made a sound that could have been a self-deprecating laugh. “Hell, I already do. This thing with Nick...I know it won’t last. It’s too damaged. And I know I’ll never meet anyone like you again.”
She sounded sad and broken, but he didn’t have room in his heart to feel any sympathy for her. She’d destroyed six years of his life. He was working on moving past it, but he knew he’d never forgive her. She’d abused his trust too comprehensively.
His toast was going to be cold.
“I need to go,” he said.
“Okay. If I need anything else, is it okay if I call?”
He didn’t need to think about his answer. “No.”
He wanted to put all this behind him. No way was he going to let her keep dragging him backward.
“Okay.”
He hung up. The toast was hard, utterly unappetizing, and he pulled it out of the toaster and walked to the back door. He flung it outside for the birds, then toasted two fresh slices that he slathered with butter and Vegemite then sat at the kitchen table.
He felt...calm. Not angry. Not resentful. Certainly not wounded.
What a freaking relief.
It was startling after carrying around that solid burden of righteous emotions. He’d become so accustomed to their weight, to the way they alternately motivated him and depressed the hell out of him. This...this felt more normal. More like the Oliver he recognized.
At the same time, this calmness seemed too new and—dare he say it?—too temporary. He decided not to examine the situation too closely lest he jinx himself and welcome back the anger.
He was rinsing his plate at the sink when he heard the scrape of metal on concrete. Curious, he walked into the living room to look out the side window. Dressed in her workout gear, Mackenzie was clearing the gravel from the paved area in front of her house.
As she transferred a load to the wheelbarrow she’d positioned nearby, he remembered the nasty job it had been cleaning up this place—and he hadn’t been flooded the way she had. He’d ached for two days after—shoveling gravel was hard work. It had taken her days to recover from their late-night battle with the water, and he could only imagine how exhausted she’d be today after hours of spadework.
“Stubborn idiot.”
He knew her well enough now to know she would have convinced herself she could handle it. It would be a point of pride for her, a way of proving something to herself.
Not your problem.
It wasn’t. He had more than his fair share of work to tackle on this side of the fence. The kitchen was only half-sorted, and there were still various cupboards, the attic and the rear shed to clear out.
The scrape of metal set his teeth on edge as Mackenzie hefted another shovelful. He watched as she tipped it into the wheelbarrow then paused to wipe her forehead and survey the remaining gravel. After a few seconds, she squared her shoulders and set to it again, the plucky little engine that could.
He shook his head, annoyed with himself and her. She wasn’t his responsibility. Far from it. Yet there was no way he was going to be able to listen to her toiling away, potentially exhausting herself, without doing something to help.
Which probably made him a misguided sap of the worst order.
So be it.
More than a little bemused at himself, he went to change into his work clothes.
CHAPTER NINE
MACKENZIE DUMPED a shovelful of gravel into the wheelbarrow, enjoying the feeling of using her muscles for something real instead of a series of pointless exercises on her gym equipment. It felt good to be outside, accomplishing something, instead of floating around aimlessly inside her house and her own head. Ever since she’d learned via Patrick that her job was history she’d been living in a sort of holding pattern, allowing herself a chance to regroup without the pressure of expectation.
There was only so much regrouping she could tolerate, however. She wasn’t used to floating around. She was used to setting goals and going for them, hell for leather. The problem was, several days of allowing herself downtime hadn’t teased a new goal or direction out of her subconscious. She still had no idea what to do now that she’d reconciled herself to the fact that high-pressure, long working weeks were not a realistic possibility for her anymore.
Hence the shovel and the gravel. The storm damage needed clearing, and even though it was something she could easily pay a handyman from the village to do, it was also something she could tackle herself, and she damn well would.
It didn’t hurt that it was also a great distraction from the deeply uncomfortable, awkward conversation she’d had with Oliver. She’d embarrassed both of them last night, and while she’d tried to explain to him this morning that her rejection had been more about her than him, she was aware that she’d been woefully inarticulate. It would serve her right if he avoided her like the plague for the rest of his time in Flinders.
It was an unpleasant thought and she pushed it away, concentrating on heaving her latest shovelful into the wheelbarrow. She assessed the growing pile of gravel. The wheelbarrow was half-full, and she was conscious that if she made it too heavy she’d struggle to push it up the driveway. She set down her shovel and tried the handles. Not too bad. Another few shovelfuls wouldn’t hurt.
The sound of footsteps made her glance up. Oliver appeared around the curve in her driveway, dressed in faded jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, a shovel balanced on one shoulder.
She was momentarily arrested by the sight he presented. Then her brain kicked in.
“No,” she said, holding up a hand to halt his progress. “It’s a lovely offer, but I couldn’t possibly let you do that.”
His gaze swept over her body and she was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that there were half-moons of sweat beneath her arms and a damp patch between her breasts.
“There’s no way you can do this on your own without falling in a heap.”
She blinked at his bluntness. “Wow. Pull your punches, why don’t you?”
“Just stating the truth.”
“I was planning on doing it in stages, if you must know. A bit today, a bit tomorrow and so on. The water-on-a-rock approach.”
“So I’ll help, and you’ll get it done faster.” He shrugged.
She breathed in through her nose, reminding herself that he was being sweet and generous and thoughtful—as well as presumptuous, bossy and overbearing. More importantly, he was here, talking to her, engaging with her, when common sense said, after the awkwardness of last night, he should be giving her a wide berth.
“You do know I’m not your responsibility, right?” she said.
“Okay. If you want me to go, I will. If you want to move all this on your own—” his hand swept in an arc over her messy, flotsam-and-jetsam-strewn concrete pad “—far be it from me to stand in the way.”
He waited for her to respond, his hand resting on top of the long handle of his shovel, a challenging glint in his eye.
“Who in their right mind would want to do this all on their own?” And she was in her right mind—most of the time. “But I can’t keep accepting favors from you.”
“I’m sure we can think of some way you can pay me back.”
He wore his poker face, his tone utterly neutral, but there was no getting away from the suggestiveness of his words. As if he could read her mind
, he cocked an eyebrow.
“You could pay me in lemon tarts, for example.”
“I could. Or I could barter my labor for yours. There must be something I can help you with on your side of the fence.”
The tart would be easier, but she’d always feel as though she’d taken the easy option, and that simply wasn’t her way.
“Good God, yes. There’s still a ton of old clothes, the crawl space in the roof, the back shed...”
“Done. I’ll match you hour for hour,” she said, sticking her hand out to shake on their bargain.
He eyed her hand for a moment before grasping it. His skin was warm, his palm and fingers much bigger than hers.
“You drive a hard bargain, Williams.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m a real hard-ass,” she said drily.
They both knew he’d had her whipped the moment he appeared. As she’d already noted, no one in her right mind would choose to take on the thankless task of moving so much debris on her own.
He surveyed the work she’d already done and, without another word, began shoveling gravel into the wheelbarrow.
“I was going to empty that, actually,” she said doubtfully. “It’s getting really heavy.”
“That won’t be a problem, because you won’t be pushing it.”
“Won’t I?” She gave him a look.
“Nope.”
He didn’t cease shoveling the whole time. She toyed with the idea of embarking on another tussle of wills with him, just for the fun of it, then decided to save her energy. No doubt they’d find plenty of things to disagree about as the day wore on.
Instead, she added her efforts to his, piling the barrow high. Once it was full, he pushed it to the top of the driveway and upended the load.
“We can rake it out later. Let’s concentrate on clearing the area first,” he suggested as he returned.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said, giving him a salute.
He gave her a quizzical look. “Am I being too bossy?”
“Not yet. Skating close, but I’ll let you know when you get there.”
“I can hardly wait.”
He smiled at her and the last of this morning’s awkwardness evaporated as she found herself smiling in return. Maybe she hadn’t completely ruined things between them with her scaredy-cat routine last night.
The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) Page 13
