The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance)

by Sarah Mayberry

  The voice at the back of his head wanted to pick a fight with his logic, but he didn’t want to listen. Right now, he was happy, and it felt good. It seemed to him that only an idiot would question that.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MACKENZIE WOKE ALL AT ONCE, aware that something was wrong. It took a moment to work out that it was because she wasn’t in her own bed. Again.

  So much for her “dodging a bullet” game plan.

  Tentative, she reached toward the other side of the bed and found a warm, solid back. Oliver hadn’t retreated to the kitchen this time, then.

  Or, he hadn’t retreated yet.

  The thought made her belly tight. Granted, they’d agreed that they would accept this for what it was—whatever that may be or may become. Still, she didn’t want to feel like an unwanted guest twice in as many nights. If Oliver felt the need to create some space for himself again, it would be kinder to both of them if she simply offered it to him. She should slip from the bed and quietly get dressed and leave as though it was her choice.

  She didn’t move. She told herself it was because the bed was warm and the night was cold, but she knew it was a lie.

  She didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to walk away from the way Oliver made her feel.

  Beautiful. Sexy. Wanton.

  Not once in any of their encounters had he said or done anything or indicated in any other way that her scars even registered on his radar. She knew that couldn’t be true, but she was everlastingly grateful for his low-key acceptance. Unless he was the best actor she’d ever met, the only conclusion she could draw was that her scars and the limitations of her body simply didn’t matter to him. He wanted her, scars, dodgy hip and all. On top of all his other charms and attractions, it was pretty heady stuff.

  She weighed the demands of her still-fragile vanity against her heartfelt desire to avoid a repetition of last night’s debacle. It was a titanic struggle, but after a tense few minutes her pride won out.

  Moving quietly, she slid to the edge of the bed. She stood, blinking in the dim light, trying to work out which of the dark shapes on the floor were her clothes. She bent to pick up the first indeterminate shape and quickly worked out that it was her yoga pants. She did a slow circuit of the bed, adding items of clothing to her haul as she identified them. She was on Oliver’s side, bending to pick up her bra when a large, warm hand wrapped around the back of her thigh. She gave a small start and nearly dropped her bundle.

  “What are you doing?” Oliver asked, his voice a husky murmur in the dark.

  “Getting dressed so I can go home.”

  There was a small silence, then he curled his hand more fully around her thigh and tugged her backward.

  “Come back to bed.”

  She hesitated, and he tugged on her leg again.

  “Come back to bed and I’ll give you a foot rub.”

  She smiled, even though she was pretty sure he couldn’t see it in the dark. “How do you know I like having my feet rubbed?”

  “A good guess.”

  She let her clothes fall to the floor and allowed him to pull her onto the mattress, shaping her body to match his as he made room for her on his side of the bed. She tried not to read too much into his actions beyond the fact that he wasn’t ready for her to go home yet.

  He smoothed a hand down her back, his fingers stopping here and there to knead the small muscles either side of her spine. “Tell me about Mary De Garis,” he asked idly.

  She was so surprised by his request she sat up to stare at him, even though she could only see the outline of his head against the pillow.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I went searching for my De Garis project files this morning. Talking about it with you yesterday gave me an idea for a new take on it. A sort of modern twist to make it more relevant.”

  “Ah. That must be why I’m getting such strong Mary De Garis vibrations off you.”

  She nudged him with her elbow, amused despite herself. “Do not pretend you’re suddenly psychic.”

  “I could be.”

  “And I’m Zsa Zsa Gabor.” She settled in again. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you want to know about her?”

  He turned his head to look at her. “Because you said she was your passion project.”

  He said it as though it should be the most obvious thing in the world that what interested her naturally interested him. But she’d been married to a man who put his own needs and wants first, second and third. It took her a moment to get her head around the idea that Oliver was prepared to invest his time and energy in something simply because she was fascinated by it.

  In that second it hit her that she was navigating very shaky, dangerous ground with this man. He was so lovely and sexy and sweet, it would be very, very easy to slip from liking and lusting into some far more life-changing emotion, despite all the little warnings she kept issuing herself along the way.

  “I’ll get you started. Mary De Garis was a woman, and she wanted to be a doctor....” he said encouragingly.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him he didn’t really want to know, that he wasn’t really interested. That was how well her ex-husband had trained her. She caught herself, however, and decided to take Oliver at his word.

  “Okay. She was born in 1881 in Charlton, and she was one of the first thirty-five women to graduate from medicine at Melbourne University....”

  She sketched Mary’s life for him in broad strokes, answering his questions, filling in details when he wanted more information. When she’d finished he wanted to hear about her new idea, so she told him about that, too, this morning’s excitement bubbling up inside her again.

  “How long will it take you to make it?” Oliver asked.

  “To do it properly, probably two years. Maybe three, so we can get a true sense of the women’s journeys through med school. These kinds of documentaries are long-haul, big-commitment projects.”

  “Well, have at it. The sooner you get started, the sooner you’ll be giving your acceptance speech. ‘I’d like to thank the Academy for recognizing this film....’”

  “Can I have a kilo of your faith in me, delivered fresh to my door every morning, please?”

  “What’s wrong? Don’t think you can go the distance?”

  She knew he was playing devil’s advocate, deliberately goading her, so she didn’t bother rising to the bait. “There’s no money in it, for starters. I’d be living on the smell of an oily rag. And if I ever want to jump back into drama production I’ll have to start kissing ass at the bottom of the ladder all over again.”

  “How much money do you need?”

  She thought about her lifestyle, about her apartment and the beach house and her European car. She’d been paid well in her career—of course, she’d earned every penny—and everything she owned was hers free and clear. If she wanted to, she could live frugally without sacrificing much. After all, there was only her and Mr. Smith to provide for.

  “Correct answer,” Oliver said very softly, and she knew that he’d guessed what she was doing in the privacy of her own head.

  She rolled onto her belly and rested her chin on her folded hands, contemplating his profile.

  “How did you get so wise?” she asked quietly.

  “Am I wise? I don’t feel it, I can tell you. I only know that life is short and time passes anyway, so you might as well do something you believe in as something you don’t.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to do something with that song you recorded this morning?” she asked.

  It took him a moment to answer. “Maybe. I need to see if there’s more where that came from first.”

  “Then?”

  “Maybe I’ll record an album. Stick it up on the internet to see if anyone wants to listen to the midlife-crisis ramblings of a nineties pop star.”

  “Me, me, pick me,” she said, holding her hand in the air like a child in class. Inside, she
was deeply pleased to hear that he’d been doing a little stargazing of his own. It was good to move forward. Good to dream.

  He started to say something, only to be interrupted by the ferocious growl of her stomach.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Lunch was a while ago.”

  “It was.”

  “And being on top is strenuous work.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Do you have anything to eat?”

  “A couple of pieces of slightly stale bread?”

  “That’s not going to cut it.”

  He slipped an arm beneath her, encouraging her to roll on top of him. “I had a feeling you were going to say that. We could send the dogs out for pizza.”

  She settled on top of him, loving the feel of his hair-roughened legs against hers. “There’s a reason why dial-a-dog pizza didn’t take off, you know. The dogs always eat it before it gets home.”

  She kissed him again, then rolled off him and threw back the covers.

  She heard the rustle of sheets as he leaned across and flicked the bedside light on. “Where are you going?”

  “To my place, where there is food in abundance.”

  “Huh.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder as she began collecting her clothes again.

  “You’re invited, in case you were wondering.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” he said, rising with flattering alacrity.

  They dressed hurriedly and gathered the dogs, then raced next door where she turned the heating up high before making them scrambled eggs and ham on toast. Later, they showered together, then Oliver made good use of the stash of condoms in her bedside drawer.

  Afterward, she kept waiting for him to make noises about returning to his place, but he seemed content where he was, taking up more than his fair share of her bed, his big body sprawling across the mattress.

  Gradually it sank in that he wasn’t going anywhere. She knew she should be alarmed by the notion—or at the very least wary—but she wasn’t. She was, simply, glad.

  * * *

  “IT’S THAT ONE. Number sixty-five,” Mackenzie directed.

  Oliver turned into the spacious parking spot, stopping his wagon in front of a large storage cage that looked as though it was filled to the brim with boxes.

  “Tell me that’s not yours,” he said, even though he already knew it was. This was the allocated parking spot for her apartment, and it made sense for the locker to be hers, too.

  “Don’t be a chicken. It’s perfectly manageable.”

  Her tone was serious, but her eyes were laughing with him. It had been a week since they’d cleared out his shed, a week full to the brim of Mackenzie, and he’d had enough of her to know he could never have enough.

  She was no walk in the park. She had a temper, and she was impatient. She loved a good debate, and she was competitive, as he’d discovered to his detriment when they played chess last night.

  She was also incredibly smart and sharp, and she knew how to laugh at herself and the world, and she was strong, with an inner resilience he was slightly in awe of. He found her face captivating and her small body more so, and when they were in bed—or the living room, or the kitchen, or the shower—he gained enormous pleasure from making her crazy.

  In short, he was hooked. And despite his initial misgivings, it didn’t feel like a bad place to be. It felt right. As though it was meant to be.

  “It’s probably worth checking the apartment first,” Mackenzie said as she opened the car door. “There’s another filing cabinet in my home office.”

  “You have a lot of offices,” he said as he exited the car.

  “That’s because I used to work a lot. Early starts. Late finishes. There’s always more to do on a TV production. Auditions to watch, rushes to assess, story lines and scripts to read over. Time and Again is pooh-poohed by some of the more high-brow one-hour dramas, but we produce the equivalent of a feature film every week. Those are no small apples.”

  “No, they are not,” he said, nodding, his face serious to let her know he understood the import of what she was saying.

  She laughed. “Did I just have a too-many-coffees moment?”

  “Not at all. Please, tell me about your plans for world domination.”

  She rounded the car and grabbed a fistful of his sweater, pulling him close and kissing him.

  “The only thing I plan to dominate around here is you. If you’ll let me.”

  “Consider this my white flag,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

  He kissed her more thoroughly, his hands slipping beneath her coat. He loved her breasts and he palmed them, teasing her nipples through the thin wool of her top. She gave a small moan, her hips pressing forward.

  The sound of a car starting had her stepping back. She gazed up at him, her eyes cloudy with need.

  “How do you keep doing that to me?” she asked.

  “You started it.”

  He was only half-joking. She had only to look at him in a certain speculative way and he could feel himself growing hard.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” she said, throwing him just such a look.

  He smiled to himself and beeped the car locked, following her to the elevator. She swiped her security pass through the card reader to the right of the control panel, then punched the button for her floor.

  The lift transported them smoothly, the doors opening seconds later to reveal plush charcoal carpet and a discreetly lit corridor. He knew enough about Melbourne to understand that South Yarra was a very desirable suburb, situated as it was a stone’s throw from the city center, and he’d already guessed from the exterior of Mackenzie’s building that this was a classy, glossy, expensive place.

  A funny little tickle of something he couldn’t quite name itched behind his breastbone as she led him to a shiny black door. She unlocked it, and he followed her into a small foyer that led into a huge, open-plan living and dining area. He took in the sculptural modern furniture, the pieces of art, the bold colors and, most importantly, the view—a no-holds-barred, untrammeled panorama of the Royal Botanic Gardens, lush and green and beautiful—and admitted to himself that he was more than a little intimidated. He’d never doubted for a second that Mackenzie was good at what she did, but this apartment was something else.

  “You want something to drink? There’s no milk, but I could make you a black coffee and there should be some mineral water.” She entered the kitchen, a severely modern creation in black granite and stainless steel that opened onto the living area.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  He crossed to the freestanding wall unit that created a screen between the living and dining sections of the room. It was filled with books, their spines a kaleidoscope of colors. He pretended to scan them as he absorbed the fact that it was likely Mackenzie could buy and sell him twice over. He caught himself doing a mental tally of his net worth—the house, his car, his investments, the royalties from the band, his share of the studio and his aunt’s place—and gave himself a mental slap.

  So what if Mackenzie had more money in the bank than he did? It didn’t change who she was or who he was. In fact, her success was very much a part of who she was. Integral, even.

  His gaze ran over a bold, abstract painting on the wall and it occurred to him that one of the reasons he was feeling so disconcerted was that this place was nothing like Mackenzie’s beach house. This apartment was all hard edges and bright colors, a sophisticated inner-city pad. The beach house had crinkly linen couches and soft, neutral colors and the warmth of wooden floors. He’d met Mackenzie there, grown to know and like and admire her there, but this place made him feel as though he didn’t know her at all. Or, at least, that he only knew a part of her.

  “Wow. I used to drink a lot of coffee.”

  He glanced to where Mackenzie stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling pantry. Half-a-dozen glossy black blocks of vacuum-sealed coffee beans marched along the top shelf.

&n
bsp; “The working-life equivalent of Dutch courage, right?” he said.

  She nodded, but she was frowning. He continued to watch her as she opened the fridge to assess the contents. He could see bottles of Diet Coke and a few jars of olives, as well as what looked like either vodka or gin.

  “I used to drink a lot of Coke, too. And martinis, apparently.”

  She sounded as though this was news to her. As though she was inspecting some other Mackenzie’s apartment.

  “When was the last time you were here?” he asked.

  “Nearly four months ago. I stayed here for a week after I got out of rehab, then I moved to the beach house. So I guess it’s been nearly a year since I’ve lived here, really. Although my cleaner has been giving it the once-over every month for me.”

  She sounded a little bewildered. He followed her as she left the room, traversing a short hallway that opened onto two rooms, the doorways opposite one another. A quick glance to the left told Oliver it was the study, complete with frosted-glass desk and formidable-looking ergonomic chair. He guessed the other room was her bedroom, a guess that was confirmed when he followed Mackenzie inside. A large king-size bed sat beneath a broad, wide canvas made up of gray swirls, the whole set against a severe white wall. The carpet was snowy-white, and one wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, exposing the room to the world.

  It was stunning, but he couldn’t help wondering how a person got undressed at night, since there didn’t appear to be any curtains or blinds.

  “How do you...?” he asked, and she flipped a switch next to the bed.

  The windows instantly became an opaque gray, utterly impenetrable.

  “Ah. Fancy.” And also a little sterile for his tastes.

  But, hey, he didn’t have to live here.

  Mackenzie walked to an opening to the left of the bed. He assumed it was the doorway to an en suite bathroom—there was no way this apartment didn’t have an en suite, and he bet his worker’s cottage in Newtown that it was dripping with marble—and when he ducked his head around the corner he saw that he was both right and wrong. It did lead to a bathroom, a gleaming white marble space, but it was also a walk-through closet, complete with a shoe display worthy of Imelda Marcos.