He glanced down at his tank top and laundered-soft sleep pants. Not easy to look scary and badass in the Batman pajama pants his little sister had bought him as a gag. Not easy, but Isaac could look scary and badass in a tutu. So he’d open the door and let his cranky-before-coffee scowl make the salesperson jabber and backpedal the hell off his porch.
Ding-dong-ding-dong!
Someone had ants in their pants. Isaac’s eyes narrowed as the person moved closer to the glass. Close enough he could now make out the salesperson was in fact a kid, one wearing the blue plaid uniform of the local high school he’d attended with Sam and their little sister, Tui.
He cast a longing glance over his shoulder toward the kitchen and then back at the front door. It was probably one of the kids fund-raising by selling chocolate bars or collecting for charity. Best to get it over with.
Isaac opened the door, mentally combing through the bills left in his wallet. He’d a couple of twenties in there, maybe some coins. Enough to buy a few bars—
“Hello, Mr. Ngata,” said the teenage girl standing on his doorstep.
It was Natalie’s mini-me, Olivia.
His fingers crimped around the door handle, his brain spinning. What the hell was she doing there? He scanned the length of her, looking for a booklet of raffle tickets, a box of chocolate bars, something to give him a clue why Olivia Fisher was standing on his doorstep.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asked, because for the life of him he couldn’t think of one single, logical reason why she’d be there early on Monday morning.
“It’s seven thirty,” she said, deadpan. “School starts at, like, nine.”
Her pretty face crumpled into a look he’d seen so often on her mother’s face back when he and Natalie had been…friends. Back when he’d hang out with the Fishers and knock back a couple of cold ones in their backyard. Isaac would say something to make Nat stare blankly at him for a second, scrunch up her face in the very same expression her daughter now wore, then bust out laughing. Only Olivia didn’t laugh and he was pretty sure Natalie wouldn’t laugh either nowadays if she overheard him uttering something dumb and accidentally funny.
“Does your mother know you’re here?” He didn’t know why the words suddenly blurted out of his mouth so fiercely, but there they were, jagged and razor sharp in the gulf between the inside security of his private sanctuary and his outside bitter past in the form of the now frowning teenager hunched defensively in front of him.
“No. I told her I was going to the school library to catch up on homework. You can’t tell her I came here, either.”
That shouldn’t be a problem considering Nat’s phone number wasn’t on speed dial or even on his contacts’ list.
He rolled a shoulder, then leaned on the doorframe. “Why are you here?”
Olivia’s gaze shot to the scuffed toes of her black lace-up school shoes, and she gnawed on her bottom lip. Isaac’s gut knotted with the same panicked feeling he used to get as an openside flanker during the last minutes of the game when the entire match rested on scoring a try for the win.
“I want to ask you something.”
Isaac didn’t want to hear what that something was. “If you’re selling fund-raising chocolate, I’ll buy the whole box—hell, I’ll take two.”
“I’m not selling chocolate.”
“Raffle tickets? Collecting for Greenpeace?”
She shook her head and more curls escaped from her ponytail.
“Girl Guide cookies?” It was the last remaining reason he could dredge up.
Olivia flung out her palms. “Do you think I’m the type of girl to join the Girl Guides, Uncle Isaac?” Her mouth immediately snapped shut and a flush of rose spread over her cheekbones. “I mean, Mr. Ngata.”
Isaac honestly didn’t know what type of girl his best mate’s only child had grown into, but if she was anything like her mother she would be kind, strong, loyal to a fault, and completely, utterly beyond his reach. So he mirrored Olivia’s earlier defensive body language and folded his arms. Again—best get it over with and rip the sticky bandage off even if the wound hadn’t completely healed.
“What did you want to ask, Liv—Olivia?” The girl’s name felt so strange and unfamiliar on his tongue. So much so, he’d nearly called her Livvy, the pet name Jackson and Natalie sometimes called her. “Spit it out. I’ve got to get to work.”
He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but Olivia flinched. Then she straightened her spine and angled her chin up. “Ms. Pierce says she can’t coach the Bounty Bay High School girls’ rugby team this year, and our principal is looking for a replacement. I want to ask if you’ll be our coach.”
It would’ve hurt less if Olivia had removed her backpack, filled it with rocks, and used it to smack him in the face. Isaac’s folded arms dropped and he took a giant step backward—back into safety, into his private sanctuary.
“No.” His heart thudded hard enough inside his chest to bruise his rib cage. “No bloody way.”
Olivia’s jaw sagged. “But—”
“No.” He shut the door and locked it for good measure in case she was as tenacious as her mother.
“You got my dad killed. You owe me,” shouted the fuzzy blue outline on his doorstep. “I hate you.” Then she turned and stomped off his front porch.
“You and me both, kid,” he said as he limped back along the empty hallway to get ready for the long day ahead.
Chapter 3
“You want to tell me what’s shot a burr up your ass today?”
Isaac didn’t bother looking up at his brother from his position behind his desk. He continued to add data to the spreadsheet he was working on, ignoring the tempting scent of coffee spreading through his office. “I’m busy.”
“You skipped lunch,” Sam said. “And Auntie Raewyn said you snapped at Rangi-Marie earlier. That’s not like you.”
Rangi-Marie who was fifteen and begged her way into a twice a week after-school position behind the sales counter of the family-run Kauri Whare. Rangi-Marie who, instead of assisting potential customers to choose between the skilfully turned kauri bowls if they were after a souvenir or a pricier wood-carved sculpture if they were more financially inclined, preferred to message her friends as if her life depended on it. Little cousin or not, the girl didn’t have the right to abuse the privilege of being part of Bounty Bay’s most successful and entrepreneurial business.
Isaac finally looked up. “Leave the coffee on my desk and back away slowly.”
Sam raised the mug to his nose and drew in a long sniff. “Nope. Take a walk with me. You’ll feel better and I’ll hand over your next fix.”
“You’re a dick. Gimme the coffee.” But he saved his spreadsheet and rose from his office chair. His knee gave a twinge as he put weight on it. Sam was right; he needed to stretch his legs since he’d been at his damn desk all day. Head down, working so he wouldn’t have to think about Olivia’s visit earlier. Not that there was anything to think about.
Sam grinned and raised the mug again, waggling his tongue near the rim. “Move it or lose it.”
“Touch my coffee and you’re a dead man.” He walked—limped—to the doorway and commandeered the mug before Sam really did do something gross like lick it. He wouldn’t put it past him—his younger brother thought life was one giant playground. Though Sam was only two years younger than Isaac’s thirty-four, sometimes it seemed as if there was twenty years’ difference between them. Maybe because it felt as if Isaac had lived two grueling lifetimes in the past five years.
“Drink some,” Sam said. “Then you’ll be in a more acceptable mood to survey the kingdom we have created together, dear brother.” He swept a hand behind him to the half glass wall along a short corridor that separated the Kauri Whare showroom floor from the offices, staff room, and conference room behind it.
Isaac obeyed, sipping the hot dark brew, made just the way he liked it with fresh organically grown coffee beans, ground and steamed by his specially
bought coffee machine. When he’d been training, you’d never have seen him a slave to the dark master, Caffeine. No coffee, no alcohol, no crap food would’ve passed his lips. Just another annoying jock measuring protein powder and miles run at the break of dawn each morning. Now that his morning run was more of a three times a week shuffling jog and he’d swapped protein powder for actual protein—steak, medium rare, leave on the fat—he didn’t give a shit about turning to the dark side.
“Let’s roll.” Isaac took the mug with him and they strolled down the corridor and onto the showroom floor.
First thing they saw? Rangi-Marie behind the sales counter with her head angled down at her bent arms. A couple of customers browsed nearby, one of them shooting glances at her as if waiting for someone to serve them.
“Ah. So that’s what she was sulking about,” Sam said. “Probably not the first time you’ve caught her today, I’m guessing?”
“Yep.”
“You taking the good cop or bad cop approach?”
They paused by a display of kauri chopping boards and salad servers.
“I don’t know how to play good cop anymore,” Isaac said.
He left his brother at the display and walked quietly around the counter. The customers moved on to another part of the showroom, but Rangi-Marie didn’t look up, her fingers flying over the phone. She must’ve caught a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, as she startled and moved to tuck the phone into her pocket. Isaac was faster—and meaner. He snatched it out of her hand and held it up to eye level.
“Your so hot, bae,” he read out loud. “You’re should have an apostrophe, Jimmy, you moron. C U at Andy’s Sat nite. That’s the night you told your mum you were having a sleepover with your friends, isn’t it?”
Her mouth sagged.
Amateur. Like she thought Isaac’s ma didn’t know everything about everything that went on within her family—and extended family—and would report it all in a mind-numbing litany every time her sons visited.
“Just you and Elise and Debbie and Ngaire painting each other’s nails and watching Pretty Little Liars.” He glanced down at her phone as it buzzed. “Another little gem. Send pic of your hotness. That, I can do.” He tapped the screen to take a selfie, holding the phone up to catch both his face—set in his old I’m going to shove this rugby ball where the sun don’t shine glare—and his mug with the ‘Touch this and you’re dead’ slogan printed on the side.
“Iiiisaac.” Rangi-Marie stamped her foot. The sassy teen had been replaced by a tantrum-throwing toddler. “You can’t do that.”
He tapped out a brief message—I’m not just talking about my coffee, Jimmy—and hit send.
“I can. Not just because you’re my employee and I’ve already talked to you about texting while working, but because you’re my cousin and I won’t stand by and let some pimply-faced asshole convince you to lie to your parents. They deserve your honesty, and you deserve some respect from a boy who claims to like you.”
“Whatever. Can I have my phone back?”
“That depends on what Auntie Sheryl says when I hand it to her after you’ve finished work today and you’ve explained why I had it.”
Her mouth pinched cat-ass tight. “You’re a bully.”
“You’re family.” He tucked the phone into his shirt pocket. “You can take a break in thirty minutes, and I believe your mum stopped by earlier and left some banana cake in the staff room.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Suit yourself. You have customers,” he added in a quieter voice and strolled back to Sam.
“Don’t quite know what to say about that.” Sam greeted him with a smirk. “You’ve got quite a way with the girl.”
Isaac snorted as they left the showroom and the last scheduled tour bus of the day lumbered into the parking lot. With many daily trips to the tourist attraction of Cape Reinga, the farthest drivable road in the North Island of New Zealand, Isaac had set up a deal with the tour companies years ago to make Kauri Whare a stop on their itinerary. The bus continued to rumble as passengers spilled from the air-conditioned luxury.
He slid the sunglasses that usually rested on top of his head down over his eyes, but the tourists barely glanced their way. They probably figured his little brother as just another Māori fella in his sawdust-speckled jeans and T-shirt. Isaac’s face was a different story, since it had appeared on the front page of numerous papers and websites. Both before and after the accident. The difference being that now he wasn’t rushed with people scrambling to gush over him or ask for autographs.
Big loss.
They bypassed the main workshop where Sam’s crew of talented wood turners and artists worked, including their Uncle Manu Ngata who’d taught Sam everything he knew about whakairo—Māori carving—and headed for the smaller building behind it, Sam’s private workshop.
Sam flung open the door and entered with Isaac a few steps behind. As a kid, he and Sam had spent many hours hanging around Uncle Manu’s workshop, watching him make magic with his tools. Sam had taken to whakairo like he was born with a chisel in his hand; Isaac not so much. His big hands struggled to create anything better than what a high school kid in woodworking class could produce, and Uncle Manu had gruffly but kindly suggested he’d be better off kicking a rugby ball around the bare section of land next to the workshop. Years later that same land became Kauri Whare and home to Sam and Uncle Manu’s dream.
It hadn’t been Isaac’s dream, though, not by a long shot. His mind automatically shot a freeze-frame memory into his brain. A sold-out Twickenham Stadium in London. The deafening roar of the crowd and the black-dressed fans supporting the All Blacks amid a sea of white-clad hometown supporters. The taste of blood in his mouth from a split lip, his ear throbbing in time with his pounding heart. The ache in his jaw from smiling so damn hard because they’d won, beating England by a hard-fought seven points. The English had played well, but Isaac and his squad had played fiercely and focused, with Isaac setting a personal record for the season with a try. Then the weight of an arm had hooked around his neck and he heard a distorted, “We fucking won, mate,” in his ear because Jackson still had his mouth guard in.
That moment, that day, had been both the best and worst of his life.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Sam asked. “Now that you’re caffeinated again.”
Isaac looked down at his mug, the coffee probably cold. He set it down on Sam’s workbench—far enough away from his brother’s current project not to get his ass chewed—and leaned a hip against the bench, sliding his sunglasses back on top of his head.
“Olivia came to see me this morning,” he said.
Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Olivia Fisher?”
“We know any other Olivias?”
His brother snorted. “Since you’ve been the definition of hermit for years, you probably don’t. But I do. She works at that hair salon in town. Nice girl. I should slip you her number.”
Isaac swatted his hand in Sam’s direction when he pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket. “I don’t want some random girl’s phone number. Can we get back to Olivia turning up on my doorstep and asking me to coach a girls’ rugby team?”
“She asked you to what?”
“Shit, Sam. Are you a damn parrot? You heard me.”
Isaac itched to move, to run, to burn off the backlog of unspent negative energy that’d built volcano-like inside him since this morning. But the best he could do was stalk to the other side of the garage-sized workshop and back again. Make that limp back again. Tiny needles of pain spread out from his kneecap and crawled up his thigh. He gritted his teeth until he reached the workbench, white-knuckling the edge and taking the weight off his bad leg.
“Knee playing up?” Sam asked quietly.
“Just one of those days. It’ll come right.” Isaac forced his game face on. “I told her no.”
His brother nodded. “Right call, do you think?”
“Course it’s the right call
.”
Just the thought of walking onto the turf, even just a high school playing field, made the blood pound against Isaac’s eardrums in a sickening thud. “Can you imagine what a train wreck it’d be? Me trying to wrangle twenty teenage girls when I can’t even get Rangi-Marie to quit texting on her fucking phone during work hours?”
“Since when have you been scared of a bunch of teenage girls?”
Isaac shot Sam a screw-you glare.
“Or is it you’re scared of one teenage girl’s mum?” Sam added.
“I’m not scared of her, asshole.” Isaac kept his voice as mild as if they were talking about the long-range weather forecast. He wasn’t scared of Natalie’s sharp tongue and I hate your guts glare, but he was unwilling to cause her any further hurt. And he knew being around him hurt her.
“You can’t even say her name out loud.” Sam pulled a face. “Why do you allow Nat to keep hating you, bro?”
“You know why.” There was all kinds of subject now closed in his voice, but Sam—who’d never known when to shut the hell up—just huffed out a sigh.
“The accident, yeah, I know why back then. But now? After all this time?”
Isaac clenched his back teeth together, hard enough to almost crack molars. “Leave it alone.”
His brother showed him his palms and shrugged. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should reconsider the coaching position. Could be a way to patch up that burned bridge between you and Nat, because, seriously, it’s uncomfortable as hell when you guys are together in the same room.”
Sam picked up a chisel and flipped it, catching it deftly in his hand like a show-off bartender.
“I mean,” he added, “if your friends didn’t know better we’d mistake all the silent tension between you two for the mother of all lovers’ tiffs.”
“Based on how some of your exes would like the chance to aim a flamethrower at your junk, you’d know about lovers’ tiffs. But this isn’t like that.”
Isaac’s fingers closed around the mug, squeezing the sides as mercilessly as his gut squeezed around his spine. No, he and Nat had never been lovers. There’d never been a hint that the flare of attraction he’d felt the first time they’d met was mutual. It was an attraction he’d buried so deep inside himself over the years that he almost believed his visceral reaction to her was merely the protective urges of a brother looking out for a sister.
Mend Your Heart (Bounty Bay Book 4) Page 3
