Mend Your Heart (Bounty Bay Book 4)

by Tracey Alvarez

  “No.” Something cracked open inside Isaac’s chest. “I’m not that guy, the sleaze that lusts after his mate’s woman. That goes against everything I believe in.”

  “The only thing sleazy would be if you’d acted on your feelings back then, and you didn’t. I know you didn’t, even as I think I’ve always known that you never felt brotherly toward Natalie. Isaac—” Sam’s voice gentled. “You can’t control who you fall in love with. What you can control is what you do about it, and you did the honorable thing by locking down your feelings for years. Now you don’t need to anymore, and if you continue to push her away because of guilt and a screwed-up sense of honor, then you’ll lose her. And you’re a fucking self-sabotaging idiot.”

  Not for the first time, Isaac couldn’t think of a comeback. Because Sam was a hundred percent right.

  “Anyway.” Sam found the TV remote under a pizza box and clicked it on. “You need to watch something.” He toggled through the channels until he settled on one with a national human-interest news show.

  “That’s it? We’re watching TV now?” Isaac asked.

  The two smiling hosts on the screen chatted to each other about something Isaac had little interest in.

  “I’ve said what I need to say,” Sam said. “Now, shut up, it’s nearly on.”

  “What’s nearly on?” Isaac glared at Sam, then a familiar name spoken on the TV sent a streak of ice down his spine. His head whipped toward the screen.

  “…came into the studio with us for an exclusive interview earlier this week.” The female host continued to talk. “Natalie is the widow of Jackson Fisher, one of the All Blacks’ brightest stars who was cut down in a tragic accident five years ago in London. Also with her tonight is Lucy Gilbert, the young woman at the center of the controversy surrounding Jackson’s death. This is their story.”

  The screen flicked to a wide camera shot of a studio where Natalie and Lucy Gilbert were seated on a leather couch, with the interviewer in a matching leather armchair angled toward them. Every hair on Isaac’s body went rigid at the sight of Nat. She looked so goddamned beautiful, poised and fiercely determined in a simple but stunning blue dress, appearing calm and confident as the woman interviewing asked her first question. Frozen in time and space, Isaac listened as Lucy spoke tearfully about that night, the interviewer obviously prepared with a box of tissues that she handed over.

  Then it was Natalie’s turn, and she bared her soul with dignity and grace, telling the interviewer how she hadn’t known the truth until a few weeks ago, but it’d given her a sense of closure, and that she would still rigorously defend Jackson’s memory as a good man—one who had nearly made a mistake—but she believed that Isaac could’ve talked him out of making it if the accident hadn’t happened.

  “Why is she doing this?” Isaac said, more to himself than an actual question.

  “Why are you both coming forward now?” the interviewer asked, reading Isaac’s mind.

  Isaac barely registered Lucy’s long-winded explanation, he was so focused on Natalie, his heart clenching as she reached out to rub the younger woman’s arm when she started to tear up again. That was Nat, always thinking of other people.

  “And Natalie?” the interviewer asked. “Is the reason you’re speaking out because you’re now in a romantic relationship with Isaac Ngata?”

  Natalie’s beautiful smile froze into a doll-like mask. “I’m speaking out because I know the only thing Isaac was guilty of that night was being a good friend to my husband. He doesn’t deserve the public condemnation and lack of support shown to him during the past five years. But I’m just as guilty of maligning his outstanding character. Even though we’re all human, we all make mistakes.”

  “Oh, true,” said the interviewer, “but to readdress the issue of your relationship with Isaac—”

  “We’re friends.”

  The finality in Nat’s voice cut Isaac to the bone.

  “I consider him a close family friend,” Nat added.

  Isaac snatched the remote off the couch and stabbed the off button.

  “She’s relegated me to the friend-zone?”

  “Dude,” Sam said. “When a woman tells you she loves you and you turn into an emotionally constipated statue, what the hell do you expect?”

  “She told you that?” Isaac’s voice soared at least an octave, and he cleared his throat before trying again. “Nat told you about our conversation?”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Nope. But you just confirmed my lucky guess. Everyone but you knows Nat’s all in, so, again, you’re a fucking idiot.”

  “Thanks.” Isaac resisted flipping the bird to his brother and instead dropped his feet off the coffee table and sat upright. “But how am I going to get out of the friend-zone again?”

  “Do you really want to?” Sam asked. “Because I’ll break your other kneecap if you hurt Nat again. She deserves better, and by better, I mean she deserves a man who’s in it as deep as her, and for the long haul. None of this hooking up behind your friends’ backs, or more importantly, Olivia’s back.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m in it. For the long haul.” Isaac blew out a sigh and scrubbed his hands over his face again. “You’re right, I’ve always been in love with Nat, but while she was with Jackson it was bearable—because there was just no way in the world I could have her, or that she would ever possibly feel that way about me. She loved Jackson, and I loved him, too, but once he was gone…” He shook his head and twisted to look at Sam. “God, I’m such a pussy.”

  “You are.” Sam grinned. “Got real fast, didn’t it?”

  Isaac grunted and started stacking dirty glasses on the coffee table.

  “You know what you need to do, right?” Sam asked. “You can’t be that out of touch with women.”

  Isaac shot him a filthy look and kept stacking.

  “You gotta do a BRG,” Sam said smugly.

  “BRG?”

  “Big romantic gesture. Women dig it, especially when you heap on the grovel, and man, do you need to grovel your ass off.”

  Isaac flopped back against the couch. “You obviously know more about groveling than me, given your track record.” He rolled his head toward Sam. “Any ideas?”

  “Yup. But what am I working with here? A BRG to get back to just being her low-key boyfriend or…” Sam lifted his eyebrow in question.

  Isaac’s stomach gave a sideways tumble and he blew out a breath. Sneaking around with Nat wasn’t enough, hadn’t ever been enough. He wanted to curl around her every night, wake up next to her each morning and make her coffee, make a family with her and Olivia.

  “Or,” Isaac said. “Definitely or. She’s the love of my life, and you can take my man card for saying it—I don’t give a shit.”

  “We’ll figure something out.” Sam chuckled and stood to help clean up. “But you may not wanna lead with the man card part, bro.”

  Chapter 20

  “I hate birthdays.” Nat tried to relax under the hydrating antioxidant marine something-or-other masque being applied by the beautician at Oceanic Beauty, but her skin felt like it wanted to crawl right off her face and hide whimpering in the corner. “Especially my birthday,” she added.

  The beautician clucked her tongue but didn’t say anything. Vee, on Nat’s right, who was waiting for her mask to dry, wasn’t nearly so good at holding her tongue.

  “Wash your mouth out, girl, and enjoy your birthday treat,” she said. “You need some pampering before you enjoy the cake waiting for you at Gracie’s place.”

  “That’s right,” Gracie agreed from Nat’s left, with sounds of magazine pages being flipped. “Morgan and Olivia have worked really hard to make this evening’s birthday dinner—your surprise birthday dinner.”

  “It’s very sweet of them,” Nat said. And she’d been mentally preparing herself to garner up the oomph to act happily surprised since Gracie and Vee had told her about it. All she’d been able to think of in the following seconds was whether Isaac had been invit
ed.

  But Gracie had both crushed her hopes and provided relief at the same time. “It’ll just be our lot, Vee and Ruby, and you and Olivia,” she said. “Hope that’s okay?”

  Nat translated that as: We unanimously decided as your friends who’ve witnessed your misery these past weeks not to invite the Ngata brothers and cause you to blubber uncontrollably at your own birthday party.

  Yes, she’d accepted why he’d lied and forgiven him, but like hell would she go crawling back to the man who’d walked away from her without explanation.

  “Small is better.” Nat had forced her mouth into a cheery smile. “I don’t want a production made out of turning thirty-four.”

  Thirty-four. This was so not where she’d thought she’d be at thirty-four. This was not even where she thought she’d be weeks ago, when she and Isaac had been twined around each other in his bed and he’d teased her about throwing a huge surprise birthday party for her. She’d rolled on top of him with a mock glare, telling him she hated surprises, and tickling the spot on his ribs that left him a laughing, squirming, helpless mess until he conceded defeat. He’d lied about submission, because in the next moment he’d flipped her onto her back and kissed her until she submitted.

  She’d thought she’d be turning thirty-four with Isaac, the man she loved.

  You can’t always get what you want.

  The old Rolling Stones song popped once again into her head, as it had at Owen’s birthday party, which felt like years ago but wasn’t. Yeah. Nat closed her eyes and forced her stiff shoulders to relax. Preach it, Jagger.

  An hour later Gracie drove Nat and Vee to the surprise party. Blindfolded.

  “Really?” Nat asked again from the passenger seat, her fingers locked around the car’s door handle. “What’s with the blindfold again?”

  “Don’t blame us,” Vee said from the back seat. “Olivia insisted.”

  “Can’t it wait until we get into your driveway?” Nat turned her head in the direction of the driver’s seat. “I’m getting motion sick.”

  Gracie snorted. “You are not. We’ve only been driving for, like, five minutes, and no cheating. Just practice your surprised face.”

  “Fine.” Nat folded her arms. “But if I barf all over Owen’s car, he’ll be pissed.”

  Someone patted her head.

  “Poor Natty. Surprises aren’t your thing, are they?” Vee said.

  Nat could’ve sworn her two best friends were exchanging wicked smirks.

  “I’m serious,” Nat said as the vehicle slowed and made a sharp turn. “If someone blows one of those party whistles in my ear I’m going to pee myself.”

  The car came to a complete stop, and the engine died.

  “No peeing,” Gracie said. “Promise. Now stay there and Vee and I will help you out of the car.”

  Once she was out of the car, Nat hesitated. Something was different—missing one sense really did sharpen the others. The air around her didn’t smell as salty as it usually did at Gracie’s where the beach backed onto the property, though she could still hear the sigh of the waves tumbling onto Bounty Bay’s beach and the caw of seagulls overhead. Her sexy-mama party heels that Vee insisted she wear crunched on loose gravel instead of Gracie’s paved driveway, and a stiff sea breeze whisked around her bare legs.

  “Um, guys?” Nat said.

  Vee clasped her elbow on one side and Gracie took the other, effectively preventing Nat from ripping off the blindfold. She crinkled her nose, trying to dislodge the padded satin sleep mask Vee had slipped over her head.

  “Where am I?”

  Her friends, who in the previous thirty seconds had become more like prison guards, ignored her question and tugged her forward, making little directional suggestions of “a little to the left,” and “big step over the pothole now.”

  “Step up,” Vee ordered.

  Nat stepped up—onto concrete by the sound her heels made as Vee and Gracie led her forward again.

  “Stop,” Gracie said. “Sorry, you’re going to have to take off your shoes before going inside.”

  It wasn’t an unusual request before entering a house. In Bounty Bay it was pretty common for guests to remove their footwear before entering a house so they didn’t track sand or dirt inside. But this felt different. Prickles skimmed across Nat’s shoulder blades as she stepped out of her heels. There was definitely evening-sun-warmed concrete under her bare toes, and now she could smell—she lifted her chin and sniffed. A trace of aged wood? Her pulse picked up from the slightly elevated patter of unsure anticipation to a quicker thud-thud-thud of oh, crap, what have these two gotten me into?

  “I swear, my revenge on you two will be demonically clever and far-reaching if there is a roomful of people waiting to spring up and shout ‘surprise’ in there,” Nat said in a hushed but thoroughly pissed-off whisper.

  “Pull up your big-girl panties and stop frowning. You’ll ruin the effect of the marine masque,” Vee said. “Now, last step up.”

  Nat climbed the step from rough concrete to smooth wood. Her friends guided her forward, then gently tugged on her arms to stop her.

  “You’re right where you need to be,” Gracie said quietly from her left.

  “You can thank us later,” Vee said from her right. “But leave the blindfold on until you’re instructed to take it off, okay?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  The prickles, which had turned into little shocks of awareness, zipped up and down Nat’s spine. She didn’t need the blindfold removed to know Isaac was somewhere close by. Her body went on high alert, every atom straining outward in an effort to complete the physical connection with the person she needed more than anyone. And, God, had it ruined her over these past weeks to keep away from him.

  Vee and Gracie walked away, and with only Nat’s rapidly growing ragged breathing in her ears, she waited poised like a nervous cat until Gracie’s car started up and drove away.

  “You can take off the blindfold now.”

  Isaac’s deep voice came from somewhere in front of her and caused another shiver to skim over her scalp and head south, pinging off her erogenous zones like a pinball machine. She did as requested, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. She was standing in the center of Isaac’s marae—not the casual kitchen-dining part, but the actual meeting house with its carved figure poupou along the walls rising up toward the slanted A-frame ceiling. Warm light flickered over the elaborate carvings from the tealight candles spaced on the wooden floor in a heart shape, with long-stemmed red roses scattered among them. In the center of the candles stood Isaac, holding an acoustic guitar and dressed in black dress pants, white shirt and black tie, and a black suit jacket with a stylized fern embroidered on the breast pocket—his All Blacks jacket for formal events.

  “Surprise,” he said.

  It was. But it wasn’t the candles or rose petals that tripped her heart and stole her breath. It was Isaac. The sight of him—so strong and handsome and sexy that her brain couldn’t come up with any descriptions less clichéd—didn’t surprise her so much as it solidified within her what she knew down to her very DNA. She loved this man, and regardless of if he felt the same way, she’d love him every moment of every day for the rest of her life.

  Isaac dipped his head at her silence, perhaps misunderstanding it for some kind of criticism. “The candles were Owen’s idea—he reckoned it worked with Gracie.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “And Sam suggested roses were a safe bet, so I bulk ordered from the florist and then had no idea whether to stick them in vases or where to even find so many vases and—shit, I’m screwing this up.” He scrunched up his face and let go of the guitar neck long enough to pinch the bridge of his nose.

  Isaac was…apologizing?

  Blood pounded through Nat’s head, throbbing against her temple. Candles, flowers, serenade—he probably had a box of expensive chocolates around somewhere, too. Classic guy I don’t know what I did wrong but I’m sorry anyway starter kit.

  “You d
on’t need to do this.” Her words fell from numb lips and the padded mask slipped from her fingers. “There’s nothing to apologize for, if that’s what this is about.”

  “That’s not what this is about.” He took a step forward. “I had you brought here, to a place that, other than my parents’ home, is the most important physical place in my world. I’ve been coming here since I was a baby, and it’s at the center of my history and my culture, and it’s where I choose to declare my intentions toward you before my ancestors. I know you’ll appreciate the sincerity of that,” he added with another step toward her, strumming a melodic chord on the guitar.

  Nat swallowed hard and nodded, since her voice box had quit on her, and all she could do was stare, mesmerized, by Isaac’s approach.

  “May I sing you a waiata?” He stopped three feet away from her.

  She nodded again, unable to stop the chills that rippled through her at the familiar chords of “Pokarekare Ana.” It was an old Māori love song with deceptively simple lyrics about a man’s yearning for his woman to return to him and how he could die of love for her. Isaac’s singing voice—which she’d only heard on a couple of occasions when someone had convinced him to pick up a guitar at a party—was rich and deep, and like his brother and father who’d joined him on those rare occasions, perfectly in tune. His beautiful voice soared to the rafters, sending a squadron of butterflies fluttering around her stomach. Isaac turned the familiar sing-along Māori words that almost every New Zealander knew the chorus of into something amazing and heartfelt.

  The final strum of the guitar drifted away. Nat didn’t know whether to applaud, burst into tears, or run like hell. She kinda wanted to do all three. As with everything about the man himself, this experience, being this close to the intensity of his personality, was overpowering. She was like a nocturnal creature who’d spent her life wishing to feel sunlight on her face, but when she did, it was so much brighter, hotter, and more intense than she’d imagined that she struggled not to flee to the safety and familiarity of the shadows.