‘That smells good,’ he managed.
She didn’t turn from the stove. ‘Bacon always smells good.’
He could tell nothing of her mood or state of mind from either her posture or her tone of voice.
He rubbed his nape. ‘I didn’t think you were much of a breakfast person.’ Mind you, she’d barely eaten any dinner last night.
‘I’m not usually, but I make an exception when I’m setting off on a car journey.’
She moved to butter the toast that had popped up in the toaster and that was when Mac saw the suitcases sitting by the doorway leading out to the laundry and the back door.
A chill crept across the flesh of his arms and his face, down his back. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘I am.’
His heart pounded. ‘Today?’
‘That’s right.’
She finally turned. The dark circles under her eyes made him wince. She nodded at his shopping list.
‘So I’m afraid you’ll have to get your own groceries.’
A knife pierced through the very centre of him. She couldn’t leave! Just because they couldn’t be together in the way they wanted it didn’t mean she had to go.
She set the toast on the table and then two plates laden with bacon, eggs and beans. She’d made enough for him too. Maybe she’d had the same thought—that he hadn’t eaten much at dinner last night either. It warmed some of the chill out of him, but not for long.
When she indicated he should do so, he sat. He stared at his plate. He forced himself to eat, but all the while his mind whirled. Jo couldn’t leave. He needed her here. She—
She needs to eat. Wait until after she’s eaten.
Two rashers of bacon, a piece of toast and a fried egg later, he pushed his plate away. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He waited until she’d finished before speaking again. ‘Why are you leaving?’
She took their plates to the sink. She wore a pair of jeans that fitted her like a glove. Had she worn them deliberately to torment him? He gulped down his orange juice but it did nothing to quench the thirst rising through him.
She pushed a mug of coffee towards him, cradling another mug in her hands and leaning against the kitchen bench.
She took a sip before finally meeting his eyes. ‘I’m leaving, Mac, because I refuse to watch you sacrifice yourself on the altar of guilt and misplaced responsibility.’
He swallowed back his panic. ‘I prefer to call it duty.’
‘You can call it what you like. Doesn’t change the fact it’s messed up.’
His head rocked back.
‘And I’m not going to support you in that delusion.’
Jo might not understand what drove him, but it didn’t mean she had to leave! ‘You haven’t learned how to make the macaron tower yet.’
She shrugged. ‘I did that stupid vocational test of yours again last night.’
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, concentrated on breathing.
‘I considered each of the questions as honestly as I could and you know what? It came back with the perfect job. So thanks for the tip.’
How would he cope out here without her?
He forced his eyes open. ‘What job?’ he croaked, a fist tightening about his chest.
‘Paramedic.’
Saving lives? Dealing with emergencies?
She’d saved Russ’s life, and probably Bandit’s. She’d forced Mac to turn his life around. Her practicality, her strength, her ability to respond quickly, it made her... Perfect. The single word rang a death knell through hopes he hadn’t realised he still harboured. Impossible hopes.
Jo deserved to get on with her life.
Without him.
He just hadn’t known that letting her go would tear the heart from his chest.
‘The NSW Ambulance Service is recruiting soon, so I figured it’s time I got on with things.’
Mac found himself on his feet, moving towards her. He cupped her face. Her skin was warm and soft and alive against his hands.
‘Stay,’ he croaked. ‘Please. Just another week.’
In another week he’d find the strength to let her go, but please God don’t ask him to relinquish her today. Please.
Her eyes melted to emerald for a moment before she blinked them back to a smoky sage. ‘If I stay we’ll become lovers,’ she whispered.
‘Sounds perfect to me.’
He ached to kiss her, but she planted a hand on his chest and forced him back a step.
‘To you it probably does, but I’m not going to settle for second best. I will never come first with you, Mac. Ethan always will.’ She swallowed, her face pale. ‘I deserve to come first with the man I choose to share my life with.’
Her words forced him back another step. His heart burned. Ethan had to come first. He had to look after the other man until he was back on his feet, and there was no telling how long that would take.
If he made a lot of money—millions of dollars—he could set up a trust fund to take care of Ethan, and then he’d be free to follow his heart.
If.
He stared down at his hands. Jo had no intention of waiting around to find out if he could manage that. He couldn’t say he blamed her.
She cleaned the kitchen. He’d have told her not to bother except that would only mean she’d leave sooner. He took her bags out to The Beast and stowed them in the back. He rested his head against the doorframe before striding back into the kitchen.
‘What about Bandit?’
She lifted a hand to her temple and rubbed it, making him wonder if she had a roaring headache too. ‘I thought you wanted to keep her?’
He shook himself. ‘I mean what about the puppies?’
She seized a tea towel, shook it out and hung it on its rack. ‘When they’re ready to be weaned I’ll come and collect them. If there are any issues let me know. I’ve left my mobile number, my email address and my grandmother’s contact details beside the phone in the in the hall.’
She didn’t meet his eyes. Not once.
His heart started to thump—hard. ‘Is that where you’ll be staying?’
She slung her handbag across her shoulder. ‘It’s my childhood home.’
He suddenly found it difficult to swallow. He stared at that handbag. She was really leaving?
‘Goodbye, Mac.’
He had to swallow the bellow that rose up inside him. They couldn’t end like this! There’d been so much promise and—
She reached out as if to touch him, but her hand dropped short. ‘I really do wish you well. I hope...’
What did she hope?
‘I hope that you succeed.’
She spun on her heel then, and shot through the laundry and out of the back door. He lumbered after her, his limbs heavy and clumsy, as if they didn’t belong to him. She was so calm, so cool and untouchable. As if she didn’t care. She was tearing him to pieces.
A black knot of acid burned through the centre of him. ‘Is this really so easy for you?’ The words left him on a bellow. ‘Don’t you feel the slightest sting or throb? Don’t you—?’
‘Easy?’ She swung towards him, her face contorting. ‘Easy to walk away from dreams you let me believe were possible? Dreams that—?’
Her eyes filled and her pain rose up all around him.
‘Easy?’ She lifted her hands as if to beat out her pain on his chest.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms and make her pain go away, soothe the desperation in her eyes and the despair that twisted her lips.
‘Jo...’ He swore.
‘Easy?’ She thumped her chest. ‘When you’ve broken something inside me that I’m afraid I’ll never be able to fix?’
His mouth dried. His stomach knotted. He wanted to hide from the accusation in her eyes, from the anguish there—anguish he’d caused.
‘I’m sorry, Jo. I—’
She twisted her hands in the collar of his shirt and slammed her lips to his. The world tilted. She explored every last millimetre of his lips with a hunger that had the wind rushing in his ears, firing his every nerve-ending to life. She deepened the kiss as if her very life depended on it, and everything he had reached towards her.
But she pushed him away.
‘I tried to play nice, Mac, and keep it civilised, but you made it impossible! I hope that kiss torments you every night for as long as you hole up out here.’
She needn’t fear. It would burn him through all eternity. As would the tears in her eyes and the pain that turned her lips white.
‘That’s it, Mac. That’s us done.’
She slammed into her car, started up the motor and roared away.
He stared after her, her words ringing in his ears. That’s us done.
Behind him Bandit set up a whine that became a howl.
Mac spun around. ‘You’re too late, you dumb dog. You should’ve told her you loved her while you had the chance.’
Mac picked up a rock and hurled it with all his might at a fencepost. He kicked a tuft of grass, jarring his ankle when he connected a little too well with it. He yelled out his pain and frustration at the top of his lungs. But it didn’t help.
The end. Finito. This was as far as he and Jo would ever go. He stood there, arms at his sides, breathing hard. Jo was gone. The earth might as well spin off its axis for all the sense that made.
He waited for the sky to darken and a curtain to descend about him. It didn’t. The sun kept shining, the breeze continued to rustle a path through the native grass, and on the beach waves kept rushing up onto the sand.
His heart shrivelled to the size of a pea.
Jo was gone.
It was his fault.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAC FINISHED THE cookbook in a fortnight rather than the projected month.
A morning walk, an afternoon walk and making sure he ate three square meals a day still left him with a lot of time on his hands. So he worked.
He didn’t sleep much.
He sent the manuscript off to his editor and then cleaned the house from top to bottom. Having neglected it completely since Jo had left, that took him two full days.
On the third morning after finishing the cookbook, with nothing planned for the day, he stared at the omelette he’d made for breakfast and found he couldn’t manage so much as a bite. With a snarl, he grabbed his coffee and stormed out to the veranda.
Twiddling his thumbs like this was driving him crazy. When would he hear back from his editor?
He collapsed to the step and ordered himself to admire the view.
‘See? Beautiful!’
His scowl only deepened. The view did nothing to ease the burn in his soul or the darkness threatening to tug him under. He’d kept himself busy for a reason. He’d missed Jo every second of every day and every night, but keeping busy had helped him to deal with it, to cope with it, to push the pain to the boundaries of his mind.
He had to find something to do. He leapt up, intending to stride down to the beach for the second time in an hour. Bandit stood too. He stared at her and pursed his lips. If he went down there she’d want to come, and with her about to drop her puppies any day she should probably be taking it easy.
He glanced around wildly for something else to do and his gaze landed on a rosebush. He nodded once. The garden needed wrestling into shape. He could wrestle while Bandit dozed in the sun.
He gathered some battered implements—a hoe, a trowel and secateurs—from the garage. He barely glanced at his car, even though he still made sure to turn the engine over twice a week. It reminded him too much of Jo.
Digging up weeds and pruning rosebushes reminded him of Jo too. Everything reminded him of Jo. He wondered how she was getting along with her macaron tower.
One thing about being so hung up on Jo—it meant he had less time to brood about Ethan.
Jo’s voice sounded in his head. You’re just going to give up...? Fight harder...
What else could he do? He’d make sure Ethan wanted for nothing.
Except a life.
He started reciting multiplication tables.
When lunchtime rolled around he ate cold omelette and a banana. He sat outside in the sun because the kitchen reminded him too much of Jo. So did the dining room.
‘I miss her more,’ he shot at Bandit, who moped nearby. She didn’t flick so much as a whisker.
Has life always been that easy for you?
Yep. Right up until the accident. ‘But don’t worry, Jo—it’s hell now.’
Which was unfair. Jo had only ever wanted his happiness.
Fight harder.
‘How?’ He shouted out the word at the top of his lungs, making Bandit start.
He apologised with a pat to her head. What did Jo mean? How could he fight any harder? He was fighting as hard as he could!
He paced the length of the garden bed. He was fighting as hard as he could to make money.
That wasn’t what Jo had meant, though, was it?
He bent at the waist to rest his hands on his knees. He didn’t know how to fight for Ethan when the other man hated the very sight of him. How could he rouse the younger man from his apathy and depression if—?
Mac froze. The trowel fell from his fingers. Ethan hated the sight of him in the same way Mac had loathed the idea of a housekeeper. Blackmail had been the only method that had worked on him. Blackmail and playing on his guilt about Russ.
He’d loathed the very idea of Jo, but her presence here had forced him to reassess how he was living, to question the bad habits he’d formed. He certainly hadn’t welcomed her with open arms, but she hadn’t gone running for the hills.
As he’d done with Ethan.
No, she’d forced his inward gaze outwards. She’d reminded him that he needed food and exercise for his body, along with sunlight and fresh air. She’d forced him to recognise that he wasn’t betraying the task he’d set himself if he took the time to enjoy those things. She’d made him see that he needed those things if he was to accomplish that task.
She’d stormed in here and turned his world upside down. He hadn’t enjoyed it. He’d resisted it. But it had been good for him.
It had brought him back to life.
Who did Ethan have to give him that kind of tough love?
His mother? Very slowly Mac shook his head. Diana was too caught up in her fear for her son and her anger at the world.
From the corner of his eye he saw Bandit polish off the rest of his abandoned omelette. He didn’t bother scolding her. She’d put up with his growly grumpiness and no Jo for the last fortnight too. If omelette helped, then all power to her.
Mac drummed his fingers against his thighs for a moment, before pushing his shoulders back and reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone. He punched in the number for Ethan’s doctor.
* * *
Jo carefully sealed the lid on the airtight container holding the most perfect dozen macarons she’d ever seen. She set them gently on a shelf at the very back of the pantry with the other six dozen macarons she’d spent the last few days baking. She had twice as many as she needed, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Each and every one of them was perfect.
All the less than perfect ones had been placed in her grandmother’s biscuit tin, and even her grandmother’s enthusiasm for them had started to wane. After her grandmother’s birthday dinner tonight Jo would be glad if she never set eyes on another
macaron for as long as she lived.
Puffing out a breath, she moved back to the table and pulled a plastic cone towards her. She had another eight of these cones in the cupboard. This one she was going to ice. Easy-peasy. Which was precisely what it wanted to be after the number of cones she’d already practised on.
She pushed her hair back from her face. What on earth possessed people to spend hours—or in this case days—slaving over a dish that would be demolished in a matter of minutes? Where was the satisfaction in that?
If Mac ever rang her she’d ask him.
Her throat ached, her temples throbbed and her chest cramped—as always happened whenever she thought about Mac. And as she thought about him a lot you’d think she’d be used to it by now.
She gripped her hands together. It had been eight weeks since she’d left his coastal hideaway, but she still hadn’t grown used to the gaping sense of loss that yawned through her. Some days it was all she could do to get from minute to minute. Some days it was all she could do not to lie in some dark corner and shut the rest of the world out.
But what good would that do anyone?
Please! Some histrionic part of herself that tore at her hair and sobbed uncontrollably pleaded with her. Please, can’t we just...?
Jo swallowed hard and shook her head, blinking furiously. No, they couldn’t.
She wished she’d been able to hold onto her anger for longer. That anger had helped initially, but it had slipped away almost as soon as she’d arrived home. Instead, the hope that Mac would come to his senses had grown—the hope that he’d call her and tell her he loved her and was prepared to create a life that included her.
Which made her a certifiable idiot.
‘But a beautiful idiot,’ she whispered, reminding herself that her time with Mac hadn’t been entirely wasted.
Of course it hadn’t been wasted. By the time she’d left he’d been healthier, stronger, and sexier than sin. Whether he knew it or not, she’d been good for him.
Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set Page 16
