Playing For Fun: Stewart Island Book 6

by Alvarez, Tracey

  “Don’t see the harm in letting her try to fix me up.” Ford rolled his shoulders under the loose cotton of his coveralls. “It won’t take her long to fixate on something else once she fails.”

  “You reckon? Fixate on something else when her rep as Oban’s answer to Cupid is at stake?”

  “She’s no Cupid.”

  “She’s taking credit for all four of your mates—don’t give me that look, I know she’s delusional—but it keeps the old girl happy, thinking she’s had something to do with this spate of blossoming romances these last couple of years.”

  “Blossoming romances?” Ford’s lip curled. “Jeez, dad, read any good Mills and Boon’s lately?”

  “Says my son who’s just signed on Kiwi-Match.”

  “Heard about that, too, did you?”

  His dad’s forehead crumpled, dark eyebrows gathering into a V. “Yeah. And I heard you gave Hol a hard time at the café.”

  Prickles sped up and down his spine. Prickles like stinging nettles that left a sore spot he couldn’t quite reach. He masked his reaction with a brief flash of a grin. “Aw, c’mon. She started it.”

  Instead of laughing, his dad straightened. Added a don’t bullcrap another bullcrapper stare—the one that, as a kid, would’ve made Ford spill his guts within the next twenty silent seconds.

  Ford shifted his weight, scratched the back of his neck and kept his gaze locked on the stained concrete under his work boots. “I changed the photo on the dating profile we made last night.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Holly was just letting me know she didn’t like it.”

  “She’s hands-on in finding you a girlfriend, then?”

  Ford shoved his fists into his coverall pockets, his short, clipped nails digging into his palm. Don’t think about Holly’s hands on anything.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sensible. No woman knows you better. Except maybe your mother, but I’m guessing you don’t want her interfering.” A smile cracked the edges of his dad’s mouth. “Though there may come a time when you’ll ask for her opinion, just the same.”

  “Hell freezing over have any meaning?”

  His dad chuckled then fell silent. A soft click and whirr sounded from the corner stereo as the next disc slotted into place, and Bob Marley’s voice throbbed through the speakers.

  “Denise always had a spooky sixth sense about you boys. Right from the first time she met you and Harley when you were only three months old. Pania gave Harley to me and you to Denise the moment we walked into the house. My sister was never one for polite chitchat. ‘Mind your nephews,’ she said. ‘I’m going out for a smoke.’ Denise didn’t tell me until a few years after you came to us that she knew then, hugging your squirming little body with only a wet and dirty nappy on, that you and Harley were meant to be ours.”

  Ford’s throat lining glued together, so he coughed to clear it. “Yeah. Worked out well for everyone, all things considered.”

  Bob Marley wailed, and a seagull waddling past the open door of the workshop threw back its head and squawked.

  His dad nodded. “She’s raised you right, hasn’t she? But don’t think for a moment that because you’re out of nappies you don’t still belong to her.”

  Maybe Denise Komeke hadn’t given birth to him like Pania had, but she was the only woman Ford called “Mum.” He ducked his head, bending to pick up his wrench. “I’m still not discussing my sex life with either of you.”

  His dad snorted and stood. “Sex life? What sex life? You haven’t gotten laid in months.” Then he cut Ford a sly glance. “Unless there’s something other than movie marathons going on at Holly’s house?”

  “Way outta line.” Ford crouched by the Toyota again, white-knuckling the wrench. “We’re friends.”

  His dad’s grunted “Uh-huh” was not at all repentant. He picked up the stool with both hands, his fingers tight on either side of the metal seat. “Pania called the other night.”

  A flash frost swallowed up the hot, tingly feeling the mention of Holly had stirred in his gut. The only time his birth mother called was when she wanted something. Whether it was to reminisce, garner sympathy or, more likely, ask for money, he didn’t want to know. Pania had stopped contacting him years ago.

  “After drug money, was she?”

  “Says she’s got herself clean. This time.”

  Ford shook his head, glaring at the engine mount. “How much did you send her?”

  “Five hundred. For groceries and stuff. Plus another five into her landlord’s account.”

  Ford bit down on his back teeth, staring straight ahead at the ute’s silver panels. “I’ll transfer a grand into your account tonight.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah. I do.” His dad had cleared up his younger sister’s messes for years. Messes that included Ford and his brother. Bitterness coated his tongue, but he swallowed it. “She’s my responsibility.” As much as he skimmed over that part of his whakapapa, his ties to his birth mother weren’t that easy to sever. “And Harley’s. I’ll send him an e-mail later.”

  “Pocket change to your brother.”

  “Yeah. Down-the-back-of-the-couch money.” He plastered on a grin for his dad’s benefit, though he had no intention of bugging Harley for money. Ford had some pride.

  “All right, then.” His dad returned the stool under the workbench and rubbed his hands together. “Sure you don’t want my two cents worth on finding romance?”

  Ford set the wrench onto the prick of a bolt. Didn’t bother looking up to the grin he knew would be on his dad’s face. “Piss off and let me get back to work.”

  Chapter 4

  Holly walked her six o’clock rinse and set, aka Mrs. Taylor, home. Once she’d delivered the woman safely inside her little house, the non-stop inquisition would end. Hopefully.

  “You’ll go see him tonight, dear?” Mrs. Taylor slipped off the silk scarf she wore over her tightly permed curls and pierced Holly with a glance. “Like we discussed.”

  Holly’s stomach did a couple of half flips at the thought of seeing Ford after this morning’s run-in at the café. “After I’ve reheated dinner for you.”

  Mrs. Taylor gripped Holly’s hand. “You’re a good girl.”

  Holly kept her lips peeled back in a smile a moment longer. “All part of the service—and I’m not as good as you think.”

  How would Mrs. Taylor and her other regulars cope when she moved to Invers?

  You’re just a hairdresser, not a life support machine. Like Mum and Dad said before they moved to Christchurch—the world doesn’t revolve around Holly Parker. You’re not indispensable.

  After letting go of Holly’s hands, Mrs. Taylor chuckled and picked up her walking stick. “That’s right. You’re the rebellious one of your girlfriends, aren’t you? The odd one out now that four of ‘em have found true love.”

  Holly dodged an oncoming bullet by ducking around Mrs. Taylor and heading into her kitchen. She grabbed one of the frozen meals Shaye and Del stocked for all the local oldies and shoved it into the microwave. Catching a glimpse of her wide-eyed reflection in the microwave door, Holly dialled back her expression to mildly amused.

  “I’m no rebel, and I swear I’ll dye your hair orange if you try any of that match-making stuff on me.”

  Mrs. Taylor cackled like a hyena and sat down at her kitchen table. “As you young ones say, ‘bring it.’”

  Holly folded her arms. “You had your crack at me when you set me up with Declan.”

  Declan the dickhead, who’d jokingly, but not really, demanded a blow job on their third date. Not that she’d ever told Mrs. Taylor about her asshat great nephew’s behaviour, though knowing how sharp the old lady was, she probably suspected.

  Mrs Taylor crinkled her nose, the laugh-lines around her eyes deepening. “The boy’s an idiot. My bad. I know you think you don’t want a man, but nothing would make me—and more importantly, Dixie—happier than to see you settled before
we shuffle off this mortal coil.”

  Holly slid open the cutlery drawer. “You and Dixie will outlive us all from sheer, bone-headed stubbornness.” She plucked out a knife and fork and dumped them on the table. “Now stop being a meddling pain in the rear and eat your dinner. I need all the focus I can muster in order to convince Ford to go clothes shopping with me and Shaye.”

  Mrs. Taylor rearranged her knife and fork. “Make sure you pick out a decent shirt and tie for the boy. Women like a well-dressed man. I’m thinking a nice blue or green that brings out his eyes…”

  Five minutes later, Holly escaped into the icy night air. A few hardy tourists braved the foreshore road, ambling along, staring up at the star-laden sky. Star gazing triggered a reminder of her horoscope this morning. Ford’s troubled waters hadn’t been soothed by her tact and flattery. Sheesh. Not that she cared about pumping up the man’s ego, but she knew better.

  Ford Komeke had more layers than the average onion. Layers that’d certainly make her cry if he’d peel them open and let her see what festered in the centre. And something did. She’d known that for as long as she’d known him. Something deep down in Ford hurt, something involving the years before he moved to Stewart Island—something he never talked about.

  Holly crossed the patch of winter-stunted grass that passed for Ford’s front lawn. Gardening topped the list of Ford’s not gonna happen jobs, and since his single-story house was a rugby toss from the beach, which spread sand every-which-way during a storm, she didn’t blame him. She paused halfway down the concrete path, stopping before she triggered the outside lights. From inside the house drifted the soft twang of a guitar. She angled her neck toward his lit-up living room—he’d forgotten to draw his drapes.

  Hunched over in his armchair, Ford strummed his guitar. He’d stripped down to the tank top and shorts he wore when working out. The tank clung to the slabs of heavy muscle either side of his spine, and his dreads swung forward, covering his face. She badly wanted to see his expression as he played, lost in the music, lost in himself. Ford’s fingers danced along the guitar frets, bringing forth notes that twined around her wire-thin nerves and coated them in a gooey softness.

  Girl, you are nuts.

  Holly moved a jerky step forward and the outside lights flicked on.

  Inside, Ford stiffened, his fingers dropping away from the strings. Before he could turn his head and catch her gawping at him, Holly scuttled forward.

  His bulky silhouette appeared in the door’s frosted glass. Over sensitive, maybe, but she could’ve sworn a couple beats of hesitation passed before he swung it open. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, fighting the urge to go home.

  “Hey.”

  Ford’s tone was off. Waaaay off.

  Instead of his normal “Hey”, which loosely translated into “I’m stoked you’re here,” this “Hey” was more, “What do you want? I’m busy.”

  To divert his attention, Holly held out a plastic container. “I brought a peace offering.”

  He filled the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame and folding his arms. “Please return to B. Taylor,” he read off the container’s side. “She send you down?”

  She couldn’t admit that, yes, Mrs. Taylor had convinced her to stop by tonight rather than sometime tomorrow because Holly McChicken hadn’t wanted to deal with him again. And especially not when he looked at her as if she were a mosquito dive-bombing his head.

  She yanked the container back against her belly and jutted out a hip, dousing herself in attitude. “You want the cookies or not? Because I can just as easily drop these off to Piper and West.”

  Ford stared at her down his long, straight nose. “My father’s nose, he’d told her once. Harley got his eyes and I got the nose. Can’t remember the bastard, but I’m thankful my nose is the only part of the old man I got.”

  “Give me the damn cookies then.” He held out a hand.

  Holly hugged the container tighter. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? Maybe I’d like a cookie, too.”

  A dimple flashed in Ford’s cheek and his scowl softened. “As if you haven’t already sneaked one on the walk here.”

  “Busted.”

  He turned aside, but didn’t move out of the doorway. Unless she wanted to bump boobs with Ford—which she totally did not, thanks-very-much—she couldn’t get past him and the doorframe without contact. Planned or unplanned? Ford’s face gave nothing away.

  Holly exaggeratedly wrinkled her nose and gave his shoulder a shove. It caught him off balance enough to shift him inside the hallway a few inches. “You smell of stinky man-sweat. For God’s sake, hit the shower.”

  “About to when you arrived.” Ford raised an arm and pretended to sniff. “And it’s pheromones, baby. Women dig that fresh, sweaty smell.”

  Oh, yeah. The ripped muscles flexing in his biceps gave off truckloads of pheromones. Not to mention testosterone.

  “Hate to burst your bubble, but you’re at least half an hour past fresh. Seriously, dude. I’m about to asphyxiate from your pit stench.” She fanned her nose, which had the unfortunate effect of enticing more pheromone-loaded, I’m-sexually-available male smell into her nostrils.

  Ford chuckled but made no move toward her. Six months ago, hell, even six weeks ago, he’d have teasingly pretended to jam her face into his armpit. Yeah—they were kind of juvenile like that at times. Of all her guy friends in Oban—West, Ben, Kip and now Del—Ford was the most affectionate. He still greeted his mum with a kiss every time he saw her. He’d fling an arm around Shaye’s shoulder, lift the petite Kezia off her feet in a bear hug and ruffle Piper’s short hair if he had a clear escape route to avoid her fist. And he’d done all of those with her, and more.

  But something changed after their abortive auction date. It’d been so subtle at first, she almost hadn’t noticed it…almost. While they still ragged each other, still argued passionately over books and movies and which was the best season of Supernatural, their easy physical contact had suddenly become…awkward.

  Ford showed her his palms. “Fine. I’ll shower.” Then his forehead creased. “Why are you here again?”

  Holly shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on a hallway hook. “The girls nominated me to check out your wardrobe.”

  “My what?”

  “Your clothes. To see if you’ve anything suitable to meet women in.”

  “You’re taking the piss.” The wrinkles in Ford’s forehead grew deeper. “My wardrobe is fine. But go be nosy. Knock yourself out.”

  She followed him down the hallway, and he peeled off into his bathroom, flicking the door shut in her face. Nice. His bedroom door was wide open, but she couldn’t…quite…nudge…her sneakered foot over the threshold.

  Ford’s room equalled off limits. Meaning, he’d never done a Gandalf and told her not to pass from the mate areas of kitchen, living room and bathroom into his sleeping area but…Holly poked her head around the doorway. His sleeping area with a freaking enormous, king-sized bed.

  “That’s a big bed.” She took a bracing breath and stepped inside Ford’s lair. ‘Cause that’s what it felt like, a lair.

  The drapes were drawn against the night outside, giving more credence to his décor theme, along with the black duvet cover and dark green walls. On top of a plain wooden dresser were three framed photos—one of his parents and Harley, taken when the brothers were still young enough to smile for the camera without shyness. The other, a ‘56 Ford Thunderbird. His baby which he stored on the mainland. The last photo was taken a few months ago at Ben and Kezia’s wedding. Ford and Ben with their arms around each other’s shoulders, flanked either side by West and Del.

  Holly peered into the first drawer—shut it again with a bang. She did not need to see Ford’s boxers and socks. Drawer two revealed a jumble of tee shirts in various shades of black, grey, and white. Sensing another theme, Holly opened the last drawer. Yup, black jeans, blue jeans, black shorts, khaki shorts, black trackpants and navy track
pants.

  Across the hall, the shower switched on.

  Holly slid open the door to Ford’s built-in wardrobe. A sum total of roughly a dozen coat hangers hung on the rail, most of them empty. One contained a plain pair of black wedding-or-funeral dress pants and a matching, single-breasted suit jacket. She flicked through three collared shirts. The white shirt she remembered from Ben’s wedding, the charcoal short-sleeved one from their “date” and the third—Holly shuddered—a Hawaiian-style shirt with a print mishmash of green palm trees, blue ocean and multi-colored parakeets. Fugly to the max.

  “So much worse than I’d imagined.”

  She slid the wardrobe door shut and turned to Ford’s unmade, king-sized bed. He was a righty, the left side of the bed covered by the duvet, the right-hand side sheet exposed and rumpled. She edged down the side of the mattress, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder. Watery, hissing sounds from the bathroom continued. Holly perched on the mattress edge, and her butt sunk onto squishy softness.

  “Pillow top.” She flopped sideways, oozing onto the puffy mattress as if her bones had suddenly dissolved. As if she were floating on clouds of cotton wool, Holly was pretty sure she flipped into another blissful dimension for a moment. She wriggled into perfect sprawled comfort, snuggled her face into the pillow and inhaled…Ford.

  A combination of pine soap with a hint of the abrasive hand-cleaner he kept at home and at the workshop, and those pesky pheromones.

  Full body orgasm in three…two…one—

  “The hell are you doing?”

  Holly snapped upright faster than a sprung possum trap.

  Ford stood at the foot of the bed, fists on waist, dark eyes gleaming. Oh—and bare chested, a towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips. She blinked up at the expanse of smooth, tanned skin, the ridges of muscle criss-crossing his stomach, the swirls and geometric patterns of tribal tattoos covering his arm. Nothing she hadn’t seen before during summer swims at the beach. But somehow different from the perspective of lying in the man’s bed.