Sweet Thing

by Nicola Marsh

  ‘Mine.’ I pinched the bridge of my nose to ease some of the tension building behind my eyes. ‘Should never have happened.’

  Hudson’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you express post-coital regret.’

  ‘Bullshit. Remember that time we double-dated those bogan twins from Bundaberg? Disastrous.’

  Hudson laughed. ‘Don’t change the subject. From what I saw, this Abby chick had class stamped all over her. Too cool between the sheets, huh?’

  Too hot, more like it. Scorching, soul-searing hot. The type of woman who got inside a guy’s head and wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard I tried. And I’d tried. Boy, had I tried. But she was there, every time I allowed my attention to wander for a moment. Front and centre. Naked. Wanton. Willing.

  Fuck.

  ‘Abby’s Remy’s protégé and I shouldn’t have gone there.’

  ‘Why not?’ Hudson’s grin turned wicked. ‘From the way I saw her draped all over you as you left this place as fast as humanly possible, she was seriously into you.’

  ‘Still too complicated,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Anyway, what’s going on with you?’

  ‘You don’t get off that easy.’ Hudson glanced at his watch. ‘I was just heading down to Jim’s for a quick workout before coming back here to do the books. Want to join me so I can grill you some more?’

  ‘You’re still working out at Jim’s?’

  That place had saved my life as a kid. I’d been fourteen when Hudson had taken me to the run-down gym on the outskirts of Kings Cross, where kids could box for recreation, sport or just to vent their frustration.

  I’d done a lot of the latter.

  When I couldn’t tell anyone about Dad’s crappy treatment at home, I’d take it out at Jim’s. First on a punching bag, later in sparring matches with other teens. It had been cathartic, being able to physically vent in a safe place, and I hadn’t been back in over a decade.

  ‘Yeah, no better place to spar.’ Hudson jabbed a left hook in my direction and feigned a dodge to the right. ‘Come on, will do you good. You’ve drifted off about five times in the last few minutes and that means you’ve got it bad for this new chick.’

  If he only knew. Being with Abby hadn’t dampened my attraction to her. If anything it had intensified, and that wasn’t a good thing. ‘Don’t you ever stop with the bullshit?’

  Hudson chuckled and this time jabbed me on the arm for real. ‘Let’s go, champ. It’ll be my pleasure to whip your ass.’

  ‘Dream on, dickhead.’

  An hour later, Hudson had done exactly that but I felt so much better for the workout and being at Jim’s had a lot to do with my lift in mood.

  Walking into Jim’s was like coming home. The pungent smell of sweat warred with liniment. Four boxing rings flooded with natural light from rows of windows set high in the walls. Free weights and punching bags in the far corner, with an old-fashioned juice bar next to it.

  There weren’t many guys around this morning. Probably all at work. Where I should be, rather than running from my present into the past.

  ‘You’re rusty,’ Hudson said, draping a towel around his neck and handing me one.

  ‘And you’re soft in the middle,’ I said, socking a punch into his solar plexus. He dodged.

  ‘Bet that’s not what Abby says to you.’

  This time, I aimed harder and he sidestepped easily, laughing so loud a trainer nearby grinned.

  ‘Seriously, dude, if you like her this much, do something about it.’

  I hated the flare of hope his words elicited. ‘Like what, Einstein?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Do I look like an expert on women?’

  ‘Good point.’ I wiped the sweat off my face and towelled my torso. ‘Seeing anyone?’

  ‘Nah. Between managing the bar and doing part-time work at the theatre, I don’t have much time left for a relationship.’

  ‘Who said anything about the R word?’

  He snorted. ‘I’m not like you. I like to date women for longer than five hours.’

  ‘I’ll have you know Abby stayed the night.’

  The second the retort popped out I wished I could take it back.

  ‘And there you go, dude. Proof that she’s not like the rest.’

  ‘Back off, bozo.’ I advanced on him in mock anger so he’d do just that.

  Predictably, Hudson just stood there like the big, blond lug he’d always been. Loyal to a fault. The kind of mate I could depend on.

  ‘Make me, squirt.’

  Considering I towered over him by three inches, it was a hollow taunt, one he’d made many times as a kid, and we laughed.

  ‘Let’s get back to the club and you can show me proof you haven’t been embezzling me out of a fortune.’ I tugged on the end of a glove lace with my teeth, thinking I should do this more often.

  Boxing worked off frustration of all varieties, including sexual, like nothing else could.

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ As Hudson took off his gloves and helped me with mine, I knew he wanted to say more but was holding back.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s this place.’ Hudson gestured around. ‘I don’t get back here as often as I like but whenever I do it’s like the past crashes over me and I wonder why I put myself through it.’

  That was another thing that had bonded us, our crappy childhoods. His father had made mine look like a frigging saint.

  ‘Cut the heartstring crap, bozo, and let’s get back to work.’

  Hudson blinked rapidly, as if coming back from a place of bad memories, before his signature grin made me sigh in relief. ‘After you, big guy.’

  As we traded banter while changing, swapping the usual crap guys did, I knew I’d done the right thing in taking time away from the patisserie and Abby today.

  But I couldn’t play chicken for ever, and come tomorrow I’d be back there, wishing I hadn’t complicated matters and wanting her more than ever.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Abby

  AFTER MAKAYLA AND I locked up I’d intended on taking a hot bath and having an early night. But as I entered the small one-room apartment over the patisserie, it didn’t offer the comfort it usually did.

  I’d never forget the first time Remy brought me up here and said I could stay as long as I liked. That had been over a year ago, the day I’d walked out on Bardley and into Le Miel. In search of comfort via the delicious pastries Remy made, I’d frequented the patisserie often during my marriage, using it as my go-to place to escape home. I’d spent many afternoons sitting at the small table near the counter, sipping at a latte and trying to stop at only one croissant while studying.

  Remy would come out from the kitchen occasionally and he’d always stop to chat. As kind-hearted and generous with his time as he was with his magnificent pastries.

  I’d never plucked up the courage to tell him that I also enjoyed baking and that to me he had my dream job. Instead, when he asked, I pretended to wax lyrical about my business degree and how happy I was juggling university with marriage.

  If he saw through my brittle smile, he never said; that was the kind of man he was. And that fateful day when I’d found my backbone and had the guts to walk away from Bardley, he still hadn’t prodded for information despite me coming in here like I had a pack of wolves on my tail.

  On impulse, I’d asked him for a job and once he’d heard my sob story he’d offered me the apartment too.

  I’d taken one look at the cosy, light-filled space and fallen in love. Pockmarked mahogany floorboards covered in rugs in the most vibrant peacock blues and crimsons, a faded chintz sofa and chairs, a bookcase overflowing with classics and a kitchenette stocked with everything I’d need to whip up healthy meals for one.

  The small bedroom and bathroom had been basic but I hadn’t cared.
I’d never lived on my own, moving straight from my parents’ Double Bay mansion into Bardley’s Vaucluse monstrosity gifted to him by his folks when we married. Having the freedom to do whatever I liked in my own space had been heady stuff for a girl like me.

  So I’d moved in with the few suitcases I’d packed when I’d walked away from my marriage, had paid Remy six months’ rent in advance—a pittance, really, considering the rental prices in this upmarket part of town—and settled into a routine.

  Living the life I wanted.

  But today, restlessness plagued me and after I’d done a quick circuit or ten of the apartment I decided to go for a drive. Another thing I liked doing that I’d never had much of a chance to do in my past: driving for leisure.

  Dad had a chauffeur that had dropped me at school and picked me up, and Bardley roared around in his sports car when he wasn’t getting a private car to ferry him around. My narrow-minded husband had never understood my love of driving, had mocked me endlessly for wanting to drive out of the city on a weekend with no destination in my mind.

  So I’d rarely done it; hadn’t been worth the angst. Besides, it had been difficult to squirrel away any me-time when Bardley demanded I keep up with his hectic social schedule and attend every boring polo party/sailing regatta/race carnival as his arm candy.

  These days, on my limited down time, I drove for the heck of it. For the pleasure of exploring new places. For the simple fact I could, without anyone telling me I was an idiot or worse.

  It wasn’t until I was in my hatchback and cruising the streets did I realise where I was heading.

  Home.

  Not the harbourside mansion I’d lived in for twenty-one years before I got married, but the suburb. Ritzy Double Bay. Everything seemed brighter here, like a fairy had sprinkled glitter over the entire suburb.

  I drove aimlessly along the lush tree-lined boulevards, passing row upon row of incredible palatial homes with manicured emerald lawns, tennis courts and pool houses that could house a large family.

  Trendy boutiques I’d frequented when I didn’t baulk at the four-figure price tag on a pair of shoes or hold back when signing up for the newest release designer handbag.

  Cafés I’d regularly met my friends at, to do nothing but chat about our caviar facials and the latest celebrity break-up. Friends that hadn’t given a crap when I’d left Bardley. Friends that hadn’t even called.

  Past Redleaf Beach, a gorgeous slice of Sydney Harbour foreshore, where I’d sat on the sand for hours sometimes, wishing I could swim like the bathers doing laps in the tidal enclosure but too afraid to bring it up in case Bardley ridiculed me for wanting to learn how to swim at my age and conquer my fear of deep water.

  I gripped the steering wheel tighter as I glimpsed a sprawling whitewashed building fringed in lush gardens. The day spa Mum and I used to attend.

  Emotion clogged my throat as I homed in on the elaborate gold-embossed entrance, wondering what I’d do if I glimpsed Mum. But she was nowhere in sight and I found myself pulling into a parking spot and killing the engine.

  Crazy, as even if I saw her I wouldn’t approach her. Not when a hotbed of resentment and hurt festered inside me that not once over the last twelve months had she contacted me. Other than those fraught initial phone calls when she’d begged me to reconsider walking out on my marriage.

  Phone calls where she hadn’t asked how I was or where I was living or what I was doing to support myself since I’d been cut off financially from Bardley and my folks. Oh, no. Mum’s phone calls consisted of cajoling alternating with berating.

  ‘How could you be so stupid, darling? Walking away from your husband? Your home? Your friends?’

  ‘What were you thinking, leaving behind a life of luxury?’

  ‘You’ve embarrassed your husband and you’ve mortified us. Return home immediately!’

  The latter had been the most laughable because I hadn’t had a home with Bardley. Not really. We’d been friends coexisting in a massive house. More like housemates, really, who had lacklustre sex on occasion.

  Not that anyone besides us knew the truth. To our friends and family we were the luckiest couple in Australia. Married young. The successful merging of two powerhouse families. A glamorous life filled with the best money could buy, with a fortune guaranteed to keep our offspring in the lap of luxury.

  The biggest sham ever perpetuated.

  I hated myself for putting up with it for so long. For being a mousy, subservient girl who went along with whatever my parents wanted, including marrying a man I only felt a lukewarm affection for.

  I’d allowed myself to get caught up in the euphoria of having some guy pay me attention. Because that was what Bardley had done, wooed me with the express purpose of marriage, as his folks had suggested to him.

  While he’d had dollar signs in his eyes, envisaging a family merger that would consolidate fortunes, I’d had stars in my eyes, naively hoping that marriage would provide the excitement I’d been craving.

  Instead, Bardley had morphed into the dweeb I’d always suspected he was, with a mean streak that flourished once he had a ring on my finger. And I’d started to lose myself, piece by piece, becoming a listless yes-person who’d do anything to keep the peace and not earn his wrath.

  What a fool.

  I’d hated being that spineless, mouthless idiot and as I stared at the day spa and watched a mother and daughter exit, heads close together as they gossiped, their blond-streaked hair shiny in the lights flickering on, I realised maybe I didn’t miss my old life so much after all.

  I couldn’t fathom my parents’ lack of contact, their complete lack of interest in my well-being now that I wasn’t doing what they wanted.

  Dad had always been aloof and business-focussed, so I didn’t expect as much from him. The only time he’d ever paid me attention—Mum too, for that matter—was when we did something that pleased him. Otherwise, he’d convey his displeasure through angry silences that lasted for days, ensuring that I learned from a young age to make him happy.

  So it didn’t surprise me that he hadn’t contacted me, but for Mum to ignore me too...it hurt. A lot.

  I’d rung twice over the last six months, more to touch base and hear a familiar voice. The maid had skilfully diverted my call both times, so I never got to speak to my folks.

  They hadn’t returned my calls.

  Was I stupid to still miss them? To still hold onto a faint hope they’d eventually come around? Maybe, but they were my parents and no matter how crappy their treatment, a small part of me wished they’d understand one day.

  A tear plopped onto my forearm, startling me. I hadn’t realised I’d been crying. Swiping a hand across my eyes, I shot the day spa a final wistful glance before starting the engine.

  I should be happy. Last night with Tanner had purged my past once and for all. I should be rejoicing. Instead, I couldn’t help but wish I could have my old life mix successfully with my new.

  At least the drive had achieved one objective.

  Forget Tanner.

  But as I headed back to Le Miel, knowing I’d have to confront him all too soon, maybe this new life I’d craved so much was a lot more than I’d bargained for.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tanner

  ‘FLOUR STOCKS ARE LOW—same with sugar and butter. We’ve got a flood of orders coming in that haven’t been catalogued. And the front display cabinet looks like something a toddler arranged. What the hell’s going on?’

  I glowered at Abby, hating the flicker of resentment in those stunning blue eyes that had been filled with passion only two days ago.

  I’d been riding her—metaphorically, worse luck—ever since I’d arrived at seven this morning. But I had to keep it up, had to keep emotional distance between us, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her.

  Walking in this
morning and having her fix me with that cool blue indifferent gaze, like nothing had happened between us, made me want to bend her over the counter and thrust into her until sweet, sensual Abby was back.

  I liked that Abby. Liked her willing and wanton and wet. Desperate for me.

  But I liked that Abby too much—too much to be good for me—and therein lay the problem.

  So I’d donned my poker face and reflected her indifference right back at her. Though it was an act. A forced act we were both perpetuating in the hope neither of us would crack.

  I’d known it would be like this. That she would pretend like nothing had happened. Hell, she’d made it painfully obvious she didn’t want me ever since we’d met, her disdain palpable. Which only served to dent my ego and make me want to rattle her all the more.

  It was like some weird twisted game we were playing. Push and pull. A battle of wills. Too bad for her, I’d never backed down from a challenge in my life. I could out-stubborn a donkey. Because I’d learned from an early age that the only way to cope with Dad’s derogatory crap was with indifference.

  He’d hated it. I’d done it more. He’d never made me crack. Nobody could. I’d become too hardened, too cynical, too tough.

  Too tough for the likes of Abby, that was for sure.

  I’d ultimately break her and that wouldn’t be good. For her, for Remy, maybe for me too.

  Though I was a big boy, I could take it. But Remy would hate me for running off his golden girl and I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t care what other people thought of me. Anyone except Remy. His opinion mattered. He mattered. He always had.

  So I’d keep up this ridiculous charade no matter how much I wanted Abby.

  ‘I’ll get Makayla to check the orders and the front display. As for supplies, today’s delivery is late. It happens sometimes.’ She glared at me like something she’d stepped in. A particularly nasty something that stuck to her shoe no matter how hard she tried to wipe it off. ‘I’ll go check in the storeroom. We usually stock extras for emergencies.’

  ‘Fine,’ I muttered through gritted teeth, feeling like an ogre as I watched her retreating back and her ass.