Bending The Rules: Stewart Island Book 10

by Tracey Alvarez

  Her sassiness returned with an arched eyebrow. “I’m not going to make you do anything. But if you want another cookie, you’ll tuck your man card into your back pocket and enjoy the show.”

  Wild horses couldn’t have dragged him away from sitting next to her, even if Tilly had suggested a rom-com marathon and nail-painting session. Hell, she could braid his hair if it came to that, man card be damned. That he was open to the idea of spending more time in this woman’s company—even if it was platonically watching a movie—he’d deal with later. Right now, Breakfast at Tiffany’s was the best invitation he’d had in a long time.

  He folded his arms and pretended to think about it. “Two cookies and it’s a deal.” At her narrowed gaze he grinned widely. “And next time I get to choose the movie.”

  “Let me guess, something from the Fast and Furious franchise?”

  “Am I that predictable?”

  She flicked her eyes skyward and powered up the TV. After sliding in the DVD, she returned to the couch and tossed him the remote control.

  “Here,” she said. “You can reclaim your manliness by driving.”

  Noah chuckled and scooped up the remote. While he was aiming it at the screen, Tilly leaned across and snagged the afghan, then shook it out so it covered both their laps. She curled her legs up on the couch and took another moaning bite of her cookie. His stomach muscles tensed, though he continued to pretend interest in pressing remote buttons.

  Oh, the things a guy could do to prove his manliness under a blanket. But no, not happening. So this would be the longest two hours of his life.

  Chapter 8

  Bookworm rule number one: It’s never just ‘one more chapter.’

  Point in case, after Tilly had seen Noah off she’d gone to bed with the aim of reading a couple more pages of Mary’s journal. Now here it was after midnight. Another thing about bookworms—they had no concept of time passing once they were engrossed in the written word.

  Tilly blinked at the handwritten page in front of her then squeezed her eyes into slits. No good. The neat script was beginning to fuzz around the edges.

  “One more page,” she muttered to the silent room.

  Her nose crinkled. It used to drive Jonas nuts when he’d stay overnight and she’d be reading next to him in bed. Sometimes she’d laugh out loud or reach for the tissues while he’d be channel surfing and he’d turn his impatient frown in her direction. In her defense, he’d earlier shunned her tentative advances of intimacy with his ever-more-frequent complaints of tiredness, so what was a woman to do? At least her current book boyfriend didn’t sigh huffily and turn his back on her in bed.

  She glanced down at the journal again and a random couple of sentences jumped off the page at her.

  The first time I laid eyes on him I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. The first time he opened his mouth and spoke to me, I wanted to knock his arrogant, smirking block off.

  Jim! Mary must be writing about the first time she met Jim. Tilly held the journal up so the nightstand lamp brightened the page more, her gaze flicking back to the dated entry.

  November 2nd, 1965

  I remember it was a beautiful spring day and I’d worn the rose print dress Mum made me for my 18th birthday earlier in the year. Feeling proud that I’d completed my second week’s employment as a typist at Frederick Jamison Accountants in town—not bad for a country girl who’d been happiest mucking out horses’ stalls—I’d decided to buy my lunch at the tearooms that day instead of my usual packed sandwiches and home baking.

  A little way down the street from the accountant’s, the beautiful but rundown old cinema was getting an overhaul. Oh, I couldn’t wait to see Audrey, and Natalie, and Omar, and Doris on the big screen again! Possibly that’s why I stopped, pressing my ear against the old brick building to listen to the banging and sawing noises from inside.

  Imagine: Plush new seats, the smell of popcorn, the fizz of soda bubbles tickling my throat as my girlfriends and I waited for Sean Connery or Paul Newman to sweep us off our feet.

  Imagine: The cinema door banging open and being caught by one of the workmen with a silly smile on my face. I found out later his name was Jim Akurangi, a young Māori building apprentice born and raised on Stewart Island. To say he was a hunk didn’t do the description justice. The first time I laid eyes on him I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. The first time he opened his mouth and spoke to me, I wanted to knock his arrogant, smirking, block off.

  “You lost, Ginger? Or are you waiting to ask me out?” And he said it with a cheeky grin, not a hint of doubt that I’d find him twice as appealing as he thought he was.

  For a few seconds I couldn’t think of anything at all, my mind a complete blank. When I did speak, oh my word, I swear I didn’t know the consequences of such an innocent challenge. “My name’s not Ginger, it’s Mary. And I wouldn’t ask you out if you were the last man on earth.”

  And do you know what he did then? He threw back his head and laughed—a great big laugh that made me want to laugh with him. It was the most addictive sound, and after he stopped chuckling, I wanted to say something witty just to hear that belly-deep laugh again.

  He thrust out a hand. “I’m Jim Akurangi, Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” he said.

  Like I hadn’t heard that little ditty before. But I shook his hand to be polite. His big hand almost swallowed mine, and his fingers were deliciously rough on my skin as he gently squeezed and then released me.

  “See ya round. I finish at five if you change your mind.” Then he winked at me and with a wave, disappeared down the alley between the cinema and the next building.

  I must’ve stood gaping for a solid thirty seconds before I scurried off toward the tearooms. Change my mind? Pigs would fly, I remember scolding myself. But in my inner ear I heard Jim Akurangi laugh again. Challenge accepted, I could hear him say.

  I’m not one for believing in fairy tales or premonitions, but I knew then, somehow, that this chance meeting had fundamentally changed the course of my life.

  Tilly closed the journal and set it on her nightstand. She slid her feet into her fleecy Ugg boots, stood, and wrapped herself in her fluffy robe. A hot drink was required if she’d any hope of falling asleep. She wandered into the kitchen, put the kettle on to heat, then opened the back door—taking care to ensure the lock was disengaged. Fool her once, etcetera.

  The chilly night air wrapped around her as she stepped onto the back landing. She paused as the kitchen light spilled over her feet, then without really understanding why, she reached back inside and flicked off the light. Instant and absolute inky blackness. Resting her palms on the railing, she tilted her face to the sky, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

  As the stars came into clearer focus, her breathing hitched.

  “If you can count them all,” her father had said to her when she was a girl, “then you’ll know something about love.”

  She’d been too young to understand what he meant, but she’d understood the concept of counting things. “There’s too many.”

  He’d kissed the top of her head. “I know, Tilly-Bear. But never stop trying.”

  She shivered under her robe at the faraway cry of some nocturnal bird. Leaves rustled, the wind sighed, but the patchwork of stars stretching out overhead made no sound. How many times had Mary stood in this same spot, looking upward, maybe throwing a wish or two out into the universe? Sailors once used the stars to navigate great distances, to guide them on their travels and then to bring them safely home.

  “What made you move to this tiny corner of the world, Mary, Mary, quite contrary?” Tilly wrapped her arms around her midsection, her heart hammering a dull beat in each pulse against her eardrums.

  Wasn’t Invercargill home? Or had home become the place where Jim Akurangi was born and raised? It was a question that didn’t really require an answer, but Tilly planned to find out anyway.

  If there was one thing that made Noah wish
he’d taken a different career path, it was the paperwork. Or, since he wasn’t living in the seventies, the tedious job of filling in forms by hand had switched to pecking a two-fingered slow dance over the keyboard. One day he’d learn to touch type. Or so he kept telling himself.

  He leaned back in his chair, slitting his gaze at the overly familiar walls of his tiny office. Oban’s police station was little more than a glorified tin shed with one holding cell, one official police vehicle, and, well, one on-duty cop. Most of the time the only action the station got was when it was commandeered as headquarters for a search and rescue mission. Tourists got stranded or injured, hunters got lost in the six-hundred-plus square miles of untouched native bush, accidents happened on Foveaux Strait, the dangerous stretch of water spanning the sixteen miles between Stewart Island and the mainland. Noah was the first port of call when tragedy struck, coordinating with the authorities on land, sea, and air to resolve the incidents—hopefully without fatalities. Hopefully.

  But this morning he was restless, and as dark as it sounded, he’d welcome an injured tourist or a missing hunter. It would be one way to direct his attention away from Tilly Montgomery to what he should be doing—paperwork.

  The station’s door creaked open. His pathetically lame heart leaped at the thought his imagination might have conjured her up. Noah was half out of his chair when Erin waltzed into his office, a takeout coffee in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

  Damn. Not the woman he’d been hoping to see.

  “Coffee and two of my famous raspberry crumble muffins.” She set the cup and bag on the desk in front of him and slid into the vacant chair opposite, her bright blue gaze giving him a quick once-over. “You didn’t come into the café this morning for your usual, and you look like something peed in your boots.”

  “I was running late.” He wrinkled his nose, catching a whiff of Erin’s special coffee blend wafting out from beneath the cup’s lid.

  Actually, for the first time in a long while he’d overslept, so deeply he hadn’t heard his alarm. He’d driven straight to the station without stopping for his regular caffeine fix and banter with the Great Flat White Café’s owner.

  She snorted, folding her arms and leaning back into the chair. “And your boss is a stickler for the rules, right, big guy?”

  He managed a wonky grin while he took his first sip of divinity. “God, that’s good.”

  “You’re welcome, my lowly creation.”

  While he continued to savor the rich brew, Erin studied him.

  Once, many moons ago, they’d gone on a date after she’d won him in one of Mrs. T’s more embarrassing schemes, a bachelor auction. Their lack of chemistry had quickly become apparent, but a strong friendship had flourished instead. And like Noah, Erin was one of the remaining singletons in their group of friends. It was truly a testament to her restraint that she hadn’t poisoned the lot of them for the constant hints and suggestions of who might be perfect for her.

  He set down the cup and folded his hands on his desk. “What’s your agenda?”

  “Huh?” Twisting the tip of her long braid, she blinked in faux innocence. “Jeez, I can’t do something nice for a friend?”

  “You’re not being nice. You’re on a spy mission for your friends.”

  “They’re your friends, too.”

  Which was completely irrelevant. Noah peeled open the paper bag and eyed the perfection that was Erin’s baking. There were some perks to being friends with the pesky blonde.

  “And so what if we’re all curious about you taking the new chick out on a hot date?” Erin wriggled her eyebrows at him.

  “It wasn’t a date.” He broke off a chunk of muffin and stuffed it into his mouth. Instant bliss.

  “You paid for dinner. So it totally was a date,” she insisted.

  “I was being a gentleman.” Even though he’d been having more and more less-than-gentlemanly thoughts about his new neighbor. “And Tilly doesn’t know anyone in town.”

  Erin snorted. “What are you, chairman of the Stewart Island Welcoming Committee now?” She bit her lower lip and a slow smile spread over her face. “You like her, am I right? C’mon, you can tell me. You know you want to.”

  He continued to chew his bite of muffin for a few beats, then swallowed. “I like her. Same way I like you, when you’re not being a pain in the ass.”

  Uncrossing her legs and leaning forward to brace her elbows on his desk, her eyes gleamed with unholy fire. “Oh, now I understand what’s put that look on your face.”

  What look? The woman was delusional.

  Noah reached for another chunk of muffin, because it really was good. He closed his eyes in bliss as the sugar rush fired up his taste buds, or maybe it was because Erin was fishing and he’d no intention of taking the bait. He finished chewing and pointed a gun-shaped finger at her. “Tell whoever sent you I have no comment on the subject of Tilly Montgomery.”

  She tapped the tip of her nose. “The investigation is ongoing, eh? Mum’s the wor—”

  The station door creaked open again. Before Noah could react, Erin had shot out of her chair at cannonball speed, angling herself in front of his line of sight to see who it was.

  “Hiya!” she called out.

  Since Erin was renowned for serving her island-famous flat whites and muffins with a side of snark, her super-friendly greeting meant only one thing.

  She confirmed it in the space of his next breath. “You’re Tilly, right?”

  “I am. And you’re Erin from the wharf café? I’ve seen you working the coffee machine a couple of times.”

  “That’s me. I’ve just dropped Noah off his daily, plus an extra muffin he might share with you if you ask real nice.”

  Noah’s booted feet locked solid to the hardwood floor beneath his desk, butterflies fluttering low in his stomach as Tilly came into view through the doorway of his office. Today she wore tight black jeans that clung to her every curve—and she had some very nice curves indeed—and a long-sleeved yellow merino top layered beneath a locally designed and screen-printed Stewart Island T-shirt sold out of Bree’s Curios in town.

  Nice to see she was supporting local businesses while she was here. Nicer if he hadn’t salivated at the sight of her in his doorway like a dehydrated man spotting a slice of lemon in a deliciously refreshing drink of water.

  Erin ducked to the side and Tilly’s gaze shot across the distance, slamming every single thought out of his head.

  “Um. Hello. Sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

  “You’re not interrupting anything. I’ve got to run anyhow. See ya!”

  Erin bustled past Tilly, turned, and behind her back angled her head toward the other woman, giving a quick, saucy double hip thrust. Classy and subtle. Then she shot out of the station as if her server’s apron had caught fire.

  Hip thrusting was not the image he wanted replaying in his mind while Tilly was in his office. Staying seated behind his desk was probably a wise idea also. He looked at her expectantly. “Got a crime to report, Ms. Montgomery?”

  “Not this time,” she said. “Are you busy? Can you spare me a few minutes?” She hugged the cycle helmet he’d just noticed her carrying.

  “Sure. Take a seat. Glad to see you remembered your cycle helmet today.”

  “Since I’ve already had my first warning, I thought I’d better not chance ending up in handcuffs.” She slipped into the chair Erin had vacated, her gaze darting around his office and hovering with a slight dip in her brow over the secure metal-constructed gun locker in the corner of the room.

  Then her clear hazel gaze flicked back to him. “Remember how I told you I was a writer for K-Road?”

  The abrupt subject change threw him for a moment. His brain was still processing the idea of Tilly and handcuffs, with his dick throwing in a suggestion of adding a four-poster bed. He cleared his throat, ending with a rumbling noise meant to resemble an affirmative answer.

  “Well, the powers t
hat be want me to create a new character to introduce to the show. I’m working on the idea of a small-town cop who moves to the big city—Auckland Central station, to be precise—and his struggle to acclimatise to the dangers of city life. I thought Trevor Marshall was a good name…”

  She continued to talk, her lush mouth moving, her hands expressive and occasionally darting up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear that’d escaped her messy ponytail. But Noah’s brain had left behind handcuffs and four-poster beds the moment she mentioned her idea. The reversal of his life, really.

  City cop with a dangerous job moves to an isolated community and struggles to acclimatise to living in a small town at first. He’d walked away from 2:00 a.m. callouts, from brutal men who held weapons to the throats of people they were supposed to love and protect, from his father’s and brother’s expectations. But he’d also walked away from men who he’d trusted with his life and who trusted him in return—his squad.

  “What do you think?”

  It took a couple of beats for him to realize she’d finished talking and was looking at him with hopeful expectation.

  “About?” He tried to inject a tone of I have been listening but I need some clarification into his voice.

  A crinkle appeared on her forehead. “About me picking your brains about your job—were you even listening? You had this weird constipated look on your face the whole time I was talking.”

  “Constipated? That was my thoughtful face.” Now he was stalling. She wanted to know about his job—okay, he got that. But surely she meant his job on the island? “And my job’s pretty boring.”

  “So why are you here, then?” Curiosity sharpened her voice. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who’s satisfied spending an eight-hour workday behind a desk.”

  His mother’s words, yelled through her tears at his father so many years ago, speared back into his mind. Do you think you’re some kind of Superman? I can’t believe you won’t quit after all that’s happened. Your sons still need a father. I still need a husband who won’t risk another bloody bullet being dug out of him. Then Hayley’s voice cracking with emotion in his ear, that last fateful evening. Me or the squad, Noah. It’s that simple. No more waiting for two of your cop buddies to show up at our door to tell me they’re very sorry for my loss. No more waking up with you gone, and finding out from the internet that there were shots fired in a domestic and your squad was called out. I love you, but I’m done.