Love Everlasting

by Tracey Alvarez

  Marianne slanted Raelene a sideways glance. “I think Reid’s mother died of breast cancer.”

  “She did,” Brenda agreed. “I’ve got an aunty who knew his family. Bloody amazing how Reid looked after his mum when she got sick, my aunty said.”

  Jill circled her finger in a rewind gesture. “Hang on a sec, back up. Why was it awkward? You can’t be the first woman he’s come across since his mum died that’s had cancer?”

  “We’re not exactly an exclusive group of special snowflakes,” Raelene said.

  “We are legion,” Marianne added, then gave Darby a considering look. “Did he say something inappropriate, like, ‘Hey, at least you got a free boob job out of it’?”

  “Jeez, Marianne! No!”

  Pride kept her from admitting that before Reid had arrived early and caught her in her old jeans, she’d laid out a casual-but-flattering halter-neck dress to change into. Just because she wanted to check if she’d imagined the hint of attraction zipping between them. Well, if there’d been any attraction on his side, it’d died the moment he’d seen her port scar.

  “I’m sure he’d know better than to say something dickish like that,” Brenda said.

  “I just caught him off guard,” Darby said. “He was a little shocked, that was all.”

  Jill sighed and leaned back against the couch with arms folded in an I told you so position. “Haven’t I told you many times not to hide your light under a bushel? We’re Wonder Women, not Squander Women.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Raelene grumbled.

  Jill cocked an eyebrow. “Women who don’t squander the opportunity to raise awareness about this awful disease. Isn’t that why we’re busting our guts to keep Sunflower House operating?”

  “Preach it, Sister Jill,” said Brenda.

  “Having had cancer is not a light I particularly want to blind every person I meet with,” said Darby. “I refuse to let my medical history have power over my life anymore. I’m more than just that damn disease.”

  “Of course you are,” soothed Marianne. “But when it comes to starting a romantic relationship—”

  Darby’s heart gave an enormous jolt in her chest. “I’m not starting a romantic relationship with Reid,” she interrupted.

  Marianne blinked owlishly at her. “I was talking about Hugh.”

  “Oh. Right.” Darby offered the group a sheepish smile. “Silly me.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Raelene.

  “Anyway.” Darby ignored the zip of exchanged glances between her friends and laced her fingers together earnestly to resist the urge to snatch up her wineglass and drain it. “Back to the important stuff. How are ticket sales coming along, Jill?”

  Ever eager to crunch numbers, Jill whipped out her tablet. As she began to rev up about ticket sales and the hiccup of the show and ball’s website crashing for twenty-four hours, Darby tuned out her voice. Because the question begged to be asked.

  Why had her mind immediately jumped to Reid when Marianne mentioned romance?

  Last one to arrive, and therefore last one to leave, Darby stayed after the other women had left to stack the church kitchen’s dishwasher with their wineglasses. Marianne had to leave early to join her husband in the main auditorium for choir practice, so thankfully her friend was unable to do any more digging into the whole Hugh/Reid thing.

  Which really wasn’t a thing at all.

  Darby twisted the dishwasher dial to start the cycle a little harder than necessary and stalked out of the church. So intent was she on getting back to her car, it took her a few moments to register someone was calling her name. She turned from the darkened windows of Kellers’ bakery to see Hugh sauntering toward her, a slow and sexy smile spreading over his face. Strategically ripped black jeans hugged his legs, and he wore a black leather biker jacket with enough zippers to rival a fisherman’s vest. The guitar case slung over his shoulder bounced against his hip as he continued to stroll along the sidewalk, his unhurried gait an indication he knew she’d wait for him to catch up.

  She gave a little wave of acknowledgment, her gaze drawn down to the click of his boot heels—his bedazzled, two-inch-heeled cowboy boots. Okay, glossy rust-colored leather wasn’t exactly bedazzled, but…wow.

  “Those are some boots,” she blurted when he came to a clicking halt in front of her.

  Duh, Darby! She cringed inwardly, but Hugh’s smile only grew wider.

  “Like ’em? My sister brought them back for me from Nashville.”

  She must’ve looked blank while continuing to gape at the boots because he added in a mansplaining tone, “Nashville’s in Tennessee, the country music capital of America.”

  “Right. They’re very, um—” Country? Garish? Height overcompensating?

  He angled his chin toward Saint Anthony’s and the faint sound of organ music drifting out on the evening air. “You turned into a choir girl now, Darbs?”

  She opened her mouth—never a good thing—and said, “Nope. Came from a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting.”

  Total double face-palm moment.

  Hugh’s gorgeous dark eyes popped open, his eyebrows winging halfway up his forehead to that endearing flop of hair. Then she got an up close and personal look at his dentistry as he threw back his head and laughed.

  Darby thrust her hands into the pockets of her puffy jacket, wishing the beanie she’d jammed on her head was bigger so she could’ve whipped it off and stuffed it in her mouth. Hugh finally quit chuckling, his gaze skimming over her with sudden intensity.

  “I’ve just finished a set at Saturn. Come and have a drink with me.”

  It wasn’t so much of a question as an order he expected her total acquiescence to, but Darby couldn’t prevent her lips curling into a goofy smile. She nodded as if her neck bones had suddenly morphed into springs.

  She had little idea of what Hugh talked about on the short walk to Saturn. His honeyed voice flowed over her, each word tingling like the fizz of a decadent bath bomb on her skin. It didn’t matter what he said so much as that he was saying it to her. She opened the bar door for him, and he and his guitar swept inside, weaving through the tables to an empty booth at the back. As Hugh passed, shouts of acknowledgment came from a few of the tables—predominantly those filled with female patrons.

  A pleasurable flow of heat spread up from the collar of her jacket as she slid into the booth seat opposite him. She couldn’t resist a subtle side-eye to a group of three women at a nearby table, two of whom were eyeballing Hugh as if he were chocolate gateau and champagne rolled into one.

  But he was there with her.

  And to give him credit, he didn’t even glance at the women but instead folded his hands on the table and gave her one hundred percent of his attention. Which was a bit like being the focus of a black panther, but still. She shivered with the thrill of it, so caught up in his charisma that she barely noticed the server approaching and Hugh ordering a drink for them both.

  A couple of seconds ticked past before Darby realized she was staring soundlessly at him. She cleared her throat to try to peel her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

  “How long have you played the guitar?” she asked.

  Hugh launched into a monologue about his music career from toddlerhood onward, giving her enough breathing space to collate a further bunch of questions to keep him talking and to just, well, admire the view across the table. The server reappeared with a beer for Hugh and a rum and cola—ugh—for her.

  Darby sipped the sickly sweet drink but forgave him for ordering it because—her bad—she’d been too lost in a fangirl moment to notice. Hugh moved from child prodigy to his high school band, the movement of his lips hypnotic.

  When it comes to starting a romantic relationship…

  Marianne’s words and the unspoken implication of honesty that would’ve followed slipped into Darby’s mind. Her friend had a point. Now she finally had Hugh’s full attention without the distraction of their theater troupe and Claudia’s size
eight butt; now that Hugh had really seen her, and his gaze was hooded in sensual admiration, did she really want to ruin that with blunt honesty?

  Darby took another swallow of sickly sweetness.

  Or was she only playing make-believe that there could ever be something real between her and Hugh?

  Hugh paused mid busking his way through university story to drain half his beer. He set the bottle down and smiled at her as if expecting her to beg him to continue.

  “I had cancer,” she said.

  At the same time there was a split-second pause in the bar’s background noise. Nobody paid her any mind, but it meant Hugh couldn’t help but clearly hear what she’d said. His only reaction was a cute wrinkling of his forehead.

  “As a kid?” he asked. “I had a friend who had leukemia when I was twelve.”

  “No, this was over four years ago. Breast cancer.”

  “Aha,” he said. “That’s why you’re on the ball committee. Good job.”

  Good job? She stared at him, his expression as neutral as if she’d only just provided the answer to a riddle he’d been mulling over.

  “My Aunt Carol had breast cancer,” he continued. “Me and the band played a set at a pink ribbon breakfast she organized. Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive.’ The women loved it.” He threw out another smile.

  Did he want her to applaud? She mentally chided herself. Hugh was trying to show her that he’d offered his aunt support in his own way.

  “You’re okay now, though, aren’t you?” The forehead creases returned.

  “Yeah, I am, but—”

  “Great.” He winked at her, reaching over to stroke her hand.

  The rough calluses of his fingertips on her knuckles made her forget what she’d been about to say. He chuckled, a low and sexy sound that made her shiver—and dammit, she was pretty sure he noticed.

  “Then you’ll have dinner with me next week?”

  Would she? With a man who apparently didn’t have any hang-ups about spending time with a former cancer chick?

  Unlike some.

  “I’d love to,” she said.

  Chapter 7

  After work on Wednesday evening, Reid told himself he was swapping his work shirt for a freshly ironed one because he’d spilled a drip of mayonnaise on the cuff at lunch. Even though the spot of white was nearly invisible to the naked eye. Nothing at all to do with the fact that Darby was due to arrive any minute.

  An appointment he wished he could cut out of his day as easily as he’d snipped his way through yards of cheap cotton the previous night. On the patternmaking table in his workshop were neat piles of fabric ready to be assembled into the mock-up garments for Darby’s cast. When he’d accepted the offer of her help, the cons of extra time monitoring her skill with a sewing machine hadn’t weighed as much as the pros of spending time with her. Since he’d found out about her issues, the scale had tipped.

  He wanted to stay as far as possible away from Darby Livingston.

  A rapid-fire knocking came from the building’s main door and his pulse rate shot up as if rocket boosted. With blood thundering through his veins, he walked through the workroom and opened it. Darby stood hunched on his doorstep, wearing her puffy turquoise jacket zipped to the chin, jeans rolled up at the cuffs, and this time, bright yellow Converse high tops.

  “I’m a little early,” she said by way of greeting. “Sorry.”

  The guarded look in her big blue eyes shook his resolution until cracks appeared.

  He wanted to get as close as possible to Darby Livingston.

  Close enough to peel her out of feather down and denim and whatever layers she had beneath, then kiss her until her gaze was misty hot and not guarded at all. Which was as good as any reason to take a giant step back, both physically and metaphorically.

  Except his feet had somehow frozen to the spot while his gaze skimmed the taut line of her jaw and hovered like a hummingbird searching for nectar on her cold-pinked lips. For a long moment they just stood eyeballing each other until the blat of a motorcycle revving down the street shattered the silence.

  “No worries,” he said, falling back on mate-speak to cover his inability to express that he’d been both anticipating and dreading her arrival. “Let’s get to work.”

  She gave a tiny dip of her head and stepped into the foyer. Her gaze slid briefly left to the flight of stairs disappearing upward to what had been MacKenna’s two floors of living space and bedrooms. Now Laura had moved into MacKenna’s empty room and Trina, their machinist, occupied the smaller bedroom as a temporary flatmate. The kitchen and living area were communal, but unless Laura was home and wanted to hang out, Reid kept himself downstairs in the workshop or his room.

  “Laura and our other flatmate, Trina, are out,” he said, although she hadn’t asked.

  Reid stopped a short distance away from Darby, who’d set her bag on a stool by the patternmaking table and was unzipping her jacket. She shrugged it off her shoulders, and his gaze was drawn to the swell of her breasts beneath a wide square-neck top that exposed the creamy skin of her throat and collarbone.

  And, almost defiantly, her port scar.

  Her chin flicked sideways as she finished peeling off the jacket, and she caught him staring.

  “The surgeons did a good job,” she said quietly. “You wouldn’t know unless you saw the scars.”

  He opened his mouth to apologize or to say something inoffensive and conciliatory, then hesitated, apprehensive of what would actually slide off his tongue. An apology for sizing up her breasts the way most people did to a woman when they discovered she’d had breast cancer? Or an admission that he found her beautiful? That she was as desirable to him now as she had been when he’d first seen her at Maisy’s wedding. That the flare of attraction he’d felt for her then hadn’t fizzled because her body bore battle scars.

  He didn’t say any of those things because his brain had outvoted his dick and he’d decided against acting on that attraction. Instead he strode to the nearest pile of precut cotton pieces and said, “Let me show you what I want you to do.”

  Three hours later they’d completed three out of the five mock-up garments.

  Reid pinned the waist of Prince Charming’s pants around a padded dressmaker’s mannequin—a female mannequin without the necessary groin bulge, which he took a sliver of snarky humor in—and examined it critically. Darby had sewn the straight outer and inner leg seams of the pants after he’d completed the fiddlier construction of the zippered fly.

  Once he’d shown her how to use one of the workshop’s three industrial sewing machines, Darby had worked the way first year students at the School of Design he’d attended had worked—nervous spurts of sewing, copious amounts of cursing, then a flurry of unpicking stitches with sneaky glances at the instructor to see if they’d been busted. But she’d completed every task he set without complaining.

  He slanted a glance over to the far side of the workshop where Darby used a steam iron to press open the center back skirt seam of Cinderella’s ball gown. Once she’d done that, Reid would begin the process of attaching the sections of skirt—the straight seams of which Darby had sewn—to the gown’s fitted bodice. But before that…

  Reid stood from his crouch beside the mannequin and stretched his arms above his head. He’d worked them both hard enough to warrant a break. He was about to call a time-out when Darby gathered up the folds of the skirt and carried them over.

  “All done,” she said in the same neutral I’m happiest being helpful tone she’d used during every interaction with him tonight. “Now what?”

  “Now we have a break.”

  “Oh.”

  Two small lines appeared between her eyebrows, as if the thought of idle hands were indeed the devil’s work. Her gaze flicked toward him and Prince Charming’s outfit as she laid the skirt sections down on the pattern-cutting table. Was it his imagination or did her gaze linger on him a fraction longer than was socially polite?

  “Loo
king good,” she said.

  “Thanks. Lifting all those heavy bolts of fabric helps keep me shape,” he said deadpan.

  The corner of her mouth twitched, creased, and then gave way to a smile. “I’ll bet.” She leaned a hip against the table. “I thought you didn’t do much of the hands-on stuff anymore?”

  “I don’t,” he said. “But sewing’s in my blood. I can’t keep away for long.”

  She met his gaze. “The framed photo by one of the machines—is that you and your mum?”

  “Yeah.”

  The photo Darby mentioned was one taken by one of his mum’s friends when he was in his last year of high school. At his request, his mum had gotten him a holiday job in the clothing factory where she worked as a machinist, giving him part of the work experience necessary to apply to the School of Design.

  “The sewing machine in the photo looks like your one—” She angled her chin toward the third machine along the wall. The one with a strip of brightly colored patchwork quilt wrapped around the metal body that his mum used as a pincushion. The one that only Reid was allowed to use.

  “It is,” he said. “She bought it from the factory where she worked.”

  In the photo his mum had been sewing, with him seated in front at his own machine and leaning back in his chair so they’d fit into the frame.

  “You both look happy.”

  “She loved her work. So much that even her hobbies involved sewing.”

  “Patchwork one of them?” she asked with a grin.

  “Uh-huh.” He found himself returning her smile.

  “Did your mum teach you to sew as a kid?”

  “No. I was too busy playing sports in summer and sketching aliens and battleships when I was forced indoors. My first experience with a sewing machine was at eleven when we all had to take technology classes at school.”