‘Please, love, call me Charlie.’ Calla felt his strength in the hug and when he relaxed his grip he held her at arm’s length and took in her face. She swore there was a sparkle in his eyes that hadn’t been there a minute before.
‘Are those your dogs? I’ve never met a real farm dog before.’
Charlie whistled and the animals leapt onto the veranda and scurried to his feet. ‘Boxer and Banjo.’ He made a different whistling noise and the dogs bolted off into the scrub on the western side of the house, running at a million miles an hour.
Calla laughed. ‘They’re in a hurry.’
‘They think they’re chasing a possum. They fall for it every time.’ Charlie winked at her. ‘Did you say coffee, young lady?’
Calla reached forward, looped her arm around Charlie’s and replied, ‘Why I’d love one.’
‘Come inside where it’s warm. I’ve got a fire going.’
CHAPTER
18
Although Sam was watching it all play out before his very eyes, he was still finding it hard to believe. It had taken the redhead all of two minutes to sweep Charlie off his feet. The grumpy bastard was putty in her hands. All it took was a beaming smile and a flash of her sparkling green eyes and the old man was a goner. The tease in her voice? The long hug? The mention of the dogs? His old man had been played like a violin.
And she’d accused him of using charm to win women. That happened to be true but he didn’t need it to be thrown back at him like it was a bad thing.
And to be fair, what man, what heterosexual man with a pulse, wouldn’t be charmed by her?
Calla had kicked off her boots and she and Charlie had moved inside to the kitchen. Through the closed front door he could hear his old man’s laugh bouncing around inside the small house. Sam shook his head. If Charlie could get his thoughts into any order that made sense that morning, he’d probably already leapt to the conclusion that Calla was Sam’s girlfriend, and that she’d been invited back to Roo’s Rest to meet her prospective father-in-law. It wasn’t such a crazy leap of logic. Sam had only ever brought one other woman back to the island.
Christina had had her own PR firm, a go-getter attitude and long legs to match. She’d arrived at the fire station one day to organise some publicity for the Australian Professional Firefighters’ Foundation, which was promoting its annual Firefighters’ Ball with a photo shoot for the newspaper. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the tap tap tap of her stilettos on the concrete floor as she walked through the huge open doors at the front of the station, where the trucks and support vehicles exited. Every head turned at the noise — every bloke in the place was highly attuned to the presence of a woman in high heels — and there she was. Sam realised later, much later, that that was just the way she liked it. Rowdy had roped him in to the photo shoot and, while Sam usually hated all that shit, he couldn’t say no to the cause. The Foundation raised money for the local children’s hospital’s burns unit and provided support to professional firefighters and their families. It was a no-brainer — and an honour — to give some of his time. Within thirty seconds, the PR woman with the legs and the heels and the low-cut silk top had them doing anything she wanted. Rowdy was loving it. Sam felt like a bit of a dick. She’d positioned them in front of a fire truck, their dark-blue uniforms bold against the red and the chrome, their arms crossed tight over their chests like football players in a team photo, and had them smiling broadly for the camera.
‘Look handsome!’ Christina had called to him from her position behind the photographer, who waited, framed, and then snapped a shot.
Then she called out, ‘Hang on.’ She’d tap-tap-tapped over to Sam and moved close. She looked up into his eyes with a wide-eyed and clear invitation and then slowly ran her fingers through his hair. ‘You’re a little messy, firefighter.’
He met her gaze with an invitation of his own. ‘That’s the look I was going for.’
‘Mmm,’ she’d murmured and licked her lips, ‘maybe after this we can muss that hair the old-fashioned way.’
Christina had stepped back slowly, her hips swaying playfully with every step, and that was the beginning of it all. A year later, they were living together and life was good. They were about to head overseas on holiday; Sam had hatched a plan to propose to her in London so they could get married over there, which made sense as she had family in Kent. He knew that would mean his parents would miss out on being at the wedding, so a month before the trip they’d flown back to the island to see them. It hadn’t gone well. It was June and it had been pissing down with rain, which wasn’t unusual, but Christina took it as a personal affront. She hadn’t brought the right coat and continually complained about the cold. Sam had wanted to show off the island to her, all the spectacular spots he’d loved growing up, but she’d spent the weekend indoors, sulking. And she’d flat out refused to stay overnight at Roo’s Rest, so they’d had to drive back and forth to a bed and breakfast place in Penneshaw. Of course he was so smitten with her that he hadn’t seen any of these things as a portent that the whole relationship would turn into a clusterfuck.
His failed marriage had pretty much ruined him for anything serious with a woman since. He didn’t miss it. He’d dated a few women, really nice women, but never let them get too close. He understood now the things about his job that made relationships hard. Christina hadn’t been willing to go through the hard times with him. Some of his mates had supportive and happy partnerships, but he didn’t believe any more that he would find someone who’d stand by him when the going got tough.
So there was just him. It had been just him for a long time.
Sam took a deep breath, let the smell of grass and earth seep into his lungs and his senses. It was so visceral, that smell, that he absent-mindedly glanced down at his fingers to see if there was rich, damp dirt under his nails. There were happy memories of childhood, from times filled with love and boyhood boisterousness. But there was also a deep sadness, and that flowed back into him too. More sadness than a family of four should have to bear.
He tried to shake off all those memories like the dirt on his boots as he kicked at the veranda post. He gave up, toed them off and walked inside in his socks.
He looked around and whispered, ‘What the fuck?’
The room was a hive of activity. Calla was across the large, open living area running a sink full of hot water, judging by the rising steam. She’d shed her coat and seemed to have a tea towel tucked in to the front of her jeans. She was elbow deep in suds and scrubbing something with great energy. On the big, old wooden kitchen table, three mugs were set out in a row, each with its own spoon at a jaunty angle. Charlie was sitting at the head of the table, a habit he’d never broken, even though there was no family to be head of any more.
‘Here you go, mate.’ Charlie slid one of the mugs along the table to his son.
Sam walked over and sat down in slow motion. He couldn’t remember the last time the grumpy old bastard had ever called him ‘mate’.
‘Cheers, Dad.’ He wrapped his fingers around the steaming mug, took a sip and looked around the room. It hadn’t changed one bit since Sam was a kid. His old man’s weathered leather recliner chair was positioned in the same spot. To his left, he could look out the window to the west to take in the ocean and the track from the main gate to check out who might be coming to pay a visit. To his right, the TV. The coffee table was covered with the same lace doilies his mother had loved, and on the wall nearest the kitchen were a dozen family portraits and photos of the Hunter family going back one hundred years. All of them were hanging askew, probably knocked by Charlie’s shoulder as he’d ambled past. Sam’s mother would never have allowed them to hand so crookedly. It was another reminder of how many years she’d been gone.
Everything about the place was like stepping back in time. Except there had never been a redhead in this house.
He sipped his coffee and looked over to Calla.
She was looking right at him wi
th her eyebrows raised. ‘Sam?’ She nodded surreptitiously in Charlie’s direction. ‘Charlie’s invited us to stay for lunch. Why don’t you grab the stuff from the car so we can put it all away? You bought some long-life milk, didn’t you?’
Sam pushed his chair back and got to his feet. ‘Sure.’ He wondered if he sounded as confused as he felt. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Calla somehow convinced Charlie to take his coffee out on the front veranda to sit in the warming sun with the dogs while she and Sam tidied up and made lunch. Ten minutes later, the fridge and cupboard were stocked with supermarket supplies and the jams and pickles they’d bought at the craft shop back in Penneshaw. Calla had helped Sam put things away and, based on the concern in her green eyes, she’d been as taken aback as he had at just how little food was in the cupboards. While he stacked tins of tomato soup next to crackers, biscuits, rice and pasta, another spear of concern washed through him: was Charlie forgetting to eat now, too? Physically, he looked older. The skin on his hands was baggier. There were hollows in his cheeks that Sam didn’t remember, and that shake in the old man’s hands as he held his coffee? That was unfamiliar too.
‘Sam, where are your dad’s clean tea towels?’ Not only had Calla washed all the dishes and scrubbed down every bench top, the cupboard doors and the sink, she’d opened the door of the oven and was now peering inside it.
He had to think. ‘In the bottom drawer by the fridge.’ He crossed the kitchen and pulled open the drawer. ‘Or not.’
‘Oh.’ Calla was beside him, staring down at the empty space.
Sam pushed it closed with his foot and turned to her. He reached over and tugged on her makeshift apron. She looked kind of sexy in it, her face flushed, her curls a little wild from the wind outside and the work. ‘You don’t have to be doing this, you know.’
‘You’re right. I don’t have to. But he needs some help. This place is getting on top of him.’ Calla averted her gaze from his, opened the cupboard under the sink, pulled steel wool out of a box and dampened it in the sudsy water.
How blind had he been that everyone else could see it but him?
Calla began scrubbing the hobs. He watched her and got a hint of what she meant. What should have been silver was a dull brown. He took a closer look. Her fingers were covered in the pink bubbles from the steel wool. He moved behind her, looked down over her shoulder and leant in close. She smelt like flowers and the curls of her hair tickled his nose. Where had her smile gone? Something was seriously wrong when the old man got all the charm and the flirting and all he got was the cold shoulder.
Calla stopped scrubbing when he came closer. Sam looked down where their bodies were touching and fought off the insane idea to thread his arms around her waist, spin her around and kiss her. It took a whole lot of self-control to fight off that thought.
He stepped back and occupied his hands by jamming them into the pockets of his jeans. That was the safest place for fingers itching to touch her.
Calla didn’t turn back to him, just stared at the dirty stovetop. ‘Why don’t you go outside and talk to your father?’
‘Right. I forgot. You want me to ask him about Jem.’
Then Calla turned and, in the small space between Sam and the stove, her breasts brushed up against him. When she sucked in a breath, they pressed harder. When her eyes darted to his lips, he decided it wasn’t in his best interests to give her any more space. He wanted to push back against her, to feel her body. To discover with his hands the shape of her, the feel of her underneath her warm jumper and those jeans. He’d seen her bare breasts and it wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel the soft skin in his hands, wanted to take a nipple into his mouth and watch her face when he sucked on it.
‘No, that’s not what I meant, Sam.’ Her eyes opened wide and her hands pressed against his chest. He noticed with a growing sense of male pride that she didn’t move them away.
He looked down.
‘Oh shit, sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m filthy.’
‘You are.’ He reached slowly around her waist, smoothed his hands over her hips and around to her arse and untucked the tea towel. He brought it between their bodies and began wiping the pink smears from his jumper. Damn it if she wasn’t blushing.
‘What I meant was, I think he’d like to chat with you, that’s all.’ Calla squeezed around back towards the sink, her curls bobbing up and down in a wave as she did. Her hair really was the most amazing colour: auburn, blonde, dark-red curls. It looked like the sun was shining down on it wherever she was. Hell, he reckoned he’d be able to see it in the dark.
‘Chat? We don’t do much of that.’
‘He’s really excited to see you. He wouldn’t stop talking about you just before, when you were outside. Go sit on the veranda with him.’
‘Right,’ Sam said but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to stop breathing her in, didn’t want to move away from her.
‘Sam …’ Calla murmured. She looked over her shoulder, back to him, her voice breathy and almost a whisper.
For a moment he forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. And everyone was worried about his old man.
He turned and went outside.
CHAPTER
19
‘So, Dad, had much rain?’
There was the scrape of a chair on the veranda and Sam’s deep voice floated to Calla from outside. She was already attuned to the way it sounded, already aware of what it did to her. It pricked up her ears and, damn it, every other part of her. It sent her heart racing just a little. When Sam’s voice fell silent, she could hear Charlie pipe up and the conversation between the two men slowly pick up a rhythm, and she was glad for it. She was relieved to have been able to urge Sam outside, glad there was somewhere else for him to be … rather than behind her, pressing against her, sending her pulse into overdrive and every bit of her throbbing into a quivering mess.
Calla tossed the now worn-to-shreds piece of steel wool into the bin and planted her hands on the rim of the sink, trying to catch a breath.
Something had just happened but she wasn’t sure what. The temperature between her and Sam had just risen from Acquaintances to Interesting. It was there when he stood so close behind her that she could smell his aftershave, something pine forest. And then when she’d turned around and almost pushed her breasts into his face, and seen the look in his eyes as he gazed at her lips? Something had flared behind her breastbone that she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Was it lust? Was it desperation? Whatever it was, it had hit her like a hammer blow. They’d taken a step, and were acutely aware of each other now. Not just as reluctant travelling companions but as a man and a woman. Already, she knew when he was near, like a metal detector beeping louder when it hovered over a piece of jewellery buried under the sand at the beach. There was something about their chemistry that was sparking a hormonal red-alert.
Was it the way he looked at her, all dark and intense eyes? Was it the way he took in every detail of her face in a quick once-over before ending up with a sharp focus on her lips? No, it wasn’t just the way he looked at her. Just then, when she’d had her back to him, she felt him behind her without even looking. It wasn’t just his voice that she was sensing from a distance. It was him, his body, the way he walked and the way he’d stood there. A heat had risen in her face, prickling the back of her neck and sharpening her hearing. And damn it, at one point it felt as if he’d been about to push her hair aside and press his lips to her neck, right in that sweet spot under her ear.
She blew out a slow breath and wiped her forehead with the back of her wet and soggy hand. She was probably letting her imagination run away with her. Damn this island. Damn his father’s house. It was all so idyllic and peaceful and countrified and languid, with all that fresh air and views for a million miles of nothing between you and the ocean, that she’d got mushy. All that extra oxygen had fired up her imagination and she’d started seeing things that weren’t really there.
&
nbsp; Calla reached for the tea towel Sam had dropped on the bench and wiped her hands on it.
Seeing things that weren’t there had almost broken her.
‘Yeah, we’ve had a lot of rain,’ Charlie said with resignation in his voice. The years of drought had passed, much to the relief of the farmers and graziers, and the island had resumed its regular pattern of soggy winters.
Sam sat on a log, which Charlie used for a table, and looked out at the view. The sloping green hills dipped down in the distance where the main road ran past the property then flattened out until another line of trees hugged the fence bordering the next property. In the distance, the beaches and cliffs of Antechamber Bay were lit by the winter sun. The light shimmered off the waves and brightened the clouds directly overhead into clumps of cotton wool. Further east, the sky was dark grey, full of more rain.
He’d taken the view for granted when he was a kid. It was where you looked to see if rain was coming and what you stared at for hours when all you wanted to do was leave the island and never come back.
Seeing it through adult eyes, he understood why his parents had chosen this spot to build their first and only home. It sat halfway up the hill, with scrub and open paddocks behind it, and the views from the front. Thinking about it, it was probably his mother who’d picked the location. (His old man was more practical, had grown up on the island and was as inured to the views as Sam had been as a kid.) How fitting that she’d died right there on the front veranda. Sam hoped she’d been taking in the ocean and the huge skies and the sun when she took her last breath.
Charlie began rocking in his chair. ‘Half the Wilkinsons’ sheep have got foot rot. They had to get the vet in from Kingscote to see to them. Old Bill can’t do it himself any more. He’s an old bugger, you know. Eighty-six.’
Sam tried not to smile. ‘That’s how old you are, Dad.’
Charlie thought about that for a moment. ‘Did I tell you Old Bill Wilkinson is eighty-six now?’
Only We Know Page 11
