by Amy Andrews
Although…it was a very big house.
“I’m not sure,” Cole said as Tucker set another beer in front of him. “For a few days at least. Get over the jet lag. Might head to Denver after that.”
He could chill there as much as here. Find a hotel in the city. Or he could head into the Rockies. Hell, he could go anywhere; it wasn’t like he was known in the U.S., which was why he’d come, if he dug a little deeper and was honest with himself. Total anonymity had been seductive.
It was hard to go anywhere back home and not be recognized, especially since the accident and all the speculation about his career. Just before the accident, he’d signed a three-year million-dollar contract with the Sydney Smoke, which, for a man of thirty-two, was significant. But he’d been in the best shape of his career, the most lethal he’d ever been, and the chance to finally play with the Smoke, to work under Griffin King, the best coach in Australian rugby—possibly the world—had been one he hadn’t wanted to pass up.
And then he’d fallen asleep at the wheel of his car one night, and everything had changed.
“Denver has a rugby team,” Drew said. “The Barbarians…I think?”
“Yeah. I know them.” Cole had spent fifteen years of his life eating, drinking, and breathing rugby. Even when he’d flirted with gridiron, he’d always kept abreast of all things rugby. Having lived in Denver for a short time, he’d seen the Barbos play on several occasions and had followed the Raptors from their club rugby inception, too.
“You going to watch them play while you’re in Colorado?”
Cole glanced at his hand spread over his thigh. He hadn’t been to a game since before his accident. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wasn’t sure he could. “Maybe.” He dropped his hand and grabbed his beer, forcing himself to drink against the sudden thickness in his throat. “So? What is there to do around here?”
All three men looked at one another. “Well there’s…” Drew was clearly racking his brain for something tourist worthy. “The lake’s nice.”
Tucker nodded. “Yeah. The lake’s real pretty. It’s a nice drive around, and there’s a jetty and lots of shady areas along the shoreline for a picnic. Busy on weekends this time of year, though, with school out for the summer.”
“And there’s Annie’s,” Arlo threw into the mix. “You like pie?”
Cole nodded. “Sure.”
“Annie’s diner has the best pies in the county. Makes ’em fresh every day.”
“Just don’t drink the coffee if you’re fussy. Or are fond of your stomach lining,” Tucker said.
“Go to Déjà Brew for coffee,” Drew added. “Jenny Carter—she’s married to Wade’s brother—is the best barista in town.”
Arlo rolled his eyes. “She’s the only barista in town.”
Cole contemplated the gist of what they were saying. The Credence highlights were a lake, a diner, and a coffee shop. And back at Wade’s, there was a prickly woman, a child who had no filter, and an escapee chameleon. It was no end-of-season bender in Bali, that was for sure.
Thank god for ESPN.
Arlo, who’d been drinking a Bud, placed the empty on the bar and eyed Cole speculatively. “If you’re really looking for something to do, you could always run a rugby clinic in town, for the kids. If you decide to stay longer.”
Tucker hooted out a laugh. “Officer Pike, have you forgotten this is Wade the Catapult Carter country?”
“Yeah, man,” Drew concurred. “I think they take away your star around here for such blasphemy. Isn’t upholding NFL as the one true football part of your pledge?”
“Next you’ll be suggesting…” Tucker’s expression took on a look of comical disdain as he looked around him, then lowered his voice. “Soccer. There’ll be anarchy in the streets.”
Drew sighed a faux heavy sigh. “Worst chief ever.”
Cole laughed at the double act as Arlo flipped his friends the bird. “Bite me,” he muttered.
Ignoring the laughter from the peanut gallery, he turned to Cole. “As we’ve already established, there’s not a lot to do around Credence, and I’m always looking for things to occupy the kids who didn’t go to camp during the summer break. They might like to try something different. It would only need to be a couple of days.”
All elite rugby players in Australia had to participate in community outreach programs, which mostly took the form of kids’ coaching clinics, so Cole had helped at enough over the years to know how they were run. But…it was too soon. Physically, he knew he could do it. Sure, he had a cane and a limp, but all he really needed for a kids’ clinic was his voice.
Mentally, however…
Cole was trying to come to grips with the abrupt end to his career; he didn’t need what he could never have again rubbed in his face. And he was on holiday, for fuck’s sake.
“Like I said, I don’t think I’ll be stopping for long.”
Arlo shrugged. “That’s cool. Just an option if you do decide to stick around and you’re at a loose end. I’ll organize everything. All you need to do is show up.”
It sounded so simple, but already Cole’s heart was pounding a little harder, and the weight sitting on his shoulders got a little heavier. Maybe it was a combo of the beer and the jet lag, but he suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired again. “I’ll think about it,” he lied, draining his second beer and pushing off the stool. Reaching for his wallet, he threw a twenty on the bar. “Nice meeting you all,” he said. “Might see you around.”
Cole vaguely heard their goodbyes as he limped away as quickly as his goddamn useless hip allowed.
By the time Cole was back in the grand entrance of Wade’s house, he was feeling calmer but also a little idiotic about overreacting to Arlo’s suggestion.
His stomach growled, reminding him of just how idiotic he’d been. He’d gone to Jack’s expressly for something to eat and had left without ordering anything. The room shifted for a second, and he leaned heavily on his cane, cursing his weakness under his breath. He remembered not that long ago, when he could drink beer all night—in the off-season—and still be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next day.
But between the brisk walk and the hunger/booze/jet lag combo, he was feeling decidedly lightheaded. Since when had he not been able to handle two beers?
That same sense of tiredness that had washed over him at Jack’s revisited. He should eat. Put something in his stomach before he went to bed, even if it meant raiding Little Miss Prickle’s stash. But right now, all he wanted was a hot shower and the beckoning oblivion of sleep.
Hiking the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder, he made a beeline for the stairs. He hadn’t bothered bringing it in from his rental car last night. He’d been in too much pain and too damn exhausted, and he was pleased now that he’d waited. It was so much easier tonight, even if climbing the stairs while trying to balance the competing forces of his bag on one side and the cane on the other would be tricky.
Before he even put his foot on the first step, he heard loud banging coming from a room off to the right, then a muffled female curse. Jane. He remembered the quick, fierce shake of her head as he’d almost cursed in front of Finn earlier and smiled. So it wasn’t cussing that offended her; it was the company.
His tiredness from moments ago miraculously vanishing, Cole let the bag drop to the floor at the foot of the stairs and went in search of the source. He told himself it was just about investigating all the banging, but hell if he wasn’t curious about why she was making so much damn noise at almost eight on a Friday night, when most people were doing peaceful things, like watching television or reading a book. Or at least indulging in other forms of banging, which was a different kind of noisy and a lot more fun.
She’d said she’d been employed to do a job. He’d assumed it was housekeeping or gardening or something. Not…demolition?
His bad.
With the banging resuming, it didn’t take him long to locate his unwilling housemate. She was on all fours in the middle of the floor of a large, empty room, where walls of old-fashioned flocked scarlet wallpaper met rich, red, cherrywood paneling and three large, high windows draped in curtains of rich burgundy velvet dominated the far wall. Above her head, hanging from the high ceiling, was another chandelier almost as big as the one in the foyer.
A large fireplace with an impressive mantel was centered on the wall to his right, its tiled surround fitting in perfectly with the old-world elegance of the room. The floor, however, did not. Or most of it, anyway. Three-quarters of the large area was covered in some kind of relatively modern black-and-white tiling in a harlequin pattern. She was obviously in the process of removing them, exposing the original parquetry beneath.
It was hard to tell the colors of the wood, given that it was covered in remnants of black grout or some kind of glue, but he’d bet it’d polish up beautifully. Cole might not have been an expert on old houses, but he’d been halfway through a carpentry apprenticeship when he’d quit to join the Sydney Centaurs for his debut season, so he knew wood.
Jane was banging randomly at sections of the parquetry floor. He assumed she was realigning loose pieces, since there were segments of wood that had been lifted out of their patterns sitting scattered about like jigsaw pieces patiently waiting to be slotted into place. Each blow of the hammer rocked through her knees and her opposite arm, which was locked tight at the elbow, the hand splayed against the floor for balance.
She looked even smaller hunched over in the center of this huge, empty room, a thoroughly modern woman in shorts and T-shirt amidst the aging elegance and grandeur of times gone by. Her ponytail swished with each rock, and loose strands of hair teased at her neck, and with her arse and the bare backs of her thighs pointing firmly in his direction, he was thinking things he really, really shouldn’t right now.
Not when the woman in question was armed with a weapon more lethal than a pair of needle-nose pliers this time.
Abruptly sitting back on her haunches, cutting off his very fine view, she paused for a moment to stick the tip of her thumb in her mouth. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say that had been the cause of her cursing.
“Did you smack your thumb with the hammer?”
Cole noticed her startle before she twisted at the waist, looking over her shoulder at where he lounged in the doorway. She did not look pleased to see him as she dropped her injured hand into her lap. “It mostly missed.”
“That’s lucky. Hammer meets thumb usually hurts like a goddamn sonofabitch.”
He probably shouldn’t have quoted her curse words back at her—a gentleman probably wouldn’t have. But nobody had ever accused Cole of being a gentleman. Rugby was supposed to be a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen, but he’d always leaned more toward the hooligan end of the spectrum, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to getting a little bit of enjoyment out of seeing her discomforted.
She shrugged carelessly, though, and Cole gave her points for acting. “Not the first time. Doubt it’ll be the last.”
He let it drop as he pushed off the doorway and limped into the room, the thud of his cane echoing softly in the empty, cavernous space as he took his time looking around. She was standing when he drew even, and he realized she was wearing kneepads. Good-quality ones, too, even if they did make her seem all froggy-legged.
She also had what looked like a small walkie-talkie device attached to the waistband of her shorts. Given the pastel coloring and the fluffy blue sheep printed on the front, Cole assumed it was some kind of baby-monitoring device. Finn was hardly a baby, but Cole supposed the bedroom was a long way away in this big old house, and she was doing noisy work.
“Are you removing the tiles?” he asked as he turned his attention to the floor, stabbing his cane at them. “You some kind of…renovation expert? Is that the job you were talking about in the kitchen earlier?”
Wiping the back of her hand holding the hammer across her forehead, she said, “Yes, I am, and yes, it is.” She stared him straight in the eyes. Two olive green pools daring him to say otherwise. “You got a problem with that?”
Cole had known Jane for less than twenty-four hours, and already he was used to her defensiveness, but still, it was almost funny how easily she arced up. “Whoa, steady there, prickle pants. I have zero problem with that. You’re a little touchy, aren’t you?”
“You would be, too, if most people you came across assumed you were the stylist or the color coordinator or the coffee girl.”
“Honey, I play football for a living. Most people assume I can’t spell my own name, much less string a sentence together. But I don’t give a flying fuck about what people think, and you shouldn’t, either.” He didn’t care if people thought he was dumb as a rock, as long as they took him seriously on the field.
“Well, that’s easy for you. Looking like…” She waved her hand in his general direction. “You. When you’re five foot one and have boobs in an industry pretty much run by the people with dicks, how they perceive you does matter.”
Cole really wished she hadn’t said boobs. It made it impossible for him not to check out said boobs. He’d deliberately not looked at them because a) he wasn’t a Neanderthal, and b) she was holding a hammer, but hell if he didn’t go ahead and drop his gaze. Her T-shirt wasn’t tight, but it did hug her chest and a pair of breasts that were small but high. Cole would bet good money they were perky and pretty with cute rosy nipples sitting dead center like two delicious, lickable bull’s-eyes.
It’d been a long time since Cole had been with a woman. He’d split with a short-term girlfriend a couple of months before the accident, and getting involved with someone since just hadn’t been on his radar. But his dick had suddenly blipped to life.
“It doesn’t matter,” she continued, glaring at him as he dragged his gaze back to her face, “that I’m stronger than I look or that I can and do pull my weight around a work site. I got so sick of it I started my own business.”
A half laughed slipped from his lips. That was one way around it. The woman obviously had spunk. “Good for you.”
She frowned. “Are you patronizing me?”
Fuck’s sake. Cole rolled his eyes. “Jesus…no.” He took a steadying breath. “What’s it called? Your business.”
“Something Old, Something New. We specialize in renovating old houses, restoring them to their former glory.”
“That sounds rewarding. And like a lot of hard work.”
“It is. To both.”
Cole had been bracing himself for another prickly return, so her smile was unexpected. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, transforming her face and softening the lines of her body. She looked open and approachable. Relaxed. Carefree. And suddenly it was a little harder to breathe. “There much of a market for that?”
“We do all right.”
Cole detected the slight self-satisfied note in her voice and figured she was being modest.
“And so…” He glanced around him again as he realized he’d been staring at her a little too long. “You’re restoring Wade’s house to its former glory?”
She also looked around the room, and he watched the spark in her eyes, the keen interest, as if she was visualizing the end result. “No, just the red sitting room, for now.”
Red sitting room. Cole couldn’t think of a more apt name for it, between the wallpaper, the drapes, and the heavy wood features.
“There’s a national home magazine coming to photograph it in three weeks’ time. I’m returning the floor to its natural parquetry and restoring the fireplace to its original state.”
Cole glanced at the floor area—at what had been done and what was yet to do. Three weeks seemed like an ambitious completion date for just one person. “That’s a big job. Will it be done in time?
”
Her mouth tightened a little, emphasizing tiny strain lines. “I…hope so. Finn was supposed to be with his dad back in California, but Tad—” She paused like she’d said too much already. “Well, anyway, something came up, so I’m having to balance my time between the job and Finn.”
Cole gave Jane an A for effort. She was putting a positive spin on things, but knowing what Tucker had let slip and reading between the lines, it was obvious her ex had thrown a spanner in the works as far as this project deadline went. “Is that why you’re doing it at night?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “There are some things I can do during the day, like cleaning the chandelier.” Her head fell back as she glanced above. “I’m cleaning all six of the chandeliers in the house, too, but this one obviously takes priority, and I can do that a bit at a time.”
Cole’s gaze took a detour up the sweep of her throat as he tipped his head and inspected the glass behemoth hanging from the ceiling. “How do you do that?”
“With a very tall ladder.”
Cole heard the smile in her voice and slid a look in her direction. Her lips were twitching as their gazes met, and she laughed. Actually laughed. After the heaviness of their prior conversation, it was a surprisingly joyous sound. “That a reno joke?”
She nodded. “A bad one at that.”
He was too fascinated by her softening to pass judgment on her sense of humor. She’d gone from irritable and ball-busting to guarded over her ex to laughing and joking. She was a conundrum. And Cole had never been able to resist a conundrum. He turned his attention to the floor before he did something impulsive, like closing the distance between them and kissing those lips that were twitching enticingly. Even at such short acquaintance he knew that would probably score him a hammer right between the eyes.
Or to his junk.
Cole winced internally, turning his attention elsewhere. “These black-and-white tiles are…” He slid his foot over the top of them absently, trying to find a suitable adjective.
