by Evie Snow
Stephen felt Mike’s words like a kick in the stomach. “Low blow, mate, low blow. And you’ve got no fucking idea. The thing with Lauren has nothing to do with me taking care of Jo’s place and you know it. Lauren and I are over. I’m just doing the gentlemanly thing and giving her a bit of time to sort stuff out. We were together for ten years. She must have had a good reason to end it—”
“Which I bet she hasn’t told you—”
“Which we’ll get around to talking about when we get to it. Haven’t you ever heard of giving things time? Ten years, mate, that needs time.”
“Ten years means she should have the decency not to string you along like this.” Mike scowled. “This is just some fucked-up power play and you’re falling for it. You were always way too nice to chicks. Other than that one time with Jo, you’ve been Captain Fucking Doormat. When are you gonna learn that if you treat ’em mean . . .” Mike let his words trail off, his smarmy expression turning into something far more serious. “Anyway, enough of this shit. The point I’m making is don’t screw the nice one over for the second time in your life because some bitch is holding you for ransom.”
Stephen could feel his blood boiling. “Just get to the point. I asked you over for a beer, not to give me shit. You’re just looking for a fight and I’ll be fucked if I’ll give you one.”
Mike stayed silent for a few minutes, his expression brooding as he watched the TV. “You been in Jo’s bedroom yet?”
Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “What? What’s Jo’s bedroom got to do with it?”
“A lot. Check out the photo near her bed one day.”
“Why don’t you tell me to go through her underwear drawer while you’re at it? I bet you did.”
“Wouldn’t hurt you to take a look at some undies that belong to someone under ninety.” Mike shrugged, already standing up as Stephen launched himself at him.
* * *
Stephen woke up the next morning to the sound of a phone ringing. Since he’d given just a few people Jo’s home number, he muzzily concluded it must be Rachael calling from whatever beach she was currently lounging on or maybe that prank caller who had been ringing every day or so.
Nah, whoever that was had the consideration to wait until after six at night—only family would be heartless enough to wake up a man with a hangover this early on a Saturday.
He rolled off the couch where he’d passed out the night before and scrambled around for the phone on the coffee table, noticing that Mike, sprawled out on the other couch, was either comatose or being lazy. Picking the phone up, he clicked the answer button and mumbled, “Bugger off, Rach.”
There was silence. Maybe his crank caller had changed schedule.
Then a distant, muffled voice asked, “Stephen? Is that you?”
Stephen lightly thumped his hand on his forehead. Idiot! “Jo?”
“Yeah.” She sounded pissed off. “I got your email and wanted to talk to you about things. You got a few minutes?”
“Yeah, sure. How are you?” He ran a hand over his face, feeling stubble and wincing at the throbbing behind his temples.
“Tired.” Her voice was huskier than usual, and he could almost feel her exhaustion through the phone. It was obvious Jo’s job was anything but sweetness and light. He felt a sense of relief in knowing he’d done the right thing by taking the time to send that email.
“We can do this another time,” he said, ignoring Mike’s bloodshot querying expression. His brother was no doubt feeling effects of all the beer they’d drank after deciding they were too evenly matched to punch the crap out of each other.
“No more delays. Took me half an hour to get to the phone as it was, and I have to get up stupidly early to catch you before my shift. Look, you said in your email you wanted to talk about how long you were staying. Has something changed? Do we need to sort something else out for Boomba?”
Stephen winced. The worry in Jo’s voice told him that Mike’s little comment the night before hadn’t been as out of line as he’d thought. Not feeling comfortable with old eagle-eye, radar-ears Mike listening in, he padded into the kitchen to begin making coffee.
“Yeah, I just wanted to confirm you were cool with everything. We never really talked about how long I’d be here and I thought it’d be better to set it in stone. The little furry guy and I are getting on pretty well. I won’t say it’s love, could just be him lusting after my bodily warmth, but I wouldn’t mind a few more months to see if it’s just a crush or something more serious.”
It was true. The damn lion of a cat had grown on him and took up most of his bed most nights. He’d never have believed cats could snore if anyone had told him six months ago either.
There was a surprised silence, then he was rewarded with a low chuckle. “So it’s like that, is it? I go to work and find out my man’s been cheating on me. He’s not sleeping around, is he?”
“Shares my bed every night. Takes up half the blankets too.”
“The little two-timing bastard. One has to ask, as the injured party, you understand, what’s in it for me?”
Stephen could hear Jo’s smile, despite the crappy international connection and her obvious exhaustion, and grinned in relief. He poured two cups of coffee and walked back into the living room, handing Mike’s to him.
“Well, I could provide some form of chauffeur service to and from the airport for your next trip home, complete with the added bonus of my pizza-ordering skills. I may even extend myself to offering you another massage or two.”
Mike raised both eyebrows at that one. More concerning to Stephen was the long silence from Jo.
“Sounds good,” she said eventually then cleared her throat. “I’ll send you my flight details.”
“No worries. Take it easy, eh? You sound completely exhausted.”
“I am. Hey, I gotta go. Talk to you soon.”
Stephen barely had time to say goodbye before he heard the click.
“Massage service, eh?” Mike asked, waggling his eyebrows.
“Shaddup.”
Chapter 6
Four weeks later, Stephen stood in the arrivals lounge of Perth Airport, nursing an exorbitantly priced takeout coffee as he scanned the arrivals screen for Jo’s flight. It had landed ten minutes before, but from past experience, he knew it’d take another twenty minutes or so to get through immigration and customs.
Finding a convenient seat, he settled in to people-watch for a while. He was surprised by the anxiety he currently felt. The only people he’d ever picked up from the airport before fell into one of two distinct categories: business or personal. For the life of him, he couldn’t quite work out where Jo fell. Was she his landlord? An old friend? She definitely wasn’t the latter, but the former wasn’t right either.
She’d called two more times in the past month—ostensibly to ask about her cat, but they’d ended up talking about their respective jobs and had ended each conversation laughing. He’d found himself looking forward to her calls. They were a welcome respite from the confusion in his private life, especially his relationships. If that’s what they could be called.
He gave himself a shake. One in the morning wasn’t a good time to think about how Bridgett has started getting more and more possessive of his time and had been trying to use sex to manipulate him into doing what she wanted. Neither was it the time to think about the last disastrous, angry conversation he’d had with Lauren about selling their apartment.
He’d called Lauren, trying to explain that things would be a hell of a lot better if they just sat down and talked things through. She’d responded by telling him that he took her for granted and had again accused him of “not getting it,” whatever the hell that meant. It had taken everything in him to not lose his temper, but by the time they’d finished talking, Lauren had still been crying and yelling at him and he’d had one hell of a headache.
She was right—he didn’t get it. He didn’t get how two people who’d gotten on so well, who’d been best friends and lo
vers for ten years had come to this.
He was so caught up in brooding he almost missed Jo when she emerged through the exit. When he did spot her, it came with a completely unexpected surge of happiness that washed away the anger.
Happiness that looked a far cry from how Jo was feeling at that moment.
She was a wreck. Her clothes, a pair of low-riding jeans and a faded black T-shirt, were rumpled. Her short hair was a tousled brown mess, and her high cheekbones were pale with exhaustion. Even her brown eyes were bloodshot and had deep violet shadows under them. She shouldn’t have looked sexy, but somehow she did. Stephen’s eyes wandered down to her midriff where her T-shirt didn’t meet her jeans, leaving a bare inch of skin, and stayed there until she spoke.
“Hi,” she said, and he was pleasantly reminded of how much huskier her voice sounded in person.
“Hi, how are you?” He cleared his throat noisily and tried to decide whether they knew each other well enough for a cheek kiss. Based on the way she nervously glanced at his mouth and then away, Jo was having the same dilemma. In the end, Stephen settled for a welcoming smile. “Want to get going?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m pretty tired.”
“You look it. Want to give me your bag?” He took her red canvas rig bag, amazed at how light it was, then led the way towards the exit. As the doors slid open, he paused to watch Jo stop still and smile widely when the scent of hot asphalt and gum trees greeted their senses.
She sighed. “Smells like home.”
* * *
Jo rolled onto her back in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, wishing she could sleep. It wasn’t working. It wasn’t jet lag keeping her awake either. It was her temporary housemate.
She’d thought Stephen had been joking when he’d offered to play taxi service; instead, he’d been waiting for her at the airport, actually looking happy to see her. When she’d first seen him standing there, all blond and tan in slouchy blue jeans and a white shirt, she’d had to fight the urge to stop and shake her head clear of this obvious hallucination.
None of this made sense. In fact, she’d spent much of the previous month wondering why the hell the guy wanted to help her out with her cat-sitting problem when he could obviously afford somewhere much nicer.
Evangeline’s Rest was a popular wine label, partially because of its high-quality wines but mainly because of Stephen’s marketing prowess. It just didn’t add up. Nor did any of her explanations as to why she’d actually agreed to the whole thing. It had been in a fit of insanity. She’d just finished an awful shift, and his apologetic email had left her smiling for the first time in days.
She’d found herself making excuses to call and hear his voice. He made her laugh too, telling her stories about what Boomba had gotten up to and asking questions about her work. She’d enjoyed the attention. Well, up until tonight, when she’d arrived and realized how awful she must look, which just added one more reason for her to resent her current job.
As usual on long-haul flights, she’d been hunched up in economy after being unable to get a business class flight with the air miles she’d accrued. Unable to sleep, she’d been left cursing her height as the person in front did his best to cut off all circulation to her legs by reclining his seat. It wasn’t an uncommon situation and left her wondering why the hell she bothered to come back to Australia when her employer wouldn’t foot the bill for business class. Why didn’t she rent a house in London or Paris like Veronique, her only other female colleague in Mauritania? Even Canada or the States would be closer.
Come to that, why was she even doing the damn job? She didn’t enjoy it anymore and had more than enough cash to quit and take some time to work out her options. Rolling over, she bunched up her pillow under her chin and sighed, ignoring Boomba’s surly rowl as she woke him up. Hell, she’d spent the previous fifty hours without sleep. What was another eight more?
Nine more sleepless hours later, Jo curled up on a chair on her small balcony, watching the odd boat drift down the Swan River while inhaling the salty sea air blowing in from the coast and sipping a coffee strong enough to corrode metal. With luck, she’d have the entire day to get herself looking respectable before Stephen came home from wherever she’d heard him go in the early hours of the morning. One glance in the bathroom mirror earlier had clearly shown a face and form not currently fit for human consumption.
Her neurons had finally fired up enough for her to haul her backside off to the shower when the sound of a key in the front door stopped her. So much for having an entire day to get herself presentable.
“Damn,” she muttered, running a hand over her tangled hair. Did she have enough time to run for the bathroom? Maybe. It would be worth a shot.
She almost made it.
Unfortunately, Boomba decided to weave in front of her legs at the last moment, causing her to perform a truly spectacular face-plant on the living room floor. Jo rolled onto her back, reaching up to see if her nose was broken. As a result, her first impression of the beautiful woman who’d just walked into her apartment was upside down.
The perspective didn’t make the woman look any less intimidating. She had a perfectly styled head of shoulder-length blond hair, a gold, even tan that could only have come from a salon, and features straight out of a fashion magazine. From this vantage point, Jo could even confirm a set of perfect, boogie-free nostrils.
There was a stunned silence while the woman took in the scene with a blank expression. Jo did her best to act like lying on the floor was the way she always greeted uninvited guests holding dry-cleaning bags containing what looked like a man’s jacket.
“Who are you?” the woman demanded indignantly before Jo could find her voice.
“Shouldn’t I be asking that?” Jo hauled herself upright with all the grace of a drunken giraffe. While Jo stood half a foot taller, the look the woman was giving her made her feel like a hobbit.
“What are you doing in Stephen’s apartment? Are you his sister, Rachael? You are, aren’t you?” The blonde was obviously skilled in one-sided conversation. A hand on her hip, she scanned Jo with sharp eyes, no doubt processing her messy hair, lack of bra, and unshaved legs.
Jo did the only sensible thing. She mumbled something unintelligible, gestured for the woman to sit, and went to have a shower to clear her head.
* * *
“So she took me for Rachael Hardy then lectured me as soon as I got out of the shower about sponging off of Stephen—while I stared at her like an idiot!” Jo shook her head with amusement.
“Did you tell her who you really are?” Amy asked, applying a conditioning treatment to Jo’s hair while clucking at Jo’s outrage.
“She didn’t give me a chance. Just walked in like she owned the place then swanned out again. Thanks, Myf.”
After accepting a cup of hot chocolate from Myf, who sat down in the plush pink swivel chair next to hers, Jo leaned back and let herself enjoy her sister’s magic hands as Amy undid two months of damage to her hair wrought by brackish water and poor nutrition. All three women were on their second naughty midday glass of champagne, second cup of hot chocolate, and a third helping of Amy’s gooey chocolate chip cookies. It had taken almost the entire day, but Jo was finally beginning to feel somewhat human. It had to be the sugar. Amy never skimped on the sugar.
“You didn’t say anything?” Myf asked.
“No. No, I should have. It was just too surreal, plus she caught me completely by surprise.” Jo wondered for the millionth time why she hadn’t corrected the woman’s false assumption. If she were honest, she’d admit that while she could go toe-to-toe with any man in most situations, Stephen’s “friend” had intimidated her. It had just been such a shock to see the sort of woman he liked and realize just how far short she fell of that mark.
“So what did she look like, petal?” Amy asked, tottering off on leopard-print platforms to pick up a hairdryer.
“Blond, thin, ’bout five foot five with so much Botox in her face that it barel
y moved. Sort of like a mature Playboy Bunny in a business suit.” Jo shrugged. “I wouldn’t even feed the woman to a pack of starving Dobermans. They’d probably choke on the small plastic bits.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Myf exclaimed, twirling around on her chair. Myf never liked hearing negative things about people. She was a mild-mannered pacifist, which no one would have guessed given her flaming red hair and the darkly violent paintings she produced. “It doesn’t sound like she did anything that bad. It just sounds like she’s gotten the wrong impression about your apartment being Stephen’s.”
“Look, petal, you’re no fun.” Amy threw a Velcro roller at her friend. “How can Jo and I get down and dirty with some bare-knuckle bitching with you around?”
“Well, I can leave if you ladies are serious.” Myf ducked another roller. “This woman mustn’t be that bad for Stephen to like her. I mean, from what you girls have said, Stephen’s a nice guy . . . with a cute arse. I was very impressed by its dimensions at my show, not to mention his brother’s.”
“He does have a nice arse, doesn’t he?” Amy sighed dreamily. “Or do you disagree, given the fact you are housing said item?” she asked Jo.
“No comment.” Jo genteelly muffled a small burp with her hand and took another sip of champagne from the glass she was holding in her other hand.
“Well, I’ll comment for you since we’re being positive now. I propose a toast. To Stephen—what’s his last name?” Myf asked.
“Hardy,” both Jo and Amy supplied.
“Right. Right. To Stephen Hardy’s cute behind.” Myf raised her glass, and just as Jo and Amy raised theirs, she added quickly before drinking, “And to being nice to his girlfriend.”
The Blaine sisters paused, glasses to their lips.
