Short and Sweet

by Kris Pearson

  ***

  YOURS UNTIL...

  For at least the twentieth time, Greg Prescott eased open the small dark blue box, narrowed his eyes against the glittering diamonds inside, and snapped it shut again.

  Can I talk her into it? Am I being a fool? Will she even let me into the house?

  He tossed it up, caught it with a flick of his wrist, grimaced, and stuffed it back into the pocket of his soft old leather jacket. Would Steph remember he’d worn that when he’d stormed out nearly two years ago?

  Probably. Steph remembered everything.

  God he’d been stupid. Too blind to see what a treasure he had, and now it might be too late. The last three months in London had really opened his eyes. Finally back home again, everything had become crystal clear to him.

  The lights turned green and he gunned his throaty new Porsche up the hill, knowing she’d see the car as a symbol of male mid-life crisis, or boastful affirmation of his rapidly accumulating wealth, or whatever other scornful description she chose to hang on such things. He was grateful now he’d chosen the quiet silver-grey and not the flaming red.

  So—number fourteen Everson Rise. Still the same suburban house they’d moved into a year after they’d married. The house she’d always resisted leaving—citing pleasant neighbours, the nearby medical centre and schools, the view down the harbour to the distant bridge—as though he couldn’t have provided something much better.

  He drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly as he braked to a halt.

  Bright flowers and shrubs hugged the house foundations like a multi-coloured comfort rug. Steph had always loved her garden. Obviously still did, so that hadn’t changed.

  Two years.

  Too long.

  Anything could happen in two years. According to hints thrown by his daughter, plenty had—and he needed to get his act together in a hurry or he’d lose any chance of reclaiming the woman he’d adored since university.

  He dawdled up the front path as though he was eighteen and scared of her dad, instead of forty-one and on his way to his second million.

  Tracey opened the door, teeth clamped on her bottom lip as she inspected him with brown eyes so like his. Then she nodded and said, “Dad. You came.”

  “Of course I did.”

  She shot him a glance full of doubt, and added, “Mum doesn’t know I asked you.”

  Greg gnawed at the inside of his cheek for a second. “I’m pleased you did, Trace. Where is she?”

  “On the swing-seat, out the back.”

  He flexed his shoulders, ready for battle.

  “So...” Tracey muttered, diving through the open doorway. “I’ll be at Shona’s, okay?” She shot off down the path in case it wasn’t. Sixteen, pierced eyebrow, plum-coloured hair, ripped black tights, skirt barely covering her bum.

  Greg shook his head. Where had his fair-haired daughter with the frilly pink tops gone?

  He closed the door, patted the velvet box for luck, headed up the hallway, across the family room, out through the open sliders and onto the paved rear terrace.

  There she was, pushing one slim bare foot against the ground so the swing-seat moved gently to and fro.

  He stood for a moment, enjoying his view; a modest white T-shirt and shoulder length blonde hair under a soft denim hat. An unknown tabby cat somehow kept its balance along the back cushion of the swaying seat.

  He cleared his throat. Didn’t want to spook her by suddenly appearing in front of her.

  “I can see you, Greg. Reflected in the window over there. I heard you with Trace, anyway.”

  A voice as crisp as ice, and she didn’t turn toward him.

  Probably bad.

  He took a couple more steps and remained standing, deciding not to sit until invited. Hell, she looked just like she had at Uni—thin, pale, intense, big-eyed.

  But now there were lines feathering out beside those blue eyes, and an unfamiliar gauntness to her face.

  “You’ve lost weight.” Didn’t women like being told that?

  “It’s the chemo. No surprise there.”

  Shit! It was one hell of a surprise to him! He dropped into a chair, shocked to the soles of his feet. Was this what Tracey had meant by ‘things have happened’?

  Chemo?

  No wonder she looked thinner, tense, worried... He’d assumed she was tired because she’d had to cope with everything on her own—Tracey and Damien, the house, the garden, her job at the plant centre. Neither of the kids had dropped hints about other men.

  Now his gut churned. Someone had strapped a metal band around his head, and a fist squeezed his heart until he pictured it bursting and spraying blood out through his ribs.

  Chemo?

  He reached across and grabbed her hand. Too tight—he saw her flinch. “I had no idea, Steph. Not a clue. Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “I’m not your business these days.” Bitterly said.

  “You’re still my wife.”

  She thrust up her other hand, fingers stiff, bare of his rings. Almost an obscene gesture. The corners of her pretty mouth tightened.

  “You’re still my wife,” he repeated much more quietly, capturing that hand as well, and enclosing them both in his.

  She bowed her head, hiding her face. He saw her shoulders trembling, but it wasn’t until a warm tear splashed onto their joined hands that he knew the true depth of her desolation.

  “Oh Stephie... honey... you’ll beat it,” he murmured.

  I hope.

  He moved across to the double swing-seat and slid an arm around her. The cat sprang away with growl of complaint.

  “Come on, cuddle up,” he urged, drawing her nearer, relieved when she gave in and leaned against him for warmth or comfort or whatever small consolation he could provide. He surrounded her with both his arms, praying as hard as he ever had. Finally, she began to sob in earnest—great wracking gulps and shudders, and then torrents of tears.

  He found a tightly folded handkerchief in one of his jacket pockets. “You probably ironed this for me,” he added as he shook out the folds, raised it to her face, and tenderly blotted her cheeks. “It’s been there for ages.”

  She grabbed it like a lifeline and managed a strangled laugh before subsiding into serious crying again.

  He hauled her closer, wishing he could be more help than this, wishing he’d known, wishing he’d never left to chase the big money, wishing he’d kept in touch with her instead of just with Tracey and Damien.

  No-one had ever turned him on like Steph. Or challenged him like Steph. Or enraged him like Steph.

  When she hadn’t wanted what he’d wanted, he’d tried for it anyway.

  And found it not enough compensation for the woman he’d left behind.

  He fingered the velvet box through his jacket. So much for thinking he could stage a grand comeback. Lousy timing.

  Lousy stinking timing in every way.

  Slowly she quietened in his arms. “Sorry,” she murmured, trying to pull back. “Can’t do that with the kids around.”

  “Stay. You feel good there.”

  “Greg.” Just his name, said softly. Almost enough to give him a glimmer of hope.

  “Tell me where you’re sick... what I can do to help... how long you’ve known?” And after a gut-wrenching too-long pause, “How’s the chemo working?”

  Haltingly, she told him. And then lost her composure again and wailed, “My hair’s falling out.” She pulled the denim hat off with an exclamation of disgust. Long blonde strands drifted down through the sunlight. “They say I should get it cut really short so I don’t see it coming away like this.” She gave another huge sob. “But I can’t Greg, I just can’t face going to the hairdresser and asking them to chop it all off. It feels too final.”

  He tucked her head back under his chin and made soothing noises, cradling her until she calmed again. Perhaps there was something he could help with after all?

  “I turned up on the right day, then,” he said with
more cheer than he felt. “My battery shaver’s in the glovebox. Want me to get it and do the dirty deed here for you?”

  He felt her stiffen. “Not that short,” she objected.

  “It’s got a trimmer. I won’t scalp you.”

  She shook in his arms again, but this time apparently with mirth more than anguish. “Oh, all right then.” The slightest grin lit her face. “The situation’s so absurd, why not? ‘Ex-husband shaves wife’s head in jealous rage’.”

  “Not ex. Remember that. And not jealous.”

  He released her slowly. The cat crept a couple of steps closer as he rose.

  When he returned, Steph had angled out one of the chairs. He stroked her head. Even that gentle movement dislodged a few long shining strands.

  “Go for it, Greg. Before I change my mind.”

  He turned the shaver on, still shocked by her illness, still processing the facts, and operating on auto-pilot. He popped the trimmer attachment up and ran the shaver back from her forehead, gathering the fine hank of hair into his hand and laying it on the table, well away from the sharp-eyed tabby.

  Again and again he repeated the action, cutting her hair and stacking each section together into a shining pile on the table top. It broke his heart to see it.

  Finally, he was done. Steph buried her face against the cat, shoulders shaking again, sudden bravado gone.

  It was enough time for Greg to gather her hair together and wind the rubber band he’d found in the car around and around one end of it until it held tight. Then he slipped the jeweller’s box from his pocket, took out the dazzling ring, and pushed it until it stopped against the rubber—a diamond-and platinum cuff on golden hair.

  “What on earth do I look like now?” she muttered.

  “Utterly gorgeous. And here’s a present for my brave girl.” He drew the pony-tail along her arm in a tickling caress.

  Steph looked up, and visibly jumped.

  “What...?”

  “For you. I wasn’t expecting to give it to you today. Thought I’d need to get my courage up for a while first. See how the land lay.” He stroked her feathery head, seeing tiny glints of gold float free.

  “An eternity ring?” She swivelled to face him, then looked down again at her hair. The band of diamonds flashed and sparkled in the sun. She reached out and ran a finger over the brilliant stones.

  “I love you, Steph. Always did, always will. I’d returned to see if you’d have me back. You know me and my goal-setting. I bought the ring I wanted to give you so I’d have something to work toward. I wasn’t reckoning on handing it over so soon—or having to use it as a good luck charm.”

  “Have you back?” she asked faintly.

  Greg’s heart plummeted. She didn’t sound convinced. He could have drowned in those big sad eyes.

  “Think about it at least?” he urged.

  Then he saw a shimmer of mischief light her face, a twitch of humour tug at her gorgeous lips. “I’ve thought about it every day since you left,” she said, drawing a fine gold chain from inside her T-shirt. “Still wore your rings, even if no-one else knew.” The chain had been threaded through the modest engagement ring he’d given her at twenty-three and the plain gold wedding band that had followed a year later.

  He tried to swallow the lump that suddenly threatened to choke him. “So... is that a yes?” He reached down and cupped her face, brushing his thumbs over shining tears.

  The cat chose that moment to pounce on the tempting tail of hair as the breeze flirted with it.

  “Hey!”

  “Leave her Greg—it’s only hair.”

  “You thought it was a big deal a few minutes ago.”

  The sparkling ring came loose and rolled across the table-top. Steph caught it as it reached the edge and handed it back to him.

  “Ah,” she teased. “But that was then. This is now. Ask me again.”

  ***

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed my nineteen romantic reads. I’m first and foremost a novelist. My books written as Kris Pearson are sexier than these nineteen sweet and heartwarming stories, but in case you enjoy some heat, there’s a complete list of them below. Most are set in my homeland of New Zealand – where you’ll find the All Blacks, hobbits galore, fantastic scenery, wonderful wines and the best ice-cream in the world. You can see all their covers, and read more, at my website, http://www.krispearson.com

  For sweeter editions of some of the same stories, go to http://www.kerripeach.com

  If you enjoyed this anthology, please help to get the word out by leaving your review on the page where you brought it. I love sharing my stories, and reviews are more important to authors than you might think.

  I’ve chosen pieces of New Zealand scenery for many of my book covers. On the front of this one is the garden at the Mission House in Kerikeri—New Zealand’s oldest surviving European building. It’s way up the top of our North Island, and this garden border is much more impressive than the courtyard garden in my first story, ‘Branching Out’.

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  www.gobookcoverdesign.com

  Written as Kris Pearson - The Wellington Series

  The Boat Builder’s Bed

  Resisting Nick

  Seduction on the Cards

  The Wrong Sister

  Out of Bounds

  Hot for You

  Ravishing Rose

  3 novels, boxed set

  The Heartlands Series

  Melting His Heart

  Christmas Holiday Hearts

  Cowboy Wants Her Heart

  3 novels, boxed set

  And—

  Taken by the Sheikh

  Desired by the Sheikh

  ~~~

  Written as Kerri Peach - Hearts Around the Harbor Series

  Visit http://www.kerripeach.com