Within Reach

by Sarah Mayberry

  Michael glanced over his shoulder, ready to issue his invitation, but the words died on his tongue. She’d changed out of the utilitarian hoody she’d been wearing earlier in the day into a fitted, fuzzy sweater in a deep blue-teal color that did amazing things for her eyes.

  “That’s new,” he said before he could stop himself.

  Angie seemed equally surprised by his comment. “It is. I picked it up on the weekend.”

  “It looks, um, warm,” he said, feeling incredibly stupid now. What was he, the fashion police? Since when did he comment on other people’s clothing?

  “It’s cashmere, so, yeah, it’s warm.”

  He nodded, although he wasn’t really sure what he was agreeing to. “Listen, the kids talked me into dinner at the local bistro. Do you want to join us?”

  “Sure. Sounds good. When were you thinking?”

  He kept his gaze fixed on Angie’s face, even though he was very aware of the fact that her new sweater was tight in all the right places. He’d learned his lesson with the yoga pants, and he wasn’t going there.

  “We’re pretty much ready to go now, I think.”

  They piled into his wagon and drove to the restaurant. He shot Angie an apologetic look as they entered the overly bright, too noisy family section of the pub.

  “I have a feeling I’m going to owe you dinner to make up for this dinner.”

  “What are you talking about? This place is great. It’s got a dessert bar and a playroom,” Angie said. “Not to mention about a million slot machines in the adults’ part.”

  Eva fixed her big, pleading brown gaze on him. “Can I go play? Please?”

  She was already starting to edge away and he reached out and caught the collar of her coat and made her pick a meal from the menu before letting her disappear into the playroom. He and Angie settled at a table in the corner and he headed to the counter to order their food, returning with a number in a metal holder and two glasses of beer.

  They talked casually and easily, neither of them going out of their way to fill the occasional silence that fell. Another thing to like about Angie—she didn’t mind silence. In fact, he suspected, like him, she sometimes preferred it.

  Their meals came and Angie went in search of Eva, hauling her to the table long enough to wolf down her burger before racing off again. Charlie wanted to play, too, once he’d eaten a handful of chips and smeared the rest into the table. Michael took him into the rubber-floored toddler playpen and let him loose, watching with a smile as Charlie immediately raced to the roundabout and began pushing it round and around. As far as his son was concerned, there was nothing better in life than being dizzy.

  “Here.”

  Angie nudged his arm with her elbow and he saw she was carrying two more beers.

  “Thanks.”

  “Also, I thought I’d better warn you that a bunch of the women from Billie’s mothers’ group came in.”

  Michael glanced over his shoulder and immediately made eye contact with Gerry, who gave him a little finger wave. She was standing with half a dozen other women he vaguely recognized.

  “Whoops. Now you can’t pretend you didn’t see them,” Angie said out of the corner of her mouth.

  Gerry started walking toward him, another woman falling in behind her.

  “I will pay you a thousand dollars to stay by my side for the next ten minutes,” he said quietly to Angie, the smile never leaving his face.

  She grinned. “I should so hold you to that.”

  “Feel free to. Just don’t disappear on me.”

  “Michael. I knew we’d run into you again,” Gerry said as she joined them.

  “It’s a small world.”

  “You remember Ros, right?”

  “Sure. How are you?” Michael said, shaking the other woman’s hand.

  He introduced Angie and minutes passed torturously as they exchanged pleasantries and talked about the weather. Both women offered to help him out with child care should the need arise, explaining that as single parents they understood the pressures he was under.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Michael said.

  It was, too—if only they weren’t both looking at him as though he was the last chopper out of Saigon. Angie had joked about him being seen as fair game now that a suitable mourning period had passed, but there was no mistaking the signals both women were sending.

  “We’ve all been there, Michael. Not in exactly the same way, but we understand how it feels,” Gerry said.

  Ros glanced toward their table and pulled a face. “Looks like they’re ready to order.”

  “Michael, great to see you. Don’t be a stranger,” Gerry said.

  “Great to see you, too. All of you,” he said, offering a wave to the rest of the table. He kept the smile on his face as Gerry and Ros rejoined their group.

  “Wow. For a minute there I thought they were going to fight to the death over you,” Angie said.

  He took a huge swallow from his beer. “It’s not funny.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t. But it also kind of is. I felt as though I was watching a nature special. All we needed was David Attenborough doing a voice-over.”

  He gave her a look. He really didn’t want to talk about this stuff. “Can we change the subject?”

  Angie’s smile faded. “Sorry. I was just mucking around.”

  “I know.”

  He watched Charlie clamber up the stairs of the miniature slide. He could feel Angie watching him and he made an effort to unclench his jaw. He was overreacting and he knew it—he also couldn’t do anything to stop it.

  “It really bothers you, doesn’t it? The idea that those women are interested in you?”

  “It’s not about them.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “It isn’t. I don’t want to be in this position. I don’t want to be single. I definitely don’t want to even think about replacing Billie. But none of those things has anything to do with those women.”

  Angie’s expression softened with sympathy. “No one will ever replace Billie. She was one of a kind.”

  He stared into his beer, aware that his throat was suddenly tight.

  “But that doesn’t mean you won’t ever want to be with someone else.” Angie said it so softly he almost didn’t hear her. His head whipped up and he stared at her.

  “I won’t,” he said unequivocally.

  “Billie would never expect you to spend the rest of your life alone. You know that, right?” It seemed Angie was choosing her words very carefully. “She’d want you to be happy.”

  “I’m not interested. Period. Billie was it for me.” The words caught in his throat.

  “Okay. Fair enough. What are you going to do about sex, then?” Angie’s words were so unexpected she surprised a bark of laughter out of him.

  “Wow. That was…to the point.”

  He could feel his face getting warm. Which was fine, because Angie had a bit of color in her cheeks, too.

  “Just pointing out the obvious. You’re thirty-five, Michael. Young, healthy. Unless you’re planning on developing forearms like Popeye, you’re going to want to have sex again.”

  He couldn’t help but smile at her choice of words but his smile quickly faded. Across the playground, Charlie turned and sought him out, his small face anxious as he suddenly remembered that he belonged to someone and that it was important he knew where that someone was. Michael lifted
a hand to draw his attention. Charlie’s smile was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud—radiant, life-affirming, utterly pure.

  “I’m not interested.”

  Angie let the subject drop then, for which he was eternally grateful. He knew she probably thought he was in denial. Hell, maybe he was. But he didn’t want to think about sleeping with a woman who wasn’t Billie. That part of him—his sex-drive, for want of a better term—had been nonexistent for the past eleven months and if it stayed that way, he wouldn’t be sorry. He’d never been the kind of guy who slept around, and he’d never had a problem staying true to his marriage vows. Ever since he’d met Billie, sex and desire had been uniquely associated with her. Her scent, the feel of her skin, the sound of her laughter, the shape of her body.

  He genuinely couldn’t imagine wanting another woman. Not at the moment, anyway.

  * * *

  HE DREAMED ABOUT SEX that night.

  Angie headed home once they had returned from the bistro and Michael put the kids to bed then spent a couple more hours on the Watsons’ Frankenstein of a beach house before hitting the sack.

  He didn’t know where he was in his dream. It was a house, but not one he recognized. At first he was alone, but he caught a glimpse of a woman as she disappeared through the door into the next room. He started after her. His first thought was that it was Billie. He’d had many, many dreams like this, where he pursued her yet never quite caught her.

  But this dream felt different. The faceless woman turning corners and slipping out of his sight moved differently from Billie. The way she walked, the sway of her hips, the angle of her head. She wasn’t Billie. He was still trying to understand when suddenly he found himself in a dark room. He reached out and found himself touching bare skin. Warm, smooth skin. A hand closed over his and guided him to a full, heavy breast. A hard nipple pressed against his palm, and an arm snaked around his neck and a soft, fragrant body pressed against him from groin to shoulder.

  His lover slid a hand down to caress his burgeoning erection, cupping him, stroking him. Within seconds he was hard, desire a demanding heat in his veins. He cupped his lover’s breasts and lowered his head and tongued sweet, tight nipples until she was sighing and shaking in his arms. She lifted a leg and wrapped it around his hips and guided him inside her. She was tight and hot and wet and he buried himself to the hilt. She felt so good, so good. He withdrew and plunged again and again and again. Desire built inside him, tensing his muscles. He was so hard he felt he could burst and there was nothing more important in the world than the place where his body was joined to hers. His climax rose, spreading like heat through his abdomen. He tensed— And woke, sweating and panting in tangled sheets, achingly hard, his heart battering against his ribs. The dream had been so real, so intense, so absorbing that for a few seconds he was disoriented. All he could think about was how good she’d felt. How wet and warm and willing and how much he’d needed the relief of orgasm.

  Then his life came back to him and he dropped his forearm across his closed eyes and gritted his teeth against the shame and regret that washed over him.

  Billie was dead, and in his head he’d been screwing another woman.

  So much for his fine, noble words to Angie. His body and mind hadn’t even waited a full twenty-four hours before making a liar of him.

  It’s not a lie. I don’t want anyone else. I love Billie.

  There was no denying the fact he’d wanted someone else in his dream. A naked, sexy siren who’d known exactly what to do.

  The heaviness in his groin demanded satisfaction. Without him consciously willing it, his hand slid to his erection. He gripped himself, but instead of stroking his hand and seeking relief, he lay rigid, willing his desire away.

  He didn’t want this. Didn’t want desire and longing. Didn’t want to be this fully alive again. It was enough that he was a good provider, a careful, loving parent. He didn’t want this part of his life back.

  Releasing himself, he swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood. Three steps and he was in the ensuite, another two and he was in the shower, cold water a shock on his skin. He gasped and let the cold leach the need from his body. Images from the dream flashed across his mind’s eye. He pushed his face beneath the water.

  He was shivering by the time he flicked the tap off, but his body was once again his. Feeling guilty and weary and confused, he returned to bed and spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ANGIE MADE SURE SHE WAS at Michael’s house early the next day, keen to talk to him before tackling her workload.

  She needed to apologize for last night, for making him uncomfortable. She’d been lulled by their mutual teasing and the beer and the us-against-them camaraderie engendered by Gerry and Ros’s approach and she’d pushed him in ways she shouldn’t have.

  Good God, she’d even made a reference to him “taking care of business” and developing forearms like Popeye. Every time she thought of that particular gem her whole body tensed and grew warm with embarrassment.

  She and Michael might have become true friends in the past year instead of merely friends-by-association, but they had never ventured into such personal territory before—yet she’d gone rampaging in there with her army boots on last night, taking no prisoners and giving no quarter. She really didn’t know why she’d stepped over the line so completely.

  He’d looked so sad, so broken as he shut the door on romance and love and sex and companionship. In the immediate aftermath of Billie’s death, the thought of Michael living the rest of his life devoted to Billie’s memory might have seemed a fitting and worthy tribute to her friend’s memory. But after witnessing Michael’s pain and grief and, yes, loneliness over the past year, Angie understood what a terrible waste such a sacrifice would be. Billie was dead, after all—she could no longer feel jealousy or betrayal. But Michael was still alive, and he was a loving, generous, good man. He deserved comfort and love and friendship and all the other things a relationship could bring to a person. He deserved to be happy.

  Fine, but it’s really none of your business. At the end of the day, Michael’s grief was his and his alone. If he chose to spend the rest of his days grieving Billie, then it was his choice. Which was why she needed to clear the air and let him know that she wouldn’t be stampeding into his private life again in the near future.

  Even though she had a key to his house, she knocked rather than let herself in. It felt strange to simply walk in when she knew Michael and the children were home. Eva answered the door, one side of her hair braided into a wonky plait, the other side tangled and loose. The collar on her school uniform was rucked up and Angie reached out to smooth it flat as they walked to the kitchen.

  “That’s better,” she said.

  “Can you help me with my hair, Auntie Angie? Daddy usually does it but he’s not up yet.”

  Angie glanced toward the hall that led to the master bedroom, surprised. Michael had always been the early bird in the family.

  “Sure, sweetie. Why don’t you go grab your brush?”

  She ducked her head into Charlie’s room and found him still out of it, his small body sprawled with utter abandon across his cot. She slipped into the kitchen where Eva was waiting impatiently, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

  “I don’t like being late.” She handed the brush to Angie. “Being late means that you think you’re more important than everyone else.”

  Angie smiled as she recognized one of Michael’s favorite sayings. He and Billie had had a constant battle of wills over punctuality. Billie had been a hopeless ca
se, always running fifteen minutes late, while Michael was a stickler for being everywhere on time.

  Except for this morning, apparently.

  “Why don’t I do this other braid again so they’re all nice and even?” Angie suggested.

  Eva nodded her assent and Angie pulled the hair tie free and brushed Eva’s hair out. She was parting it neatly at the back when Michael barreled into the room wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs and a harried expression. His hair was sleep-tousled, his eyes heavy with fatigue. He pulled up short when he saw Angie.

  “Oh. Hi. I was just going to get the kids up.”

  “I got dressed myself,” Eva said.

  “I must have slept through the alarm.”

  Angie took one look at his big, bare chest and snug underwear and quickly fixed her gaze on Eva’s hair.

  “Charlie’s still sleeping,” she said, concentrating on what her hands were doing and not on the large, very male body she could see in her peripheral vision.

  “Ow, Auntie Angie. That hurts,” Eva said, pulling her head away.

  “Sorry, sweetie.” Angie slid a glance toward Michael in time to catch the ripple of his muscles as he lifted a hand to push his hair from his forehead. She could feel embarrassed, self-conscious heat rising in her face and she ducked her head so severely that her chin was pressed into her chest.

  “I can always drop Eva at school. Save you from rushing,” she said, willing him to do something about his attire—or lack of it.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it covered. You had breakfast, squirt?” he asked Eva.

  “Not yet.”

  “Toast or cereal?”

  “Toast, please. With Vegemite.”

  “Angie?”

  “Um, no. I’m fine, thanks.” She made the mistake of looking at him again as she spoke. He’d turned to the pantry and her gaze slid down his well-muscled back to his tight, muscular backside.

  “Ow. You’re hurting again,” Eva protested.

  Angie fastened the last hair tie and dropped a kiss onto her goddaughter’s head. “All done. Sorry for the owies.”