by Nicola Marsh
‘Nope.’
She dusted off her hands, earning a filthy look. ‘I’ve scooped out a fire pit, set up the kindling and a metal grille over it, and strung up some rope for tarps in case we need it.’
He frowned and glanced up into the trees. ‘Why would we need tarps? That’s what the tent’s for.’
Not wanting to dent his manly pride, already suffering under the hatchet job he was making of the tent, she shrugged.
‘The weather forecast sounded grim, so thought it’d pay to be doubly prepared.’
He grunted in response and resumed his mallet-swinging.
Funnily enough, she hadn’t been camping in ages, and sharing this experience with him meant a lot—despite her constant teasing.
She knew he’d offered because he felt bad about the building date being brought forward, but it had been inevitable anyway. Whether the bulldozers arrived on Monday or next month made little difference. Her sanctuary would be irreversibly changed for ever.
Her light-heartedness in teasing Rory faded. Thinking of her refuge being demolished brought Coral to the forefront of her mind—a place she didn’t want her to be. She’d avoided her the last week—had stayed out late working at the office and waited until she’d heard her mum head for her morning walk to shower and slip out.
Childish, but their last confrontation had been ugly, and freshly fragile after having Rory MIA for a week, with no contact, she hadn’t been up to it. She regretted her harsh words, wished she hadn’t verbalised the pain lodged in her heart all these years.
What would change in discovering why her mum had rejected her all those years ago? It wouldn’t bring back those lost years, when she would have given anything for a hug or a genuine smile or maternal support.
She liked the fact they’d been getting along better this trip, that her mum had been making an effort. It reminded her of the good times when her dad had been alive, when Coral would roll her eyes at their woodworking and experiments yet ply them with lemonade and cookies while she made frequent trips to the shed to chat or offer inane advice they’d all laugh at.
Or the times her mum would sit in the stands at the local pool while her dad coached her in butterfly and freestyle and backstroke, encouraging her to be faster than the boys’ swim team.
Or the times they’d indulged her passion for hiking, when her mum would wait patiently in the car for hours while she raced her dad up the highest peak.
While shopping and gossiping at cafés held little interest for her, Gemma would have done it if her mum had invited her along.
Sadly, verbalising her rejection hadn’t helped and she regretted blurting the truth and the devastation on her mum’s face when she’d stormed out.
She wanted to make amends but didn’t know how. If they hadn’t been able to breach the gap after her dad died, how would they recover from this?
But the small part of her that still craved her mum’s attention, the part she’d deliberately shut down years ago, couldn’t be ignored and demanded she make peace.
If she planned on staying in Melbourne she’d have to make an effort to repair the damage, to get their relationship back on civil terms. But she had to get out of the house— couldn’t risk another potential blow-out tearing them apart completely.
She’d investigated a few short-term rentals yesterday, and expected to hear back on Monday. Until then her date was erecting the Taj Mahal of tents.
Glancing over her shoulder, she checked his progress and stifled a laugh. The tent resembled a lean-to rather than a monument.
She could offer to help, but considering his prickliness earlier he’d take it as a slight on his manly pride and refuse.
Her time would be better spent doing really important stuff. Like putting the finishing touches on her surprise. She reached for her mobile to do just that.
Rory prided himself on his construction skills. He might spend his days behind a desk, but he had a set of tools bestowed upon him by his grandfather that the old guy had taught him to use. He knew his way around hammer and wrench and screwdriver, had replaced worn washers and fixed busted water pipes, and he’d constructed a rudimentary workbench at home.
But this tent business? Major pain in the ass.
He’d read the instructions online after purchasing it. Looked simple enough. But he’d soon learned getting the damn walls to stay upright while he hammered in pegs was tougher than it looked. What he’d anticipated as being a fifteen-minute job max had taken him an hour, and the thing still looked lopsided.
As long as it kept them sheltered it would do its job. He’d wasted enough time when he could have been with Gemma.
He flicked a glance in her direction and his chest contracted. She sat in the passenger seat of his car, her feet curled beneath her to one side, engrossed in her phone, one thumb tapping a text message, the other hand absentmindedly twirling the end of her ponytail round and round a finger.
No make-up, clad in jeans and a loose sweatshirt and hiking books, she looked like the sexiest woman he’d ever seen.
He’d been a fool to almost lose her because he couldn’t handle feeling like this.
He could use all the excuses in the world—his parents’ disaster of a marriage, his grandfather throwing out titbits of affection sparingly, his never having been involved in a long-term relationship—but they were just that: excuses.
He had the power to control his destiny, so why this inability to let Gemma into his heart? No one to blame but himself. He knew why too.
Plain, old-fashioned fear. Fear of losing control, fear of not being in command, fear she’d get to know the real him and run a mile.
That was the clincher: he might have an ounce of Bert in him and drive her away, as Bert had driven away his mother all those years ago.
Not that he was a philanderer, like his dad, but he’d seen beneath Bert’s suave veneer over the years and the fact was Bert couldn’t commit. To anyone or anything. He had power and prestige and looks, could command a room with a tilt of his head, but there was an inner coolness women found irresistible and yet it prevented him from growing close.
Rory felt the same way. Apart from Devlin Corp, he’d never felt truly passionate about anything.
Until now.
That was what really scared him—that once he’d allowed himself to truly feel for the first time, and if the relationship went pear-shaped and Gemma left, he’d be sapped of some of his strength and the power that made him invincible in the business arena.
Stupid? Maybe. But for now he’d shelve his fears and make the best of it. In it for a good time, not a long time, and all that jazz.
As if she sensed him watching her she glanced up and smiled. That slow, sexy curving of her lips called him to action.
He flung down the mallet and strode across the distance between them, squatting next to the open door and snagging her hand. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘You’ll see.’
He entwined his fingers with hers, noting her short nails, ragged cuticles, the lack of polish, finding them more appealing than the many manicured talons he’d artfully dodged over the years. ‘A surprise, huh?’
‘Something like that.’
Her eyes twinkled with mischief and he’d never wanted to kiss her more. ‘When do I get to see this great surprise?’
She glanced at her watch and screwed up her nose, pretending to think. ‘In about an hour, when it’s dark.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘If you finish that tent super-quick, might be in forty-five minutes.’
‘Slave driver,’ he said, his mock grumpy tone eliciting a laugh.
‘And don’t you forget it.’
His gaze swung to the pathetically lopsided tent and he cringed. He’d rather be with her, but if they planned on sleeping he’d better fix it.
Then again, perhaps there were other perks to not sleeping tonight?
‘Ready?’
He nodded, his admirat
ion for the amazing woman by his side tinged with unstoppable desire. How the hell he’d keep his hands off her tonight he had no idea.
‘Should I be worried?’
She pretended to ponder, her eyes crinkling, her pert nose screwed up, and he’d never wanted to kiss anyone as much as he wanted to kiss her at that moment.
‘Depends. If you’re scared of the monster from the deep coming up the beach to gobble you at night, then maybe you should be afraid.’ She wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Very afraid.’
Snagging her hand in his, he tugged her down the final steps to the beach. ‘I’m willing to risk it if you are.’
‘Hey, I’m not the one who’d never ventured into Port Phillip Bay before.’ She bumped him with her hip in an intimate gesture he liked. ‘Deep-sea monsters are particularly attracted to newbies, and seeing as it was your first time in the bay last week …’
All he could focus on was one word: attracted. He was intensely, irrationally, imploringly attracted to her.
His self-proclamation to keep this weekend about her saying a proper goodbye to the land she loved and keeping his libido in check was in serious danger—not helped by the fact she’d brought him to a deserted beach for a moonlit walk.
‘They wouldn’t dare come near me with you by my side.’
She stopped and placed a hand on a cocked hip. ‘Are you saying I’m scary?’
‘No.’
‘Then what are you implying?’
He loved this playfulness and her inherent ability to make any situation fun.
‘You’re a sea nymph. No monster in his right mind would mess with you.’
Her lips curved into a devastating smile and he knew right then he was in trouble—big trouble.
Not the kind that could be dismissed, but the kind he’d have to confront if he wanted to sleep again some time this century.
‘Come on, your surprise is ready.’
Curious as to what she had in store, he fell into step alongside her, slowing down his strides to match hers, content to stroll.
He never strolled. He power-walked or jogged or strode, always moving at a chaotic pace. You snooze, you lose had been his motto for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to slow down and take a good, long, hard look around.
Who knew you could snorkel in Port Phillip Bay? Or that seals and dolphins and a plethora of wildlife were out there, waiting to be appreciated?
As for the Portsea land Devlin Corp had snapped up for a bargain price—he never would have fully appreciated it if Gemma hadn’t come on board. He was proud of the luxury mansions his company constructed, proud of every single development around the country. But having her insight, her expertise, had opened his eyes to environmental issues he’d previously overlooked despite hiring specialists.
Portsea was only a two-hour drive from Melbourne, and yet the only time he’d ever visited was for the annual summer polo day. As for walking on this beach? Try never.
He liked his life, liked the frenetic pace and cut-throat energy of the corporate world, but this camping weekend with Gemma was teaching him something. It was okay to chill. Not that he’d become hooked on it or anything, but maybe he’d be making more trips to the beach in the future.
They rounded a small headland and he gaped.
‘Surprise.’
She bounced on the balls of her feet, the white of her teeth reflected in the campfire on the beach.
‘How did you manage this?’
‘Called in a favour from one of dad’s old fishing buddies.’ She tugged him towards the fire, where her contact had left a cooler, and glanced at a rocky crop overhead and waved. ‘Chester’s a crabby old bachelor but he has a weakness for soap operas, so when I asked him to prep a fire on the beach for me he threw in this as well.’
‘This’ happened to be a cooler stocked with expensive champagne, strawberries and chocolate.
‘A closet romantic?’
‘Like you?’
‘My fridge has three ingredients. What do you think?’
She laughed. ‘Let me guess. Mouldy cheese, long-life milk and a six-pack of boutique beer—the classic bachelor staples.’
‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’
He picked up the bottle and made quick work of the cork, surprisingly piqued by a twinge of loneliness. He rarely cooked, hence his barely stocked fridge. When he ate he had an ordered-in snatched sandwich at his desk or a business dinner where he didn’t taste the food while wrangling problems.
Being a bachelor suited him, but Gemma made it sound as appealing as soggy seaweed on toast.
‘I’ve tried it,’ she said, holding out the plastic flutes she’d dug up from the cooler. ‘I lead a busy life, rarely in one place for long, so I guess your fridge has three more items in it than mine usually does.’
He poured champagne into the flutes and stashed the bottle on ice when he was done, not wanting to get into the deep and meaningful with her but curious about her life.
‘Do you ever wish for stability and a picket fence and kids?’
She thrust a flute at him and retreated a step. He guessed he had his answer.
‘Why? Because I’m a woman?’
‘No, because you’ve got a lot to give. The way you throw yourself into work. The way you care about the environment and marine life. You’d bring that same passion to a family.’
He’d rendered her speechless.
He blundered on. ‘Don’t mind me. The stress of constructing that tent is making me ramble.’
She sank to the sand and patted a spot next to her—a spot he was all too willing to take. Better than having her kick sand in his face for raving like a lunatic about private matters no concern of his.
‘When things matter to me I give them my all.’ She twirled the flute, and tiny shards of flame reflected off the champagne. ‘Always thought I’d never have time for a family.’
She downed half her champagne, lowering the flute to pin him with a probing stare.
‘Why the questions? Bachelorhood not living up to expectations? Secretly pining for a family?’
‘Hell, no.’
‘Would you like some time to think about that?’
He managed a rueful chuckle, wondering why he felt so empty inside. Devlin Corp was his life. Anything else would be a complication he didn’t need.
He’d seen first-hand what having a distracted father meant to a family: a neglected wife who eventually left, and a kid who learned far too young to fend for himself.
He’d never make the same mistakes his dad had. So why did his instant vehement refusal leave him hollow?
‘I’m not a family man,’ he said, and the champagne left sourness in his mouth as he wondered what madness had possessed him to head down this track.
‘You’re nothing like your dad,’ she said softly, her touch on his hand scaring him as much as her insight.
‘I sometimes wonder.’
Her fingertips flittered across the back of his knuckles, and he shuddered with the effort not to ease her back onto the sand and cover her body with his.
‘Wonder what?’
Unaware where his urge to unburden his soul was coming from, he clamped his lips.
She didn’t pressure him for answers. Her fingertips continued their leisurely exploration, unhurried.
One of her many qualities he liked was the absence of the usual female necessity to badger, to know everything. She wouldn’t have asked unless she genuinely cared for his answer, and that more than anything loosened his lips.
‘I wonder if I’m like Bert after all.’
Her fingers stilled, rested over his, the warmth from her palm reassuring.
‘Not professionally, because I know we’re nothing alike there, but in our personal lives.’
‘You haven’t been married four times.’
‘No, but at least Bert connected with those women long enough to want to marry them.’
‘Couldn’t have been much of connection—’ She
stumbled and he raised an eyebrow. ‘Except with your mum, I mean. He must’ve loved her. They had you.’
He smiled at her blunder. ‘It’s okay. I’m just musing out loud. Forget it.’ He turned his hand over and threaded his fingers through hers. ‘Now, how about we dunk those strawberries?’
‘Later.’
She scooted closer until she pressed into his side and they sat in silence, staring into the fire.
Her closeness, both physically and emotionally, should have scared him, but he found himself relaxing, drunk on her warmth and openness rather than any alcohol buzz.
‘Guess we all have our self-doubts,’ she said, drawing spirals in the sand. ‘You don’t want to be like your dad, and I wish I was more like my mum—but that’s impossible.’
He laid his hand over hers. ‘You mentioned at the picnic you thought she rejected you because you weren’t worthy?’
Her lips thinned and a tiny crease appeared between her brows. ‘All in the past.’
He picked up her hand, turned it over and traced the lines in her palm, wanting to distract her, wanting to eradicate the sorrow in her voice.
‘You shouldn’t do that.’
‘What?’
‘Doubt yourself—ever. You’re amazing, Gemma. I admire everything about you, from your work ethic to your spontaneity—’ he gestured at the fire ‘—and everything in between. You’re more than worthy. You’re incredible. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise, okay?’
She mumbled an agreement, the quaver in her tone ensuring he gave her time to gather her emotions. When the silence stretched to uncomfortable, it was time for a topic change, and he squeezed her hand.
‘Thanks for taking me on that dolphin swim last week. I can’t stop thinking about it. It was a real eye-opener.’
She cleared her throat. ‘You’re welcome.’ She tilted her face up to him, her skin glowing in the firelight. ‘Your adaptability surprised me.’
‘You didn’t think I’d like it?’
‘Let’s just say I have a newfound respect for a guy who can swap a designer suit for a wetsuit and still manage to look exceptionally cool.’
‘You think I’m cool?’
‘Hot, more like it.’
She held his gaze, her eyes sparking with daring. Daring him to cross the line, daring him to kiss her, daring him to go for it.