by Fiona Lowe
He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I do.’ She spoke emphatically, the culmination of all her thoughts about him and the children unexpectedly forming into words. ‘You genuinely like kids.’
He gave a wry grin. ‘I guess I do.’
She smiled and hugged her secret daydream to her heart. ‘Yes, you really do. I’ve seen you in action and you’d make a wonderful father.’
He immediately stiffened against her, his arm taut with tension. ‘There’s more to being a father than being able to chat to kids.’
‘Obviously.’ She stopped walking and turned to face him because this time she wasn’t going to back away from the topic. ‘But the thing is, you seem to really love being with them.’
‘I love cats too but I don’t have one.’ His voice developed a chilly edge. ‘My parents never recovered from the blow parenthood dealt them—spending so much time caring for Sarah and then losing her so young—and my life isn’t suited to fatherhood. I don’t want to be a father and I don’t for one minute regret the choice I made.’
She stared into his eyes long and hard, looking for a sign that belied his words. ‘Really?’
A flinty hardness she hadn’t seen before glinted back at her. ‘Really.’
A chill spread through her at odds with the heat of the day, spiking her like jagged shards of ice. Her daydream imploded, the faces of imagined children instantly vanishing.
Nick’s hands suddenly cupped her face and he brought his mouth down onto hers in a kiss that rocked her all the way down to the soles of her feet.
He pulled back, his eyes loaded with the haze of desire. ‘Summer fun, remember? This isn’t for ever, it’s all about now.’
She dug deep, burying her pain that he had no vision of her in his future, and she unearthed her sixteen-year-old self. ‘In that case, you need to win me a doll on a stick.’ She ran her finger down his shirt. ‘And if you do, you might just get lucky.’
He gazed down at her, his voice huskily deep. ‘How lucky?’
‘Shelter-shed lucky.’
He grabbed her hand and marched her toward the shooting gallery.
CHAPTER TEN
KIRBY switched on the clinic’s security and slammed the door behind her, pleased the long day had finally come to a close. The heat wave meant too many sunburned tourists suffering from heatstroke and dehydration, and the evening clinic had been full. She dumped her laptop and green enviro-friendly shopping bag that held her dinner—a can of chicken korma—onto the front seat of the four-wheel drive and then slid her key into the ignition.
The engine roared into life and she pushed the gear stick into first, preparing to turn right. Home time. But every part of her wanted to turn left and head out to Riversleigh, head out to see Nick and spend some time lying on the cool, mossy grass surrounded by ferns. Spend time making love with him.
She gripped the wheel harder and tugged right. She would not be needy. It was possible to go eighteen hours without seeing him, without inhaling that complex scent of soap, fresh pine and masculinity, and without feeling his strong arms around her, cradling her close.
Possible, yes. Enjoyable, no. Her mouth curved up into a private smile as she recalled his earlier goodbye kiss when he’d left the clinic at two p.m. He’d found her in the supply room, kicked the door closed and pinned her to the wall with the gentle caress of his entire body. His heat-filled gaze, filled with raw hunger, had shot through her so hard and fast that she’d almost orgasmed on the spot. She’d never experienced such powerful emotions from a man or for a man. It was wondrous, incredible and terrifying.
But it was also make-believe and she must remember that. This was summer frivolity, a summer fling. Nothing else, and she needed to focus on that. The summer would end, Nick would return to Melbourne City to his life in A and E and the lecture circuit, and she would finish her rotation in Port and get on with her single life that involved kids in some way.
But that was the future. For now, nothing serious was allowed to dent this time with Nick and she’d learned that at the fete. She’d pushed him to acknowledge how good he was with kids and he’d frozen on her. Knowing that, she now avoided all talk of children and as a result the last three weeks had been wonderful. Who would have guessed there were so many clandestine places for a couple to make love?
That would be sex. The realistic and grounding voice instantly reminded her that love was not part of this summer pact and it never could be. This time with Nick couldn’t be anything but fun because ultimately, somehow and some way, she wanted children in her life and Nick didn’t. That one thing was a huge gulf between them, impossible to bridge.
She bit her lip against the tug of concern and rounded the final corner, catching sight of her tiny fisherman’s cottage with its bright display of petunias, their purple and white heads waving welcomingly in the salt-laden evening sea breeze. Her stomach rolled over in pleasure. Nick’s muddy truck stood parked out front.
She jumped out of the truck, grabbed her bags and opened the gate. Turbo’s stocky form charged around from the side of the house, a stick in his mouth, a hopeful look in his brown eyes.
‘Hey, mate, great to see you.’ Because if you’re here, so is your master. Kirby scratched the dog hard behind the ears. ‘Sorry, there’s not much room in my tiny garden for sticks.’ She left the doleful dog and opened the front door, stepping into the blissful coolness that only a solid stone house could offer in midsummer. The pungent aroma of fresh basil immediately permeated her nostrils and her stomach growled hungrily. ‘Nick?’
‘I’m in the laundry.’ His deep voice sounded muffled and far away.
‘I don’t have a laundry.’ Confused and intrigued, she walked along the long central hall to the very back of the house where a lean-to had been added, probably over seventy years ago. She used it to hold her body board, bike and as a place to dry her wetsuit. Other than that it contained an old copper and a hand-turned mangle, and going by the cobwebs neither had been used to wash clothes in a very long time. Kirby, like previous tenants, spent Sundays at the laundrette.
She walked through the kitchen, passing her island bench, which groaned with fresh produce from Nick’s garden. Pausing only to pop one of his plump and luscious strawberries into her mouth, she stepped down into the lean-to. ‘What are you do—?’ Heat roared through her.
A shirtless Nick, all golden skin and rippling muscles, with a tool belt strapped low on his hips, leaned over a shiny metal laundry trough, tightening a set of taps. Her heart hammered erratically as her breath came hard and fast. This was her fantasy, except he was real flesh and blood.
‘Hey, Sherlock.’ He put down his wrench and pulled her into his arms. ‘You’re later than I thought. Busy evening clinic?’ His lips caressed her forehead as his tool belt pressed into her.
‘Huge evening clinic.’ She didn’t care that a hammer pressed into her hip and a spanner imprinted itself on her belly. She leaned in, looping her arms around his neck, and breathed deeply. Kissing him long and lingeringly, she absorbed his taste, his touch and his boundless energy. A flash of white caught her eye and she reluctantly drew back, curiosity pushing her as she peered over his shoulder.
The old mangle and copper had vanished. Instead, a small white washing machine nestled snugly between the trough and a laminate bench, which had a power point fixed to its back board and two cupboards fitted underneath. High above the bench was an old-fashioned but very functional clothes airer suspended from the ceiling with a rope and pulley system so clothes could be aired and retrieved. Total surprise swirled through her, absorbing most coherent thought. ‘What’s all this?’
He turned, keeping one arm slung around her waist, his face creasing in a wide grin. ‘You needed a laundry so I traded vegetables for the reconditioned machine and bartered time in Jason’s joinery to make the bench against keeping Jase supplied with tomatoes so he can make his famous Port chutney.’
He stepped forward and s
lipped open the top drawer under the bench and a small ironing board appeared. ‘What do you think?’
‘…I’m speechless. I didn’t expect…I…’ Words failed her as her throat tightened. No man had ever done anything so thoughtful for her in her life.
A hint of a worried frown hovered on his brow. ‘You do like it?’
Words couldn’t come close to describing how she really felt so she kissed him hard and fast, hoping she wouldn’t cry on the spot. She pulled back, breathless. ‘I love it. Thank you. I can’t believe you did this.’
He undid the tool belt, laying it on the bench, and then pulled on his shirt, which had been hanging behind the door. ‘It’s crazy for you to not have a laundry. I had a chat to the hospital board and they said if I wanted to do the work they had no objections, and you know how I enjoy working with my hands.’
She stepped in close, remembering exactly what his hands could do when they touched her body. She trailed her finger down the front of his shirt. ‘I do know that and you’re extremely good at it.’ She couldn’t keep the husky tone of desire out of her voice.
A flare of heat surged in his eyes but instead of pulling her hard against him, as she expected, he kissed her quickly on the cheek and grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, that can wait. It’s eight o’clock and I know you won’t have eaten. I’ve got organic chicken with pesto and a home-grown salad all ready and waiting.’
She pulled against his hand, glancing over at the bench. ‘What happened to being carefree, irresponsible and sixteen?’
His lips curved into a crooked smile. ‘We’ve been sixteen a lot lately and right now I’m hankering for some long, lazy loving in a bed after a healthy meal.’
She stepped up against him. ‘A bed? You’re sounding like an old fuddy-duddy.’
His brown brows rose as his hands gently gripped her shoulders to keep a slight distance between them. ‘No dessert for you until you’ve eaten all your veggies.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Absolutely.’ The word sounded strangled as he moved toward the door, tugging her behind him in the direction of the kitchen.
She followed, surprised he hadn’t wanted to christen the laundry but happy in the knowledge he wanted to have long, leisurely sex. She was totally up for a new experience.
Nick pulled the can of chicken korma out of the shopping bag and held it by the tips of his fingers as if it were poison. ‘Seriously, though, you really don’t take very good care of yourself, Kirby. When did you actually cook something decent to eat?’
‘Hey, that has vegetables. Besides, I’ve been busy.’ His words rankled but she appreciated where he was coming from. He’d faced a life-threatening illness and as a result treated his body with more respect than she treated hers. The horrible hot flushes that scorched her body twice a day might improve if she made sure she ate more soy and ate less processed food. ‘I promise to try harder.’
‘Good.’ But his expression clearly showed he didn’t believe her.
She poured their drinks and set the table while Nick plated up the chicken salad, enjoying the camaraderie of being in the kitchen with another person. The truth was she hated cooking for one. Hated that no matter how hard she tried she always ended up with enough food for two, hated that she had to cook and clean up, but most of all she hated the silence that came with the meal for one. So she ate on the hop, standing up, or with a plate balanced on her knee, watching a movie, any way that didn’t scream, You’re all alone.
But she couldn’t tell Nick any of that. She refused to admit her loneliness to him—after all, he hadn’t signed up for anything more than sex and fun.
He’s feeding you. He built you a laundry.
Don’t go there, don’t read more into this than there is.
But she disregarded the warning and let the words circle her heart, sending out fine connecting threads as she sat down opposite him. ‘This looks sensational, thank you.’
His eyes sparkled with warmth as he raised his freshly squeezed glass of orange juice toward her and clinked it against hers. ‘It’s my absolute pleasure.’
She lost herself in his gaze as she forked some of the moist chicken into her mouth, letting the flavours of garlic and basil explode against her tongue. ‘This is divine. I’ve never tasted chicken like this before.’
He nodded slowly. ‘This is one reason why I grow my own food but I won’t get back on my soapbox about it again tonight.’ He drizzled virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar over his endive and smiled at her as he ate his meal.
She basked in his gaze and asked him about his plans for the farm. With his fork waving, he enthusiastically outlined his success with some of the home-made anti-insect remedies given to him by the old Italian gardeners in the nursing home.
He asked about her day, laughed with her over her story about Meryl reducing the antagonistic, skull-and-crossbones-wearing, tough motorcycle rider into a compliant, polite and slightly scared patient with the flourish of a large glass syringe. From that point their conversation roamed wide and free, taking in the politics of health, the value of popular fiction and why it generated such rancour amongst the literati, and finishing with the importance of quality coffee on a Sunday morning. Kirby adored and savoured every single moment.
Nick drained his glass, scrunched his napkin into a ball and tossed it onto his now empty plate. ‘Seeing as I’ve taken over your kitchen tonight, how about you take over mine on Friday? I’ll have been harvesting all afternoon, ready for Saturday’s market, so I won’t be in the mood to cook.’
Something akin to pure happiness streaked through her as she pictured herself in his warm cosy home, sitting down with him at his huge farmhouse table and sharing eclectic conversation.
Be very careful—you’re not playing for keeps. ‘You’d let me loose in your kitchen to play with the Aga?’
He grinned. ‘I think you’d be a perfect match for my kitchen.’
Perfect match. Recipes spun through her head as miniature castles rose slowly in the background of her mind. ‘I’ll ask Gaz to get me some prawns, mussels and calamari so I can make us paella. How does that sound?’
He stood up, walked around the table and pulled her to her feet. Gazing straight at her, a smouldering look in his eye, he spoke softly, his breath stroking her cheek. ‘It sounds fine but I’m really more interested in what you have planned for tonight’s dessert.’
‘Let me think.’ She leaned forward, nonchalantly trailing her forefinger along her bottom lip in a provocative gesture. ‘Strawberries, cream and me.’
He shuddered against her and cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take it now but in reverse order.’
‘Come with me.’ Smiling, she took his hand and led him down the hall to her bedroom, glorying in the fact he wanted her so badly. She walked through the doorway, dropped his hand and slipped her dress from her shoulders. It cascaded down across her belly and pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it and turned to find him standing with his back against the closed door, his simmering gaze fixed on her.
A flush of need raced through her and instantly her breasts tightened as her body readied itself for him. She held out her arms. ‘What are you doing over there?’
‘Watching you. You’re totally gorgeous, do you know that?’ He walked toward her and pulled the clip from her hair, sending it tumbling down around her face. ‘I’ve wanted to do that all day.’
She tilted her head back looking up at him. ‘I’ve dreamed of this all day.’
He buried his face in her hair and she closed her eyes, wanting to block out everything except his wondrous touch.
The next moment her feet left the floor. He lifted her into his arms and swung her around before lowering her onto the bed as if she weighed nothing more than a child. The mattress moved as he lay down next to her and she opened her eyes to find him straddling her.
He gazed down at her, his expression a mixture of desire and decisions. ‘Being sixteen has been fun but I want to show you what
an experienced lover with all the time in the world can do.’
She grinned up at him. ‘That sounds very smug.’
A dangerous glint shimmered in his eyes. ‘I doubt you’ll be disappointed.’
He lowered his mouth to hers as his hands travelled to places he knew made her heart race and her body lush with wanton hunger. She lost herself in his touch, craving it like a drowning man craved air and giving in to the most exquisite sensations she’d ever experienced in her life. Opening her body and her heart, she gave herself up to him completely and utterly, letting herself freefall into the glorious abyss of wonder in a way she’d never allowed herself to do before.
Much later Kirby lay in Nick’s arms, the moonlight streaming in through the uncovered window, illuminating the white sheet that covered their naked bodies. His soft breathing sounded reassuringly behind her, and his exhaled breath tickled her neck. His promise of expert loving had hit every target. Her limbs now felt like hot treacle—thick and runny and deliciously unable to support her. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face.
Before tonight their coupling had been hot, frantic and edgy as if they’d both feared they might never have another chance of being in each other’s arms. And the moment the sex had been over they’d gone back to their respective homes or jobs, depending on the time of day. But tonight had been totally different.
What had Nick promised? Long, lazy loving, and he’d more than delivered. Her body, so overloaded with pleasure, now relaxed into his embrace, feeling like it had come home.
It’s just sex.
It’s way past sex. It’s a new sparkly laundry, it’s delicious food and conversation, it’s companionship, it’s having things in common, it’s…Clarity sucked the breath from her lungs as she came face to face with reality. It’s love.
Oh, God, she loved him.
Her hands gripped her temples, as if squeezing hard would change things. Loving Nick was dumb, stupid, senseless and a one-way ticket to heartache. They wanted totally different things from their lives so how had she let this happen? How had the protective barricades around her heart melted away, leaving her vulnerable?