This respite she’d allowed herself felt a lot like that hand on her back. Reassuring and right and—perhaps most importantly—kind. She was suddenly filled with an overwhelming surge of gratitude toward her neighbor for his calm good sense and patience.
The jury was still out, but it was possible that last night hadn’t been a disaster of epic proportions, as she’d first imagined. Maybe it had, in fact, been exactly what she needed.
* * *
OLIVER WAS BUTTONING his coat when a knock sounded at the door. Strudel raced down the hall, feet skidding on the polished floor, determined to be the first to greet their visitor.
“And yet I’m the one with the opposable thumbs and the ability to actually open the door,” Oliver told her as he joined her in the foyer.
Strudel gave him an impatient look and pawed at the wood. He opened it to find Mackenzie on his doorstep, covered plate in hand. As usual, she was dressed in monochrome from head to toe, the only color the neon flashes on her running shoes.
“Long time no see.” She gave an awkward, self-conscious wave with her free hand.
“Mackenzie. How are you?”
She looked surprisingly good for someone who had lost it in a big way not so long ago. Her eyes were bright, her shoulders square. Not a whiff of despair anywhere.
“I’m good, thanks. Which is mostly because of you. I wanted to thank you again for talking me down last night. And to offer you this to make up for the world’s most depressing dinner party.” She thrust the plate toward him.
“Is that the rest of the lemon tart?”
“It is.”
“In that case...” He took the plate. “I’d like it noted for the record that normally I’d refuse to take anything for simply being a reasonably decent human being, but this tart is too good to say no to.”
Her smile was more genuine the second time around. “I was kind of banking on that. And you were far more than reasonably decent last night.”
Strudel surged forward to sniff her shoes, quickly rising up to put her paws on Mackenzie’s thighs.
“Down, Strudel. Four paws on the floor, please,” he said.
“It’s okay. She can probably smell Mr. Smith.” She scratched Strudel’s chest and beneath her chin. When the dog dropped down again, Mackenzie took a step backward. “Anyway. I wanted to say thanks. You said all the right things last night and I really appreciate that you didn’t start looking for the exit the moment I started crying.”
She shrugged, so self-conscious it was difficult to watch. He understood why—she’d been intensely vulnerable last night, stripped bare—but he hated the idea that she thought he was judging her for having such a human, understandable reaction to disappointing news.
“Four months ago I discovered my wife was having an affair with her former boyfriend.” The words were out before he could think about it. “In fact, it turned out she’d never stopped seeing him for the six years of our marriage.”
Mackenzie’s eyebrows rose toward her hairline. Even though he could feel his face heating, he held her eye and kept talking.
“Like I said last night, everyone’s got their own shit to deal with.”
“God. I’m really sorry, Oliver.”
He shook his head. He hadn’t told her because he wanted her pity. “It is what it is. I’m dealing with it. Just like you’re dealing with your stuff. And some days are good, and some days suck the big one.”
“Yeah, they do.”
“I figure there isn’t a rule book for getting through crap. You get through it however you can.”
She cocked her head. “Including driving a thousand miles south to clear out a dead woman’s house?”
“Yeah. Including that, along with some inappropriate use of alcohol, punching of inanimate objects, self-pitying moping and late-night jam sessions on the guitar.”
Truth be told, a part of him had envied her the crying jag last night. At least she’d found an outlet for her pain and frustration. And she hadn’t had to do it alone the way he’d done those times he’d broken down.
“Hang on a minute—was that you playing the guitar the other night? The acoustic stuff?”
He winced. “You could hear that? My apologies.”
“Are you kidding? It was great.”
There was no doubting her sincerity. He shrugged. Apparently it was his turn to be self-conscious.
“I was messing around. Self-indulgent doodling.”
“I meant to ask you who it was so I could buy the album.”
He barked out a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on the other side of the mixing desk.”
“Maybe you should reconsider that.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” His days of being a professional musician were long gone.
She studied his face for a moment, her eyes warm and searching. Finally she smiled. “Thanks, Oliver.” There was a world of meaning and nuance in her voice.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and he found himself fighting the very inappropriate urge to lean forward and kiss her. She was complicated and a bit messed up, but so was he and he’d dreamed about her last night. About how she’d feel in his arms, and that kiss she’d pressed to his cheek and the round curves of her ass and breasts.
He really wanted to know what she tasted like. What that full bottom lip of hers would feel like pressed against his, and if the connection he’d felt when she’d touched him last night had been a fluke or something more important.
As though she sensed his intent, Mackenzie took another step backward. “Give me a yell over the fence when you’ve finished with the plate, okay?” She turned to go.
For the second time that morning Oliver found himself opening his mouth without first weighing his words. “Strudel and I were about to go for a walk along the beach. Would you and Mr. Smith want to come?”
She paused, and he couldn’t read the expression in her eyes.
“Actually, that sounds good. Can you give me a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
“Then I’ll be back in five.”
He stared after her as she walked along the driveway, wondering at himself.
What was he doing, exactly? Making a play for the neighbor? Exercising his rusty charm?
It was one thing to acknowledge he was a single man and another thing entirely to act on it. If that was what he was doing.
He thought about it for a minute, then went inside to find Strudel’s lead.
The truth was he had no idea what was going on in his own mind at the best of times. And this was definitely not the best of times.
CHAPTER SIX
MACKENZIE SHED HER VEST and shoved her arms into her warmest wool coat, then reached for the fluffy scarf her niece had knitted her for Christmas. Made from multicolored wool, it was lumpy and misshapen and far too long, but it was also incredibly warm and it never failed to touch her that the niece she almost never saw had labored for hours to produce it. Wrapping it around her neck several times, Mackenzie headed for the door.
Her faithful hound did the happy dance when he saw her collect his lead and harness from the hook in the kitchen. She waited until his excitement had subsided before securing him. Then they went to join Oliver and Strudel.
As she’d half expected, he was waiting for her in the street, Strudel sitting patiently with a long-suffering expression on her face. The schnauzer perked up the moment she saw Mr. Smith, however, and Mackenzie and Oliver waited patiently while they fawned over each other before turning in the direction of the beach.
“Just as well you’re with me. I wasn’t really sure how to find the beach,” Oliver said.
“Somehow I feel pretty confident you would have worked it out,” Mackenzie said as they left the road and started down the path that led through a narrow band of bush to the sand. The sound of the surf was clearly audible, readily indicating which way the beach lay.
“You�
��d be surprised. I have a gift for getting lost. No sense of direction whatsoever.”
“He said proudly.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t say I’m proud. More resigned.”
“Have you considered GPS?”
“That would be cheating.”
They reached the part of the path where it narrowed to single file and Mackenzie fell back, an action that afforded her a perfect view of Oliver’s backside as he strode ahead. He was wearing faded jeans today, the worn denim hugging his firm, round butt.
It occurred to her that it would have been far better for her peace of mind if he’d been one of those men with a tiny, disappearing backside or womanly hips.
No such luck, however.
“Does that mean you never stop to ask for directions, either?” she asked, forcing her gaze away from temptation.
“Correct. Directions are also cheating.”
She could hear the laughter in his voice.
“Remind me not to take a road trip with you.”
They emerged from the protection of the bush onto a windswept expanse of sand. The water was a dull pewter color, the waves white tipped as they hammered against the shore. An icy wind found its way beneath Mackenzie’s coat and she immediately buttoned it all the way to the neck and thrust her hands deep into her pockets.
“Dear God, it’s like Antarctica down here,” Oliver said, copying her actions.
She watched as he flipped up the collar on his coat, feeling guilty for not having warned him that the beach could be harsh in winter.
“That’s probably because the wind comes straight from Antarctica.”
“No kidding.”
They let the dogs loose and watched as they bolted along the sand, taking turns chasing one another.
“Kids, eh?” Oliver said, tucking Strudel’s lead into his jacket pocket.
They started walking, following the trail the dogs had left in the wet sand.
“So, you ever been married?” Oliver asked.
The subject was such a non sequitur it threw her for a moment. Although, perhaps his curiosity made sense in light of their recent mutual confessions. “Yep. Three years.” She pulled a face. “Not exactly a stellar achievement, but we both realized early on that we’d made a mistake.”
“How long ago?”
“Nearly four years.” It seemed hard to believe that much time had passed. Of course, part of her disbelief could be because she’d been silly enough to fall into an affair with Patrick more recently—but Oliver didn’t need to know that.
“Edie and I should never have gotten married. I have no idea why she said yes when I asked her, since she pretty much picked up with Nick the moment we got back from the honeymoon.”
Mackenzie winced mentally. He hadn’t referred to his wife by name before, but she understood now that he’d married the lead singer of the band, Edie Somers. It was too unusual a name for him to be referring to some other Edie. And last night Mackenzie had blathered on about how special and talented the other woman was.
Open mouth, insert foot.
“Are they still together?” she asked.
“I have no idea and I don’t want to know. If I could walk away from it all and never hear about them again, I would.” There was a world of anger beneath his words.
She opened her mouth to apologize for prying but he stopped in his tracks and blew his breath out in a rush.
The look he gave her was rueful. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant for you.”
“I’d be pissed, too, if I were you. Six years is a long time to lie to someone you share a bed with.”
“Yeah.” He dug his hands deeper in his pockets, hunching his shoulders around his ears.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to.”
“There’s not much to say. I got married thinking I would stay that way until one of us was carted off in a wooden box. Instead, I get to make lists of my assets for the lawyers.” He shrugged. “It sucks.”
She studied him out of the corner of her eye. The wind was playing havoc with his hair, ruffling it and pushing it this way and that. He stared out at the ocean, his expression distant and stony—and yet he was still the most vivid, alive thing on the beach, with his rich chestnut hair and long stride. For reasons she didn’t care to examine, she wanted to erase that air of disappointment.
“Tell me about your music. When did you start playing?” she asked.
The glance he shot her told her he was fully aware that she was steering the conversation to more neutral ground, but he followed her lead. They walked and he told her how he’d learned the guitar in primary school to impress a girl and discovered that not only was it an awesome pickup tool, it was also something that came easily to him.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those revolting people who can hear any song and then play it a few seconds later?” she asked.
“I’m afraid to answer that question honestly for fear of not making it back from this walk alive.”
“I took violin lessons for five years with a girl like you. She made me feel as though I had ten thumbs and a lobotomy.”
“I’d like to point out—again—that I am utterly inept when it comes to map reading and general direction finding. If that makes you feel any better.”
“It does, marginally. Thank you for reminding me.”
“Can I ask why you persevered for five years if you hated it so much?”
“Overachieving child of overachieving parents. None of us knew when to quit.”
“Funny. I would never have pegged you as an overachiever.” His expression was so deadpan, his tone so dry she might almost have believed he was serious—except for the teasing light in his eyes.
“You should know that overachievers are known for not having a great sense of humor about their overachieving,” she said, matching his expression and tone.
“Noted. Next time I will make sure to bring along a laugh track so you know when I’ve been funny.”
She couldn’t stop herself from smiling then. Her instincts had been right about this man—he was nice. A real, decent, sincere man.
He was also rather disturbingly sexy in a rugged, down-to-earth way that she didn’t run into a lot in the highly groomed, fake-tanned world of television.
Edie Somers must have had rocks in her head to have had this man in her life and her bed and thrown it all away.
They’d reached the halfway mark and she checked to make sure the dogs were still in sight. They were, running in and out of the surf, chasing waves and each other.
“I know it’s almost un-Australian to say this, but I prefer the beach in winter,” she said. “No crowds, no screaming kids, no rubbish in the sand.”
“You’re right. This arctic wonderland is infinitely better.”
More dryness. She was beginning to recognize it as his stock in trade.
His collar had flopped down and he stood it up again, a meager defense against the wind.
“If you’re cold, we can turn back,” she suggested.
“I’m fine. Besides, I want to see what’s on the other side of those rocks.”
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
“More rocks?”
“Bingo.”
“Still. I think I need to see that for myself.”
He glanced at her and she saw he was enjoying himself. Which was nice, because she was enjoying herself, too.
They talked some more about his music, then about her work. He peppered her with questions about the game show she’d worked on before Time and Again, feigning outrage when he learned that some of the segments were recorded several times for technical reasons. It wasn’t until they’d reached the rocks at the end of the beach and he offered her a hand to clamber to the top of them that she realized how cold he was, his fingers icy against hers.
“This is ridiculous. I should have warned you it’s brutal out here. You need to go home and warm up,” she said, digging her heels in.
“I w
ant to see the other rocks.”
She assessed him. “Is this one of those man things, refusing to let the elements get the better of you, yada yada?”
“Maybe.”
“Pathetic. Come on, we’re going back.”
She whistled to get Mr. Smith’s attention, letting him know with a gesture that she was heading home. He loped to her side, Strudel hard on his heels, both of them wet and speckled with sand, tongues lolling happily.
“I’m really fine,” Oliver said.
His shoulders were hunched even higher, his arms rigid against his body as he buried his hands deep in his coat pockets.
“I feel cold just looking at you. Here, have this.” She started to unwind her scarf.
“Get out of here. I’m not taking your scarf.” Oliver waved her away.
“It’s ugly but warm. And you need it more than I do,” she said.
“I’m not taking your scarf, Mackenzie. End of discussion.”
She frowned at him, the scarf hanging from her hands in big loops. “Is this another man thing?”
“This is most definitely a man thing.”
“Okay, fine. If your pride won’t let you accept the whole thing, take half.”
Before he could respond, she looped the end of the scarf around his neck a couple times. There was still plenty left dangling so she looped the other end around her own neck. Oliver looked at her, then at the lumpy, multicolored band joining them.
“My God, it is ugly, isn’t it?”
“My niece made it.”
“Hence the fact you’re actually wearing this in public.”
They fell into step as they retraced their steps.
“This niece...she’s, what, six?” He examined the scarf critically.
“Nearly twenty.”
He looked startled. “Really?”
She laughed. “She’s eight. And she tells me she’s taken up beading now. Something to look forward to this Christmas.”
“So I take it you have a brother or sister?” he asked.
“A brother. Older. They live in Perth. He’s involved in mining.”
They talked about their respective families as they walked. She heard about his brother, Brent, and Brent’s two children, while she told him about Gareth and her niece and nephew. The shared scarf meant they were close to each other, and every now and then her shoulder or hip bumped his. It was strange and nice in equal measures. Strange because it had been a long time since she’d enjoyed this kind of casual intimacy with a man—or, in fact, with anyone. And nice for the same reasons.
The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) Page 9