Oh, well.
“Hey,” Oliver said when she swung the door open.
He was standing with one hand thrust deep into his jeans pocket, his posture stiff and uncomfortable. As though he was about to deliver bad news.
“Hi,” she said, frowning.
Was he here to cancel dinner? She was surprised by the thud of disappointment she felt. She’d really been looking forward to spending time with him again.
“I have a confession to make.” He sounded very serious.
“Okay. Should I brace myself? Will I need smelling salts?”
“I’m hoping it won’t be that dire.” He shuffled his feet, then cleared his throat. “When Brent and I went fishing as kids, he was the only one who was allowed to use the knife to clean and gut the fish.”
He smiled sheepishly. She stared at him, momentarily bemused. This was his big confession? Then she got it.
“You want to know if I know how to gut a fish?”
“Yeah. I was going to wing it, but there’s not a lot of fish there and if I stuff up it’ll be pizza for dinner.”
She smiled, inordinately charmed by his honesty. Most men she knew would have faked their way through the process rather than admit they needed assistance.
“I wish I could help, but I have never been fishing in my life,” she said.
“Ah.”
“But I have the next best thing to real-life experience. Hold on a second.”
She spun on her heel and strode to the living room. Thirty seconds later she was back, iPad in hand. She displayed it triumphantly.
“It’s called the internet. All the kids are using it. You ask it a question and someone, somewhere, knows the answer.”
“You think someone’s got a blog about gutting fish?” he asked, clearly skeptical.
“I bet there’s a blog about carving toenail clippings if you looked hard enough.”
She hit the button to bring the screen to life and called up a search engine. Within seconds she was trawling through the many results it produced. She clicked on a link, read a few lines, then handed him the iPad.
“There you go. Step-by-step instructions.”
He scanned the page briefly. “You’re a genius.”
She bowed her head in mock humility. “Thank you.”
He read a few more lines, then glanced at her. “This is actually pretty gruesome. I’m thinking it might be a two-person job. Someone to eviscerate and whatnot, someone else to pass the wine and provide moral support.”
She smiled. Couldn’t help herself. Not for a second did she believe he needed her help, but she was flattered that he was keen to start their evening together sooner rather than later.
“Going a little stir-crazy over at Tupperware Manor, are we?”
“Let’s just say it would be good to talk to someone bipedal with an actual voice box, as opposed to someone with four paws and a tail.”
“The tail is limited as a form of communication, I agree.”
“You have no idea.”
Her smile widened into a grin. “I’ll be over in five.”
“I’ll prepare the sacrificial altar.”
Mackenzie watched him take the stairs two at a time, allowing herself a few indulgent seconds of butt-staring—it really was a very, very nice ass—before shutting the door and heading for the kitchen.
She gathered the salad ingredients she’d bought, shoving them all into a salad bowl, then grabbed a bottle of wine and clipped Mr. Smith’s lead on. It wasn’t until she was standing on Oliver’s porch that she realized she still hadn’t applied mascara to her other eye or put on perfume or fixed her hair.
It was too late, however—Oliver was already opening the door and waving her inside, Strudel doing her best to slip past his legs and get to Mr. Smith.
“I hope you have a strong stomach,” he said.
She let Smitty off the leash and followed Oliver to the kitchen. She poured them both a glass of wine while he did a very competent job of cleaning and gutting the fish. He kept up a running commentary throughout, making her laugh until her sides ached.
“You have a great laugh,” he said as he dusted the fillets in seasoned flour.
“Do I?”
“Yeah.”
She could feel heat climbing into her cheeks and she buried her face in her wineglass. Honestly, she so needed to get out more. It wasn’t as though he’d told her she was beautiful or fascinating or something else blushworthy, after all. He’d commented on her laugh. Big deal.
He transferred the fish to a hot pan on the stove and she took the chopping board to the sink to clean it so she could prepare the salad. They talked easily as they worked, covering everything from the weather to Strudel’s habit of sleep-barking to the state of the pothole-ridden Main Street in the township.
The more they talked and laughed, the more Mackenzie relaxed and let go of all the small and large concerns and anxieties that filled her days. Her recovery, her future job prospects, her life in general...she let it all fall by the wayside and simply enjoyed the fact that it was cold outside and warm inside, that she was with a witty, funny, handsome man and that right now, right this second, life was good.
They took the finished meal through to the living room where Oliver had built a roaring fire and sat on the couch, plates balanced on their laps. The dogs did their usual I’ve-never-been-fed-in-my-lifetime begging routine, complete with fixed, pleading stares and the occasional pitiful whine. After a few minutes Oliver caved and tossed them each a piece of fish.
“Softy,” Mackenzie said.
He grinned unabashedly. “Strudel knows how to work me. She’s a pro.”
Once they realized they weren’t getting anything more out of Oliver, the dogs switched their attention to Mackenzie.
“Not going to work, my furry friends,” she said. “This fish is too delicious to share.”
It was, too—fresh and flaky with just the right amount of salt and pepper. Simple but perfect.
Like this evening, really.
Mr. Smith stepped things up a notch then, dropping onto his belly and crawling forward in the most tragic way possible.
Oliver laughed, raising his glass in a toast. “Excellent work. If there was an Academy Award for dogs, you’d have my vote, Mr. Smith.”
“Smitty, come on. Have a little bit of dignity,” Mackenzie admonished him.
Her dog continued to watch her with desperate, pleading eyes. Finally she sighed, cut the remaining portion of her fish into two and gave one half to each of the dogs.
“How the mighty have fallen,” Oliver said.
She threw her scrunched-up serviette at him, which only made him laugh more loudly.
He left her with the bottle of wine and the fire while he sorted out dessert. She shifted to the rug before the hearth and sat staring into the flames, feeling warm and well fed and content as she listened to him rattle around in the kitchen. After a few seconds she closed her eyes and let her head drop against the couch behind her.
Funny how comfortable she felt around him so quickly. As a general rule, she took a while to warm to people, her innate caution leading her to keep her distance until she had a sense of who the other person was. She and Oliver might have gotten off on the wrong foot initially, but once she’d seen him clearly, he’d catapulted over her usual defenses with his openness and sincerity.
It probably didn’t hurt that he was a very sexy, attractive man, or that there was something about him that drew her like iron filings to a magnet or ants to honey. Charm? Charisma? Presence? However you defined it, he had it. A certain light in his eyes, a quickness to his wit, an innate confidence in himself that was evident in every move he made. All of which meant he could admit to being useless with directions or ask for help gutting a fish and not lose one iota of his masculine appeal.
“Hey.”
She opened her eyes to find Oliver standing over her, plate in hand. For a moment they simply stared at each other in the flickering fir
elight. There was something in his face—an intensity—that made her wonder how long he’d been watching her drowse. An odd little prickle of awareness tugged at her.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done this. Tell me, is it considered a compliment when the guest falls asleep between courses?” he asked.
“If not, it should be.” She sat up a little straighter and sniffed appreciatively. “I smell chocolate.”
His mouth kicked up at the corner as he handed her the plate. “Brilliant detective work, Dr. Watson.”
He left the room briefly before returning with his own plate and they were both silent as they ate their dessert.
“This mousse is really good,” Mackenzie said.
“Thanks. I opened the package myself.”
She smiled at his small joke, but for some reason she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Suddenly she was acutely aware of the fact that they were alone, surrounded by all the accoutrements of a clichéd romantic evening—the wine, the fire, the dim lighting. She was sure it was unintentional—not for a second did she think that Oliver had hatched a plot to seduce her—but now the thought had popped into her head she couldn’t seem to get it out.
He sat on the rug opposite her, his back against a wing-back armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him. His legs looked so long and strong, the muscles of his thighs discernible beneath the soft denim of his jeans. At some point he’d taken his shoes off and his socked feet were crossed at the ankles. Like the rest of him, they were big but surprisingly elegant looking.
Stop staring at his feet, for Pete’s sake, and say something.
She cleared her throat, even though she had no idea what she was about to say. Before she could speak up, his phone rang.
“Sorry. It’s probably Brent, my brother.” He reached out to grab the handset from the coffee table.
He glanced at the caller ID and frowned before taking the call.
“Hello? Oliver speaking.”
She heard someone speak, a woman’s voice. Oliver’s expression turned stony.
“I thought we agreed to do everything through the lawyers.”
The coldness in his voice, the abrupt change in his demeanor—Mackenzie had no doubt whatsoever who was on the other end of the line. Her stomach dipped.
The woman spoke again. Something flickered across Oliver’s face.
“Are you all right?” The words seemed dragged from him.
Mackenzie realized she was eavesdropping as avidly as a voyeur so she rose and collected first her plate then his. Without looking at him, she slipped into the kitchen. She could still hear his voice, but not every word. She busied herself at the sink, running water and washing first the dishes then the frying pan and the salad bowl. All the while, she wondered why Oliver’s ex was calling, trying to work out what she’d seen in his face when he’d asked if Edie was all right. Concern? Lingering affection?
None of your business.
True, but it didn’t stop her brain from churning away. Oliver was a nice guy, a lovely man—and his ex had betrayed him horribly. It seemed to Mackenzie that the very least the other woman could do was leave him to lick his wounds in peace.
She banged the salad bowl onto the draining board, only registering how worked up she’d become as the sound echoed around the kitchen. There was no reason for her to get so riled over Oliver’s private life. Yet here she was, feeling oddly protective of him. And maybe a little...jealous?
“Sorry about that.”
She spun on her heel to find Oliver in the doorway, his mouth a hard, unforgiving line, his body taut as a bowstring.
“It’s all right. Gave me a chance to tidy up a bit.”
He glanced around, absorbing the fact that she’d cleaned. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He was so unhappy. So angry. She made a quick decision.
“Listen, you look as though you might need some time alone. Smitty and I should probably be heading home anyway.”
She collected her salad bowl.
“I was going to offer you coffee.”
“I can’t drink it anymore, sadly. Which means you’re officially off the hook. Thanks for dinner. I had a nice night.”
He eyed her intently. “I don’t want you to go.”
She blinked, more than a little thrown by his simple honesty.
“I mean, I don’t want her call to ruin a good evening. Or, more accurately, for me to let her call ruin it.”
She understood what he was saying, could hear the frustration in his voice. She could remember the early days of her own divorce only too well. The struggle to redefine herself. The need to move on.
“Okay.” She set the bowl on the drain board.
His expression softened marginally. “Are you allowed tea?”
“Tea’s great, thanks.”
“Go relax and I’ll bring it in.”
She returned to the living room and resumed her previous position. Her wineglass was warm from being too close to the hearth but she swallowed the remaining mouthful anyway. The dogs were in their usual tangle, sleeping cheek by jowl. Oliver entered a few minutes later with two teacups and a box of chocolates wedged beneath his arm. Some of the tension had left his face and the look he gave her was sheepish. She lifted a hand to stay the apology she suspected was forthcoming.
“Don’t. I get it. It’s not a problem,” she said.
“Easy for you to say.” He offered her the ghost of a smile before sitting and sliding the chocolates toward her.
He started talking about the local shop where he’d found them, but he was so palpably making an effort it was almost painful to watch. She waited until he’d wound down to silence before she spoke.
“Listen, if you need to vent or rant right now, let off a bit of steam, I am totally open for business,” she said.
After all, he’d been on the receiving end of a pretty comprehensive gut-spill from her not so many days ago. It seemed only fair to return the favor.
“Thanks, but everyone knows there’s nothing more tragic than the cuckolded husband bleating on about his ex-wife.”
“I must have missed that memo. But if you don’t want to bleat, that’s fine, too. Just wanted you to know the option was there.”
He looked at her for a moment, as though trying to assess if her offer was genuine or not. She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
He set down his cup. “Edie had a minor car accident and she needed to know where I’d filed our insurance information. Not a big deal.”
Except it was, because he was desperately trying to move on from his ex’s terrible betrayal. Every contact was a reminder of what he’d lost, of what Edie had thrown away.
“Okay.” She studied the tense set of his shoulders for a beat. “A question for you—who are you more angry with, her or yourself?”
His gaze was arrested. As though she’d goosed a raw nerve.
“I mentioned I’m divorced, right?” she said. “I’ve played this game before.”
He nodded slowly. Thoughtfully. “Yeah, you did.”
“I spent the first year after my divorce kicking myself around for having married Patrick in the first place, it being pretty obvious by that point that it hadn’t been my best move ever. It took me a while longer to appreciate the joys of twenty-twenty hindsight. No one gets married thinking it’s going to fail. No one.”
“I appreciate the get-out-of-jail-free card, but I’m not about to let myself off the hook for failing to notice that my wife betrayed me nearly every day of our marriage.”
“Why? Was she a bad liar? Did she leave clues all over the house? Did you willfully ignore the bread crumbs she dropped for you?”
His smile had hard edges. “She was a great liar and a consummate sneak. And I still should have known something was wrong.”
She could hear the contempt for himself in his voice.
“This is not your fault, Oliver. You trusted her. You believed the two of you shared the same values. How does your tru
st and faith make you the guilty party here?”
The stubborn angle of his jaw told her he wasn’t about to concede the point.
“So this is a pride thing, is it? An ego thing?”
“Yeah, it is.” His gaze was challenging. “She played me for a fool, and I let her.”
“Maybe it wasn’t as cut-and-dried as that. She stayed with you for six years. No one hangs around that long without a compelling reason.”
“I have no idea why she stayed for so long, since Nick was obviously the one she wanted all along.”
Mackenzie processed his words. “She knew him before you were married?”
“He was her ex. In the very early days of the band, he was our manager. They had two shitty years together before they broke up the last time and we got a new manager. At least, I thought it was the last time.”
Mackenzie was silent for a moment, thinking about what he’d revealed.
“Sometimes, even though you know something is a mistake, you can’t stop yourself from going there,” she said slowly.
She could tell from his expression he needed a deeper explanation.
“I’m not making excuses for her, don’t get me wrong,” she said. “It just seems to me that the why of all this is killing you as much as the fact that it happened at all.”
His gaze gravitated to the fire. “Yeah. Maybe.”
He looked so alone, so hurt.
“It was like that for my ex and me,” she said. “We were happily divorced. So happily we became friends. Then, somehow, being friends turned into something it shouldn’t have. Even though we’d been there before and we both knew it was a dead end.”
“What happened?”
“I had the accident and Patrick made it pretty clear that he would not be around to pick up the pieces. Backed off at a million miles an hour. Not that I expected him to suddenly become someone he wasn’t, but still...”
She swallowed past the lump of emotion in her throat, a little surprised by how much it hurt to publicly acknowledge Patrick’s abandonment.
“He’s a dick,” Oliver said with feeling.
“He is. But he’s a charming dick.” She paused. “Sometimes, even when you know someone is a hundred different kinds of wrong for you, you get sucked into old patterns and behaviors. Maybe that’s what happened with Edie. Maybe she loved you but couldn’t resist him. Maybe she spent six years yo-yoing between the two of you, trying to work it out.”
The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) Page 11