Did we or did we not decide that this was absolutely none of our business and that we’d already grossly overstepped the line with our interfering?
Tearing her gaze from Bob’s window, she turned to grab the tray of potatoes and added them to the oven. Then she settled down to kill an hour with Country Living magazine and lots of lovely house interiors.
By seven, the house was filled with the smell of chicken and garlic potatoes. Her stomach rumbled as she put on greens to cook and whisked up some gravy. A bead of sweat trickled down her back and she used her forearm to push her damp hair off her forehead. Roasting a chicken probably hadn’t been the smartest choice for such a warm day. She flipped on the air conditioner, then moved to the oven.
Her hands in oven mitts, she grasped the hot pan and pulled the chicken toward herself. The top was golden brown and crispy and she could smell the sage in the stuffing.
“Yum,” she murmured.
Suddenly the world went dark.
Ally blinked, aware of the absolute silence around her—no hum from the fridge, no quiet whir from the oven or the air conditioner.
She’d blown a fuse. Damn.
The heat from the roasting pan was starting to burn through the mitts. She pushed the pan forward carefully until she felt it slide into the oven.
She had no idea if Wendy had a flashlight or not, but there was no way she was going to find it in the pitch-black. Arms extended in front of her, she fumbled to the study, where she’d left her phone. The screen came to life when she touched it and she used the light to guide her to the front door. She was pretty sure she’d seen a fuse box on the porch beside the door, the old-fashioned kind with a hinged wooden cover…
And there it was. Phew.
She found the catch and opened the cover, squinting in the feeble light from her phone as she tried to read the writing on the various fuses. This wasn’t like the more modern trip-switch fuse boxes she was used to in the city. This was old school, with big ceramic plugs and what looked like fuse wire.
“Problem?” a voice asked out of nowhere.
She let out a little yelp and started so violently she nearly dropped the phone.
She pressed her free hand to her chest as she glanced over her shoulder. Tyler stood at the front gate, his face a study in shadows in the dim streetlight.
“You scared me,” she said stupidly.
“No kidding.” His tone was very dry. He gestured toward the fuse box. “Looks like you’ve blown something.”
“I think I overloaded it having the air conditioner and oven on at the same time.”
“Happens sometimes with these old places.”
“I don’t suppose you have a flashlight I could borrow?” she asked hopefully.
He didn’t respond, simply turned on his heel and walked toward his pickup. Twenty seconds later, he pushed open Wendy’s gate, a strong flashlight beam bouncing along the path in front of him.
Maybe it was because it was dark, but he seemed much bigger than she remembered as he climbed the two steps to the porch and stopped in front of her. She fought a ridiculous urge to take a step backward.
“Thanks for this. I really appreciate it,” she said, holding out her hand for the flashlight.
He ignored her, brushing past her to aim the flashlight beam at the fuses.
She frowned. “I don’t want to take up your time.”
She made a policy of trying to solve her own problems without relying on the kindness of strangers. It was something she’d learned early in life.
“This fuse box is pretty old,” he said.
“I’m sure I can work it out.”
He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those feminists.”
“’Fraid so. I’m happy to borrow a flashlight, but I’m not a damsel in distress.”
He regarded her a moment, then he shrugged and passed her the flashlight. She waited for him to leave, but he simply stood to one side and waved a hand, inviting her into the prime position in front of the box.
“Thank you,” she said, not feeling very grateful. She didn’t particularly want to fumble around in front of him. Especially when she’d made such a big deal about fending for herself.
She aimed the flashlight, trying to appear as though she knew what she was doing. According to her sketchy memory of how these old systems worked, she was supposed to pull the fuses out to check which one had a broken wire. She reached to check the first one.
“It won’t be that one. That’s your lighting.”
He had a shoulder against the house, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked as though he was enjoying himself.
“It’s worth checking them all,” she said stubbornly.
“If it makes you feel better.”
She grit her teeth and pulled the fuse out. The wire was noticeably still intact and she plugged it in without comment.
“All good?”
“Yes,” she said grudgingly. Maybe she would have been better off fumbling around for a candle and going to bed early after all.
“Only five more to go,” he said encouragingly.
She shone the flashlight in his face.
“Smugness is really not an attractive trait, you know.”
He pushed her hand down so that the beam was angled toward his chest.
“Neither is stubbornness.”
They stared at each other a moment, neither giving an inch. Then she sighed and passed him the flashlight.
“Okay. Help me if you must.”
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
Instantly she felt rude and stupid. He’d come to her aid, and instead of thanking him she was coming across as a prickly ingrate.
“Sorry. I guess I’m used to fending for myself.”
“I can tell. Excuse me.”
He moved closer to the fuse box and she took a hasty step backward, but not before she’d bumped against his hard shoulder. He’d been working all afternoon in the heat and he smelled of deodorant and clean sweat. Intensely masculine.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you think it is?” she asked.
“There’s a main fuse in here, usually it takes a higher gauge wire than the others…” He pulled a fuse out and inspected it. “Yeah.”
“It’s that one?”
“Yeah. You’ve overloaded the main.”
“Stupid roasted chicken.”
“It was probably the air conditioner.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Depends.”
He shone the flashlight around the fuse box, then ran his hand along the top shelf. He came away with nothing but dust and cobwebs.
“No spare fuse wire.”
“Right.” She thought for a minute. “The shops are probably already closed. So I guess that means I’m having an early night.”
She spared a thought for the food in Wendy’s freezer. Maybe if she didn’t disturb it overnight, it wouldn’t spoil.
“Hang on a moment.”
She was left blinking in the darkness as Tyler left the porch and headed next door. She guessed he was checking his father’s place for spare wire and she crossed her fingers. She watched Tyler expectantly as he climbed the steps to rejoin her. He didn’t say a word, simply held up a small piece of card with fine wire wrapped around it.
“Bless you, Bob,” she said fervently.
“Yeah.” There was a dry undertone to the single word and she was reminded of the scene she’d witnessed this morning at the hospital.
Hard to imagine this big, capable man reduced to tears. But he had been. He’d been profoundly affected by his visit to his father.
“Can you hold the light steady for me?”
She trained the beam on his hands as he threaded new wire into the fuse. She took the opportunity to study his profile. He had a bump in his nose as though maybe he’d broken it at some stage, and a strong, square jaw. His dark hair was short and rumpled, and whiskers shadowed the l
ower half of his face. She could discern a thin scar on his cheekbone, below the corner of his left eye. She wondered how he’d gotten it. Fighting? A car accident?
She’d thought he was focused on the fuse, but he glanced up suddenly and his gaze locked with hers. She looked away quickly, feeling her face heat with embarrassment.
Busted, big-time.
“You might want to turn the air-conditioning off before I turn the power back on. Just in case,” he said.
“Right. Of course.”
She slipped into the house, feeling her way along the wall with one arm extended. She was only steps from the kitchen when her shin connected with something hard and heavy.
“Shit!” she hissed, bending to rub her aching shin.
“All right in there?” Tyler called.
“Yeah.”
She reached out a hand and felt the lumpy metal outline of Wendy’s umbrella stand. She stepped around it and entered the kitchen. She found the wall switch to turn off the air-conditioning, then crossed to the oven and turned that off for good measure. Then she made her way back to the porch.
“Houston, we are cleared to launch.”
“Roger that.” He plugged in the fuse and flipped the switch. She gave a little cheer as Wendy’s cottage came back to life.
“Just like magic.”
“Something like that.”
He switched off the flashlight and collected his father’s wire before shutting the fuse box.
“You should probably get an electrician in to update this setup,” he said. “With a modern fuse, you’d only have to flip a switch to reset the power.”
“I’ll get on to it.” She made a mental note to mention it to Wendy during their next Skype chat. “I really appreciate your help.”
“No worries.” He started down the porch steps.
She watched his broad shoulders as he walked toward the gate, wondering if he ever waxed eloquent about anything.
Probably not. He struck her as being the strong, silent type.
“Have you eaten?” she called after him.
For the second time that day, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder at her.
“Sorry?”
“Have you eaten? I have a whole roast chicken in side and, even at my piggiest, I couldn’t possibly eat it all…”
He hesitated, a slight frown forming between his eyebrows.
“Think of it as a barter, a drumstick in return for the loan of your flashlight and expertise,” she said. “There are potatoes, too, and gravy.”
She wasn’t sure why she trying so hard to convince him. If he wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t hungry.
“Chicken sounds good. Give me a moment to wash up.”
He disappeared through the front gate before she could say anything.
She returned to the kitchen and grabbed a second plate. The chicken hadn’t had time to cool, but she set the heat beneath the greens on high to bring them back to the boil. The water was starting to bubble when she heard footsteps on the porch.
“Come in,” she called.
His hair was damp and he was holding a six-pack of beer in one hand when he appeared in the doorway.
“Dad doesn’t run to wine, I’m afraid.”
“Beer’s perfect. Although I have wine if you want it.”
“I’ll stick with the beer, thanks. Got to drive to Melbourne tonight.”
“Sure.”
She served the meal, very aware of him watching her every move. She paused when she was about to pour the gravy. Being a gravy lover, she liked it everywhere, but some people weren’t so fond. “You like a little or a lot?” she asked.
“A lot. Can’t have too much of a good thing.”
A very vivid, very earthy image popped into her mind. She concentrated on pouring the sauce over his chicken and vegetables but she could feel heat climbing into her cheeks again.
Two blushes in twenty minutes. Apparently she was turning into a born-again virgin in her old age.
Get a grip, Bishop. Anyone would think you’d never had a meal with a man before.
“We can eat outside or in here.”
“It’ll be cooler outside,” he said.
“Outside it is, then.”
She led the way through the French doors and onto the deck. They settled on opposite sides of the table. He twisted the top off a beer and placed it in front of her, then did the same for himself while she distributed the cutlery.
“Well,” she said. “Enjoy.”
She sliced off some chicken and potato and took a bite. He did the same and there was a short silence as they both chewed.
“You’re a pretty good cook for a feminist.”
She choked on her mouthful.
He gave her an innocent look. “Sorry. Was that politically incorrect?”
She reached for her beer and took a big swallow. Then she pointed the neck of her bottle at him.
“You’re lucky I’m not one of those gun-toting members of the sisterhood or you’d be in big trouble right now.”
“Would I?” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at her.
Apparently Tyler found her amusing. Which was a little disconcerting, since she’d just made a rather startling discovery—he was a very attractive man. Somehow she’d managed to overlook that fact until now. With his dark hair and unusual silver-gray eyes, that bump in his nose and the decisive shape of his jaw and forehead, he was easily the best-looking man she’d shared a meal with in a long time.
Then there was his body.
Broad, hard, lean, with the kind of muscles that came from doing things in the real world rather than pumping iron in the gym.
She dragged her gaze from him and concentrated on her meal, suddenly very aware of the fact that she’d pulled on her cowboy-and-Indian pajama pants when she came home from the supermarket and that she wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup.
Not exactly femme-fatale material.
Not that she was in the market to slay any man with her charms, such as they were, but a woman had her pride.
“So, how does a person become an advice columnist?” he asked.
“By accident. I was doing a column on travel destinations and they needed someone to fill in for Dear Gertrude when the writer who’d been doing it for years got sick. I did it for a couple of weeks, she decided to retire and they offered me the gig.”
“You said your column’s in the Herald, right?” he asked.
“Yup.” It was also syndicated to a bunch of other papers, but he didn’t need to know that.
“So people write in and tell you about all their problems and you solve them?”
“People write in with a problem and I attempt to offer them my objective opinion. Sometimes an outsider’s point of view gives people a new perspective.”
“I suppose you tell all your women readers to change their own tires and tote their own luggage?”
“You know, I do. I happen to be a big believer in personal responsibility. How about you?”
A slow grin spread across his face and she realized she’d risen to his bait without blinking. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked.
He made a show of stopping to think about it. “The chicken is good.”
“Thank you.”
“The beer is cold.”
“Kudos to Bob.”
“And you do rise to the bait pretty quickly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re one of those people who think practical jokes are funny, aren’t you?”
“Guilty as charged, Your Honor.”
She couldn’t hide her smile. No way would she have ever guessed that the man she’d confronted yesterday and run into this morning was capable of lighthearted teasing.
“So how does a person become a furniture designer?”
He shrugged and took a mouthful of his beer. “He’s crap at math and English and science and he wants to leave school as quickly as possible.”
She blinked at the harshness of his self-assessment. �
��Well, you clearly did something right.”
“I know how to work hard. And I was lucky enough to have a great boss when I finally scored an apprenticeship. Taught me everything I know.”
She studied the man sitting across from her. He was modest almost to the point of self-denigration, yet he was clearly a driven person. She’d seen his workshop in Melbourne—no one could build a business the size of T.A. Furniture Design without having a fire in their belly and the smarts to harness it. She was confused by the apparent contradiction. All the self-made, driven men she’d met had been egomaniacs, more than happy to shove their achievements down the throat of anyone who was stupid enough to inquire.
It made her wonder, which in turn made her think about Bob and all she knew, and didn’t know, about her neighbor and his son.
None of your business, Bishop. Remember?
“Do you want another beer?” she asked, noticing his bottle was empty.
“No, thanks.”
She went to collect a second bottle for herself, bringing him a glass of water.
“Thanks.”
She racked her brain for a safe topic of conversation. Obviously, Bob was out. Too many pitfalls and unknowns there.
“There’s ice cream for dessert,” she said after a short silence.
Not exactly a sparkling conversational gambit, but a nice neutral topic nonetheless.
“Yeah?” There was an arrested look in Tyler’s eyes. “What flavor?”
“Honey macadamia and New York Cheesecake.”
“That’s got to be Charmaine’s,” he said, naming one of Melbourne’s smaller boutique ice cream manufacturers.
She was impressed. “You know your ice creams.”
The reason she knew this was because she, too, knew her ice creams. In fact, she had what her friends commonly referred to as a substance-abuse problem where the stuff was concerned.
“Have you tried their chili chocolate?” he asked.
“Yes. Have you tried the Peanut Nutter at Trampoline?” she asked, naming another ice cream parlor.
“Of course. But it’s not as good as the cookies-and-cream gelati at this little place—”
The Last Goodbye Page 4