Where There's a Will

by Virginia Hale

  “My tax-file index worked fine. More secure than a system like this. Anyone can hack into it if they want to.”

  “It’s perfectly safe.”

  “For somebody who had a sticky tab covering their webcam, you’ve sure changed your tune.”

  She inhaled the soft, flowery scent of Dylan’s perfume. “I still have the sticky tab.”

  “Oh, I had no doubt.” As Dylan smiled down at her, she shifted on the edge of the desk, her leg bouncing rhythmically. Beth couldn’t help but think of the Ritalin. She let her gaze flicker low, just for a nanosecond, to the bare, muscular thigh beside her hand on the mouse. She wet her lips and returned her attention to the screen.

  “I should get home,” Dylan said softly.

  “Can I walk you out?”

  “Sure.”

  Beth swiped an envelope from the top drawer.

  “The house smells different,” Dylan muttered as they took the stairs. After having it professionally cleaned, they’d installed a citrus spray into the aircon. The scent overpowered the oaky, musty smell. Beth liked it. “Smells like a morgue,” Dylan decided bluntly.

  Beth scoffed. “It’s citrus, for god’s sake, how could it smell like a morgue? Have you even been inside a morgue?”

  “No, but I imagine it’s what a morgue would smell like.”

  Beth followed her through the kitchen. “Did you make a decision?” she braved.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  Dylan pushed open the screen door. “Like you already know what I’ve decided.”

  “So you are coming back tomorrow?” she asked coyly.

  Dylan’s hands sank into her pockets. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Yeah.” At the sight of Beth’s grin, panic swept across Dylan’s expression. “Look, I can’t do the hours I used to, not just yet, but—”

  “Part-time is more than fine.”

  “Someone’s eager.”

  You have no idea.

  Mosquitoes buzzed beneath the floodlight. The hot breeze swatted at the sleeves of Beth’s shirt.

  She leaned against the pole of the veranda, drew shaky fingertips across the seal of the envelope. Her eyes drifted over Dylan—her bare legs in those denim shorts, the sneakers. She tried to gather enough conviction to say what she had to say. “You can’t wear those clothes,” she managed.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s not the uniform.”

  “You said I could wear my own shorts.”

  “You didn’t specify that they’d be denim shorts that barely cover your cheeks.”

  “Elma let me wear them.”

  “Yes, but she didn’t require you to wear the blazer. You look like a toddler who dressed themselves for the first time.”

  “So you’re saying I look adorable?”

  “Wear the ones you wear to the club.” She nodded down at Dylan’s thighs. “Anything but those.”

  “Anything?” Dylan’s fingers swept to the button of her shorts, and before Beth could register what was happening, Dylan had flicked the button, lowered the zip. The teeth of the zipper glinted in the floodlight as Dylan exposed the triangle of black underwear beneath. “Should I just take ’em off then?”

  Beth averted her eyes.

  Dylan laughed as she redid her shorts. “You’re still as jumpy as ever,” she said, but in it was everything that Beth assumed had always gone unsaid—you’re not game enough to play at my level. Well she was wrong. She was so very wrong.

  Lights flashed across the gravel of the parking bay as Dylan unlocked her car.

  “Dylan?” she called out. She took the stairs down to the driveway, crossed the turning circle and extended her hand.

  Dylan looked down at the envelope. “What’s this?”

  “It’s your performance review. It’s a requirement whenever the Association trains new staff. Obviously, you got five stars. Outstanding performance.” If she could hear the way her own voice trembled, there was no way Dylan could miss it.

  Dylan tilted her head. “Well, if I got any less than five, I’d be miffed. But if you say it’s five stars, I guess I can’t complain.” Her gaze narrowed as she read her name in Beth’s handwriting on the front. “You filled out a performance review on me?” She took it from Beth’s grasp.

  She licked her lips. “Somebody else did.”

  “Who? One of the guests?”

  “Something like that.”

  Dylan grinned smugly and swatted the envelope with the back of her hand. “All right then.”

  “Well, good luck with your salmonella.”

  “Can I call you if I need picking up from the bathroom floor in the early hours of the morning?”

  “It’s only fair seeing as you saved me the other night.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning—if I’m still alive.”

  Watching Dylan drive away and knowing she would eventually tear open the envelope was challenging. Back in the winter, each time a Yelp notification had popped up, Dylan had been on it like an addict to heroin. She doubted Dylan would even make it into town before the seal was broken.

  Beth disappeared inside. As she turned off the air-conditioning, she recalled what she had written. All she wanted was for Dylan to be happy, and if that meant without her, then that was the way it would have to be. But Dylan needed to know how Beth felt, how absolutely consumed she was by thoughts of her. She needed to know why Beth had returned.

  She’d never have written anything like that before meeting Dylan. Regardless of the rift between them, she doubted she could express herself that way to anybody but Dylan. She may as well have telegrammed her a love letter. What if Dylan thought it ridiculous, or immature? Or worse, what if she thought it manipulative? What if I’ve made a colossal mistake?

  She climbed the grand staircase almost to the top. At the unmistakable sound of the back screen door slamming, Beth froze. The floorboards creaked. She turned.

  Dylan’s intense expression was fixed on her.

  There was no doubt in Beth’s mind that Dylan had read the review Beth had placed in her hands along with her heart. Beth’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment. Oh god, what have I done?

  Her eyes hot on Beth, Dylan tossed her car keys onto the bottom step of the staircase. She peeled off her blazer and let it fall to cover the keys, the clink of the trainee name tag loud against the first rung of the bannister.

  Dylan took the stairs two at a time, so quickly that Beth found herself reaching out, grasping the windowsill to steady herself. Her back touched the wall, her shoulder blades pressed against the plaster. She dropped a step. “What are you—?”

  Dylan’s eyes locked with hers, and quickly, her hips followed, trapping Beth against the wall. The blackness in Dylan’s eyes pooled heat in the pit of Beth’s belly as Dylan stilled, completely unmoving against her.

  Dylan’s eyes dropped to her mouth, and Beth watched as the battle in Dylan’s glare waned to a helpless stare that whispered a simple, devastating confession: I’m sorry but I just can’t help myself.

  A whimper caught in Beth’s throat. She closed her eyes, her chest heaving as she waited for the press of Dylan’s full mouth against hers. But the caress of Dylan’s lips didn’t come. Instead, Dylan’s trembling fingertips burned against Beth’s sternum as she worked the buttons of Beth’s blouse undone.

  Beth’s eyes shot open, her lips aching with disappointment. Goose bumps erupted below the line of her bra as Dylan’s hands tickled her stomach on their descent. Could Dylan feel her heartbeat firing at a million beats a minute? She was gentle with the buttons, but rougher as she yanked the shirttails from Beth’s tight skirt. Grasping Beth’s waist, her thumbs sank hard into the slight curve of Beth’s belly as she pulled her hips forward to press against her own.

  Dylan dipped her head to pebble kisses over the swell of Beth’s breasts. Beth’s body flinched in excitement as Dylan flicked a tong
ue out to tease her nipple through the thin lace of her bra. “Dylan…”

  Dylan dropped to her knees on the carpeted stair and licked a line from Beth’s belly button to the waistband of her skirt. She panted broken breaths against Beth’s skin, pressed hot, needy kisses against Beth’s belly as her hands gripped Beth’s hips.

  Beth’s head fell back against the wall. She looked to the high ceiling, quivering in anticipation of Dylan’s lips between her legs for the first time in forever.

  Suddenly, Dylan stood, a blaze in her eyes.

  Beth reached out and slipped her hands around Dylan’s waist. She pulled her shirt from her shorts and felt the soft, hot skin beneath. She attempted to pop the button at Dylan’s fly but Dylan’s eyes flashed dangerously. “No,” Dylan said.

  Instantly, Beth withdrew her touch.

  “I can’t,” Dylan rasped, her expression pained. “Please just let me…let’s just not think for a few minutes?”

  Beth watched the line of Dylan’s jaw tighten. She nodded vehemently.

  In a frenzy, Dylan’s hands reached low for the hem of Beth’s skirt and hiked it up until it gathered at the top of her thighs. Dylan’s eyes glassed over with feral desire. Oh god, what are we doing? They had made this mistake before. It wasn’t just this that had cost them their friendship, but giving in had certainly been the last straw. She wished she had the self-control to resist. But standing there on the grand staircase with her skirt around her thighs and Dylan’s gaze fixated on her heaving chest, Beth surrendered.

  She grasped Dylan’s wrist and urged her touch further up the inside of her thigh. Whimpering, she felt herself pulse as Dylan forced her underwear aside and slipped two fingers against her. Dylan’s fingers dipped low.

  “Wait,” Beth rasped. God, Dylan was bold. “I don’t…I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

  Dylan groaned, worked slow, tight circles against her.

  Beth reached out and curled one hand around the side of the open window, let the other claw at Dylan’s back before it skated around to find purchase at the top of Dylan’s flexing bicep. As Beth’s fingernails sank into soft, milky white skin, Dylan changed momentum. Beth’s hips jutted out, her lips parting in a soundless gasp as she tightened her grip on Dylan and tried to centre herself.

  Dylan’s touch slipped low again, eager to find Beth ready. “Oh god,” Beth cried out as she felt herself pull tight around Dylan’s fingers.

  Dylan’s hand stilled, her eyes wide as she drew back to stare at Beth.

  “I…” Her heart pounded. “I just…I want…”

  Dylan cut her off, gripping her jawline and kissing her deeply as she worked her fingers. Beth gasped into the kiss. Dylan’s touch was deeper, longer, more focused. Beth had thought their tryst in Sarah’s bedroom had been fervent, fanatical. This…this was a different kind of intensity. It left her light, weightless, like swimming willingly into a quick river and giving into the pull.

  Dylan broke the kiss and redoubled her efforts, her breath hot in Beth’s ear as her thumb rolled, rolled, rolled.

  Beth sank her teeth into the side of Dylan’s neck as her body threatened to give way. Dylan pressed her more firmly into the wall and dropped a hand to squeeze the back of Beth’s quaking thigh to support her.

  Beth ached to say something, to fill the silence with every painful admission she’d made in her letter. The curtain fluttered, the coarse fabric brushing at Beth’s white-knuckled fingers locked around the edge of the windowsill. She released the wall and clawed at Dylan’s shoulders with both hands. That only seemed to encouraged Dylan’s touch. Beth’s stomach clenched. “I’m—”

  “I know.” Dylan’s mouth dropped to her neck.

  A wave of emotion akin to homesickness came with her orgasm, spreading its wings wide inside her ribcage as she fell apart in Dylan’s arms, pulsing fast and hard around Dylan’s curled fingers, the breath catching sharply as her release spiked.

  Her hand at Dylan’s back slid up to the nape of her neck. She shuddered as Dylan’s lips spaced against her neck in a kiss hard enough to purple skin.

  Fingers flexed inside her, barely more than a slight twist, an unintentional graze of knuckle against that sweet spot. Beth’s teeth sank into her bottom lip at the sensation. She released the side of the window and let her hand fall gently against Dylan’s hip. “Please,” she whimpered. She needed more.

  With the lightest of touches, Beth dusted the wispy hairs at the base of Dylan’s ponytail with the tips of her fingers, and as if a spirit had passed through her, Dylan froze in her arms. She shifted away like she’d been burned. Beth held back a moan, felt herself flutter around Dylan’s fingers the moment she withdrew.

  As she watched Dylan wipe her hands on her shorts, reality came crashing down. Carefully, Dylan lifted Beth’s underwear back into place. Beth flinched as knuckles grazed over her wet, swollen flesh. With a final kiss to Beth’s clavicle, Beth knew they were done.

  Her gaze dropped to watch Dylan’s tongue wet her lips. “I didn’t realise Sarah Blaxland thought so highly of me,” Dylan husked, her eyes alight with clarity.

  Beth wanted nothing more than to go upstairs, or downstairs, to fall to the stairs and rekindle the flame between them that burned hotter and faster than it ever had before. “She does.” Her voice wavered. “She thinks you’re wonderful.”

  Dylan’s jaw set hard. “Sometimes I think she’s the only person who can stand me.”

  Beth pressed a hand to her bare stomach. “That’s not true.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head.

  Dylan ran her gaze up and down Beth’s exposed body.

  Beth could only imagine what she looked like, standing there against the wall, unsteady in her heels, her shirt unbuttoned and her chest glowing pink with a light sheen of sweat. Hot beneath Dylan’s brazen stare, she reached to button her shirt, but Dylan reached out and stopped her.

  Dylan’s brow furrowed as she redid the buttons of Beth’s top. Beth watched the line of her nose, the flutter of her eyelashes as Dylan drew her skirt back down and readjusted the seam. Beth tried to control the quiver of her chin. She’d never felt the loss of Dylan more acutely than she did standing there and letting Dylan put her back together.

  When Dylan finally raised her gaze, Beth tried to express everything in her face that had flowed so easily when she’d put pen to paper early that morning.

  “Are you okay?” Dylan asked.

  Beth’s heart swelled. She nodded.

  Dylan broke eye contact. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she whispered.

  Beth stared as she descended the stairs and bent to retrieve her keys from the carpet. Beth watched wordlessly, her legs trembling as, in another world, Dylan left the blazer behind.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As her feet pounded the pavement, Dylan tried to focus on the reflection of the moonlight as it ribboned across the lake. On the other side of the water, the pub was wild with raucous laughter, yellow lights glowing, band blaring. It was late—it had to be close to closing time.

  The running track was so desolate that she could hear her mother’s voice—Don’t you go walking ’round the lake after dark, you silly girl. It was a selfish thing to do, especially considering that her parents had already lost a child, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. It had been a day for egotism. One more indulgence wasn’t going to make a difference. After what she’d let herself do that afternoon, she was already on the road to hell.

  Her limbs ached, heavy with exhaustion on her third lap. She’d need her puffer later, but the catch in her chest was nothing compared to the blooming fury at the encounter with Beth hours before. She just wanted to go home and crawl into bed, but she still felt wired.

  Her eyes swam in the warm wind as she slowed. She pressed her fingers into the corners of her eyes. How had she let this happen? That morning, she’d had such a firm grip on her resolve. She’d been anxious, determined, angry. But the moment she’d opened that review, all t
races of resentment had slipped away like stardust. Longing had bloomed, thick and rich, and she’d yearned.

  Performance Review

  By Miss Sarah Blaxland

  Today, on the 17th of February 2018, Dylan O’Connor presented herself for assessment at the Blaxland Homestead.

  It is a difficult task to review the woman who has lived in this house longer than even I, to critique the one woman who knows everything about my homestead—its cracks and dents, its horrors and its great loves. However, after careful review, I can affirm with utmost confidence that Miss Dylan O’Connor is perfectly suited to this position.

  Ordinarily, I would harbour profound resistance at the thought of an Irish working in my house, but Miss O’Connor is an exception. She is, I assert, so very rare. She’s brilliant and funny and clever, and too kind for her own good. Her confidence and trust, her ability to listen to others, should make her fit for the job alone. And yet it is her respectful nature, her calm and attentive disposition, that asserts there is not a single soul on God’s earth more suited to this role.

  Miss O’Connor possesses, for example, a much higher level of focus than tour guide Elizabeth Hordern. What a giddy, foolish mess that woman is! Commonly, I witness Elizabeth Hordern deep in conversation with herself, wondering what she could possibly do to amend the rift between herself and Miss O’Connor. While in truth the doctor does not regret the sale of the property, she is devastated by the loss of her friendship with Miss O’Connor. She was blind to the damage that her request would cause, and it is being the catalyst for Miss O’Connor’s heartache that Elizabeth Hordern regrets with every fibre of her being. She’d cast away all her pride, all the millions in the world, just to know Dylan O’Connor’s friendship again. And if friendship is all that Miss O’Connor will ever be able to offer, well…Dr. Hordern believes that to be a great and precious gift.

  It is my understanding that Elizabeth Hordern does not intend to ask anything of Miss O’Connor that she is not willing to give. In her heart of hearts, Dr. Hordern believes that Miss O’Connor taught her the true definition of happiness—true, blissful happiness—and that is all she wishes for Miss O’Connor in return. She possesses a deep desire to tell Miss O’Connor this herself, but she does not wish to risk the destruction of this second chance that already feels so very fragile, so very delicate. If this traineeship does not work out, if this second chance is forfeited, may it be Dr. Hordern who is held accountable for the loss and not Miss O’Connor, who has already given so much of her heart.