Strong
Page 11
* * * *
In a fair and just world, he’d have looked like shit. The years would have ground him down to all but a shell of his former glory. Of course, this hadn’t happened. My luck just wasn’t that good.
“You made it,” he said, walking barefoot down his front steps.
“Don’t sound so surprised. You taught me how to drive.”
Pale blue eyes gazed at me flatly. No visible gray in his dark hair. Not yet, anyway.
“Hi, Pete,” I said.
Nothing.
“I come in peace.”
More of the same.
I climbed out of my car, muscles protesting the movement. My sundress was a crumpled ruin. What had looked hopeful, happy, and bright in the wee hours of the morning didn’t hold up so well under the late-afternoon light. A twelve-hour drive from Sydney to South East Queensland’s north coast will do that to you. I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head, ready to face my inevitable doom. A light breeze smelled of lush foliage and flowers. And the heat and humidity beat down on me, even with the sun sinking over the hills. I’d forgotten what it was like being in the subtropics during summer. Should have worn more deodorant. Should have faked a communicable disease and stayed home.
“What’s it been,” he asked, “seven years?”
“About that.”
“Thought you were bringing a boyfriend with you.”
I paused. Dad must have given him that idea. God knows where Dad, however, had gotten it from. “No. No . . . he’s ah, busy.”
He looked me over; I guess we were both curious. Last time we’d been in the same room was for my eighteenth birthday party. My hair had been short and my skirt even shorter. What a spectacularly awful night that was. As if he too, remembered, he suddenly frowned, his high forehead filling with lines. Victory! The man definitely had more wrinkles. Unfortunately, they kind of suited him. Enhanced him, even. Bastard.
“Better come inside,” he said.
“If you’re still pissed at me, then why am I staying here?”
“I am not ‘pissed at you.’” His tone was light and just a bit haughty. A sure sign he was pissed. “I just was expecting your boyfriend too, that’s all.”
I crossed my arms.
“Look,” he said, “you’re staying here because we’re both doing a favor to your dad. I know you haven’t met her yet, but Shanti’s a nice woman. She’s good for him. They make a great couple and I want their wedding to be hassle free.”
“I didn’t come to cause trouble.”
“But with you, from what I recall, it just seems to magically happen.” Hands on slim hips, he gave me a grim smile. “It’s just a few days, kid. Apparently, your old room is filled with bomboniere, whatever the fuck that is. So you’re staying here with me.”
I’d heard worse ideas in my life, but not many. Also they usually involved the risk of possible loss of limb, death, or incarceration. I’d tried to talk Dad into alternatives, but he’d stood firm, dammit. “That’s kind of you, but not necessary. I’ll go get a room at a hotel, this isn’t—”
“They’re probably booked,” he said. “It’s peak season so even if you could find somewhere, you’d pay through the roof. Anything nearby is going to already be busy with other wedding guests. Look, your dad wants you close so he can spend some time with you.”
I said nothing.
“It’s only five days,” he repeated in the tone of voice he usually reserved for those dancing on his last damn nerve. “Let’s just get through it.”
Great. Awesome.
With a nod, I headed for the back of my car. All the better to hide and take a second to pull myself together.
“Did you bring much stuff?” he asked, following.
“No. I’ve got it.”
Except, of course, I didn’t. As the hatch opened, he was there, reaching for my suitcase. Muscles flexed in his arms, slightly straining the sleeves of his white T-shirt. The man had always been strong, solid. Unfortunately, he hadn’t shrunk any either. I was around average height, but he still had at least half a head on me. Just perfect for looking down and putting me in my place.
“Lock up your car.” He headed for the house, tugging my wheeled suitcase behind him. “We might be in the country, but things still happen.”
“Yeah, I know to lock up my car,” I whisper bitched.
“I heard that.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
He laughed grimly. “Oh, kid, this is going to be fun.”
Out of options, I followed. Up the stone steps and into the house. Pete had never been much of a gardener, but someone had done a wonderful job with the grounds. Not that I was willing to say as much. We were apparently at war, and I couldn’t even blame him since it was all my fault. God, I hated the old familiar feeling of guilt. Life would be so much easier if I could hate him, push some of the blame his way. But the truth was, he hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. Not back then. Not even really now.
My pity party almost distracted me from the house.
“You did it,” I breathed, wonder pushing the no-compliment rule straight out of my head. “It’s beautiful.”
He stopped, blinked. “Yeah.”
“Last time I was here you were still living in the shed,” I said. “It was just dirt with some pipes and things sticking out of the ground. Now it’s finished.”
“Parts of it are still a work in progress.”
I spun in a slow circle, taking everything in, from the polished wood floors to the gray quartz kitchen located off to one side. A television about the size of a football field hung on one wall, with plush-looking navy couches gathered nearby. A large dining table was made out of a solid slab of wood, the natural edges still rough enough to be decorative. I’d already seen the beginning of that work of art, so I knew he’d made it himself. And the rounded center beam was huge, standing in the middle of the room, holding up the pitched ceiling.
“What is that, two stories high?” I asked, staring up.
“Two and a half.”
“Wow. You really did it.”
At that, he almost smiled. Almost.
Hallways ran off opposite sides of the great room and there was a wide verandah running the whole length of the building out back. There’d be a barbeque, another dining table and lots of chairs to laze in, and stairs leading down to the pool. I knew it without looking. Just like I knew there’d be the main bedroom with a bathroom and an office off to the right. Two guest bedrooms, a reading nook, and another bathroom off to the left. A long time ago, I’d helped him design this place. We’d worked on it together, a dream house.
“It’s perfect,” I said quietly.
For a moment, his gaze narrowed. But then his lips returned to their former flat, unhappy state. “Glad you like it. You’re in here.”
I followed his back into the left wing. The house was amazing. Sadly, my gaze slipped from his wide shoulders, down the length of his spine, to find his gorgeous ass had also lost none of its impact. So unfair. But Pete in jeans always had been a sight to behold. God, his loose-limbed stride. A careless sort of confidence had always just seemed to ooze from the man.
Not that I was looking. Looking was bad.
“This okay?” he asked, throwing open a door.
“Fine. Thanks.”
He tapped the top of my luggage. “Where do you want this?”
“I’ll handle it.”
A nod. “Your dad and Shanti will be over for dinner in a couple of hours.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, it’s all taken care of.” He scratched at his stubble. “Right. Make yourself at home. I’m going to get some work done. Be in the office if you need anything.”
I nodded too. Nods were so great. Much better than words.
He stood in the hallway, staring at me for a moment. Not saying anything along the lines of how it was good to see me again. Because that would be a lie.
“Okay, Adele,” he finally said, us
ing my name, which was never a good sign. Honestly, I think I actually preferred “kid.” Then, thank you baby Jesus, he left.
Carefully, I closed the bedroom door, slumping against it because excessive drama. I’d known coming back was going to be a certain level of hell, but not one quite this deep.
One hundred and twenty hours and counting.
On behalf of 1001 Dark Nights,
Liz Berry and M.J. Rose would like to thank ~
Steve Berry
Doug Scofield
Kim Guidroz
Jillian Stein
InkSlinger PR
Dan Slater
Asha Hossain
Chris Graham
Fedora Chen
Kasi Alexander
Jessica Johns
Dylan Stockton
Richard Blake
and Simon Lipskar