by Leah Ashton
But he’d hurt her—and he was supposed to be her friend. Once he’d been one of her closest friends—and the last person in the world who would want to cause her pain. And yet he had. He didn’t like that at all.
‘You didn’t stuff up,’ she said after a long silence. ‘I mean, I don’t think there are really rules in this situation. When a man loses his wife. But I think lashing out occasionally is allowed.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a big girl. I can deal with it.’
She was being too kind, too understanding. ‘I can still apologise,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m here. To say sorry. For what I said at the funeral and for everything afterwards. We both lost Steph. I should’ve been there for you, too. I should’ve been a better friend.’
He could see her ready to argue again, to attempt to absolve him of all guilt—but he didn’t want that. And maybe she understood.
‘Okay.’
But he could see she wasn’t entirely comfortable.
‘I accept your apology. But only if you promise not to send any more mean emails. Deal?’
There it was—the spark in her gaze. The sparkle he remembered from the strong, cheeky, stubborn teenage version of Mila. And the strong, cheeky, stubborn early-twenty-something version, too.
‘Deal,’ he said, with a relieved smile.
She was twenty-nine, now. A year younger than Seb. She’d matured and lost that lanky teenage look, but she was still very much the Mila Molyneux who featured in so many of his childhood memories. He’d lived two houses down from her in their exclusive Peppermint Grove neighbourhood—although at first they’d had no idea of their privileged upbringing. All the three of them—Steph, Mila and Seb—had cared about was their next adventure. Building forts, riding their bikes, clandestine trips to the shops for overstuffed bags of lollies... And then, once they were older, they’d somehow maintained their friendship despite being split into separate gender-specific high schools. All three had studied together, hung out together. Had fun.
Mila had even been the first girl he’d kissed.
He hadn’t thought about that in years. It had, it turned out, been a disaster. He’d misread the situation, embarrassed them both.
Mila was looking at him curiously.
‘So, any chance of a tour?’ he asked, dragging himself back into the present.
Mila shook her head firmly. ‘Not until you tell me why on earth you’re wearing that,’ she said, with a pointed look at his work clothes.
Seb grinned. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Long story. How about you give me the tour of your shop first? Then I’ll give you a tour of next door and explain.’
‘Nope,’ Mila said firmly. ‘You’re giving me your tour first—because I need to find out how an international IT consultant has ended up renovating the shop next door.’
‘Well,’ Seb said, smiling fully now, ‘that’s kind of all your fault, Mila.’
‘My fault?’ Mila said, tapping her chest as if to confirm who he was referring to.
‘Most definitely,’ he said. Then he grabbed her hand and tugged her towards her front door. ‘Come on, then.’
And, for one of the very few times he could remember, Mila Molyneux looked less than in control of a situation.
Seb decided he liked that.
CHAPTER TWO
SEB’S HAND FELT DIFFERENT.
Not rough, or anything. Just... Mila didn’t know how to describe it. Tougher? As if this utterly unexpected transformation from brilliant IT geek into rugged workman had not happened recently.
But then—how did she even know it felt different? How long had it been since he’d held her hand? Or even touched her?
Years.
For ever.
She gave her head a little shake as Seb led her through the entrance of the shop next door. This was just silly. She’d let go of thinking about Seb’s touch years ago—or reacting in any way. She wasn’t about to start again now.
Especially not now.
‘I promise, Steph, I don’t like him, like him. It’s okay.’
Thirteen-year-old Mila had managed a wide smile, even if her gaze hadn’t quite met her best friend’s.
They’d sat cross-legged on Steph’s bed, a small mountain of rented VHS tapes between them, awaiting their planned sleepover movie marathon.
‘Are you sure?’ Steph had asked. ‘Because—’
‘Yes!’ Mila had said emphatically. ‘He’s just my friend. I don’t have like...romantic feelings for him. I never have and I never will. I promise...’
He’d dropped her hand now, anyway, oblivious. He’d taken a few steps into the gutted shop and now spread his arms out wide to encompass the cavernous double-height space, pivoting to look at her expectantly.
Mila needed a moment to take it all in. To take Seb in.
It had been more than six months since his email—since he’d so unequivocally told Mila never to contact him again. He’d then blocked her and unfollowed her on all social media. Set all of his accounts to private.
Effectively, he’d erased himself from Mila’s life. And, on the other side of the world, she’d been helpless to do one thing about it.
Rationally, she’d understood that he was in a dark place, and that his behaviour was not about her. That he wasn’t deliberately trying to hurt her. But it had still hurt.
So she hadn’t expected to see Seb again. At least, not like this. Certainly not dressed like a builder, proudly showing off the elderly, crumbling building next door.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. After shock, her immediate reaction on seeing Seb had been joy—maybe a Pavlovian reaction to seeing her once-so-close childhood friend. But now she wasn’t so sure. She felt confused. And cautious, too. His apology, his earnestness... It was such a contrast to what she’d believed to be her last ever interaction with Seb Fyfe.
Mila surveyed the dilapidated space. It was the exact external dimensions of her own place, and it was interesting to see how her shop would look without necessities like a staircase or—well, the entire first floor. The walls had been stripped of plaster, leaving bare brick, and there was absolutely no lighting. Now, at dusk, little light pushed through the dirty, cracked shop windows and the open doorway behind her.
Basically—it was a big, dark, empty, filthy room.
‘Well,’ she began, ‘I may need to hear a bit more of your plans before I can be appropriately impressed.’
Seb’s lips quirked upwards. God, it was so weird, seeing her old friend dressed like this. He’d always had lovely shoulders, but now they were muscled. And, yes, of course he’d always been unavoidably handsome. But more in a lean, very slightly geeky way—befitting his career in IT consulting and her memories of him tinkering with hard drives and other computer paraphernalia.
Now he looked like a man. A proper, grown-up man—not an oversized version of the teenage Seb she remembered. And not even one per cent geek.
Seb had always been self-assured, always had that innate confidence—probably partly because he had enough family money behind him to know it was nearly impossible for him to fail in anything—but mainly, Mila felt, because that was the kind of guy he was. But now there was something more. Something beyond the confidence she recognised. An...ease.
And it was an ease he had now, in his tradesman’s outfit, that she hadn’t even realised he’d lacked in a five-thousand-dollar suit.
‘Fair enough. There’s not a lot to see just yet.’ He pointed to the far wall, where a large poster-sized plan was taped to the bricks. ‘The details are there, but really it’s nothing too exciting. It’ll be fitted out for a fashion retailer I’ve got lined up—a good fit for the other shops in the terrace.’
‘Fashion? So this isn’t some new obscure location for Fyfe Technology?’
That was about as far as Mil
a had got in trying to work out what this was all about. A trendy suburban location for a multinational company with offices across Europe, the US and Australia and an office already in the Perth CBD? It didn’t actually make any sense. But then, she was still trying to process Seb’s new shoulders...
Another shake of her head—mentally, this time.
‘I sold Fyfe,’ Seb said simply.
It was so nonchalantly delivered that it took Mila a long moment to comprehend what he’d just told her.
‘Pardon me?’
He watched her steadily. ‘It was a difficult decision. Dad wasn’t happy at first—I mean, in many ways it was still his company, even though he’s been retired for years. But eventually he understood where I was coming from. Why I needed to do this.’
Again his arms spread out to take in the building site.
‘And this is...?’
Seb shrugged. ‘To do what you do. Follow my dreams without just sliding down my family’s mountain of money.’
Mila twisted her fingers together, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think anyone should ever use me as a good example for anything.’
‘Why not?’ Seb said. ‘You’re doing exactly what you want to do—earning your own income and treading your own path. What’s not great about that?’
Mila laughed. ‘You’re skipping the bit where I dropped out of two different universities, at least four different vocational courses, and completely ignored the advice of basically everyone who cares about me.’
‘Exactly,’ he said, with a truly gorgeous smile. ‘And how awesome is that?’
Mila ran her hands through her hair. Yes, she was proud of what she’d achieved, and proud that she lived completely independently of her frankly obscene trust fund, but that was her... Seb was... Seb wasn’t like that. Seb had taken his family’s already successful business and blown it out of the water. He’d expanded Fyfe throughout Europe, stayed one step ahead of new technologies and made a multi-million-dollar empire a multi-billion-dollar one.
‘I’m confused,’ Mila said. ‘Steph always told me how much you loved your work. How excited you were about the company’s expansion, about—’
‘How I loved my work more than my wife?’ he said.
The sudden horrible, harsh words hung in the air between them.
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘She never said that.’
‘Not to you,’ Seb said.
Mila didn’t know what to do with what he’d said. She didn’t know what to do with any of this. It was all so unexpected, and it had been so long.
This Seb before her was such an odd combination of the boy she’d thought she’d known and this man she barely recognised. The Seb she’d known would never have sold his father’s company. But then, the Steph and Seb she’d known had been deliriously happily married. The Steph she’d known would never have taken drugs.
Emotion hung in the air between them.
‘What’s going on here, Seb?’ Mila said, suddenly frustrated. She’d never thought she’d see or hear from Seb again. And now here he was, with unexpected apologies and painful memories. ‘Because I don’t for a minute believe that your new dream just coincidentally started with the shop next door to mine.’
A small but humourless smile. Then Seb rubbed his forehead. ‘Okay—here’s the deal. I sold the company, donated a big chunk of the proceeds to addiction-related charities and then put some aside for the children I have no intention of having—that would require a wife—but my lawyer still insisted I provide for. Then I gave myself a relatively modest loan—’ he named an amount that would buy the row of shops many several times over ‘—which I will pay back once my new venture takes off. And the new venture is a building company. I’ve started with smaller developments, like this one, although already I’m starting on bigger projects: think entire apartment blocks, maybe office towers one day.’
‘So your dream wasn’t to play with computers all day but to build skyscrapers?’
Seb shook his head. ‘No, my dream was to do exactly what my dad did, but better. Which was the problem. I’ve spent my whole life deliberately walking in my father’s footsteps. I’ve finally realised that I’m more than that. That I can build a company from the ground up myself.’ He paused for a long moment. ‘When my acquisitions team recommended I buy this place I didn’t know it was next to your shop,’ he said. ‘But obviously it came up in the research. I should’ve known, really—I remember the photos you sent through to us when you first bought it.’ His lips quirked. ‘And that was really what sealed it—’
‘So you bought this place because of me?’
‘No,’ Seb said. ‘I was always going to buy it for the right price—which I had no problem negotiating.’
There it was—a glimpse of the ruthless businessman Mila remembered. Just this time without the suit.
‘The question was whether I’d let you know I’d bought it.’
Mila looked again at the building plan. In the corner was the company logo and its name: Heliotrope Construction.
‘Steph...’ Mila breathed.
‘It’s not that original,’ Seb said. ‘But if Steph could call her fashion label Violet, I figured...’
Shades of purple—Steph’s favourite colour.
‘I like it,’ Mila said.
But Seb was moving the conversation along. ‘I did consider not being hands-on with this place, to reduce the chances that we’d bump into each other. But that would have been pretty gutless. I’ve been back in Perth a few months now. I couldn’t avoid you for ever.’
Months? Seb’s email had been six months ago, and she’d dealt with his rejection then. Even so, it stung to realise he’d been back home for so long. Somehow rejection had hurt less when he was a million miles away.
‘I thought about calling. I knew I couldn’t email you.’ He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘But I had to apologise in person. Buying this place just forced me into action. I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘For waiting this long. Since Steph...everything’s been messed up. I’ve been messed up...’
‘I know,’ Mila said. She got it. Or at least some of it. She did.
They were both silent for a while. Mila didn’t quite know what to think—she’d mentally classified Seb as part of her past. And now here he was—so different—in her present.
‘I hope I’m not too late,’ Seb said.
‘For what?’ Mila asked, confused.
‘To fix things.’ He was watching her steadily, his gaze exploring her face. ‘To fix us. I’d hoped—’
Maybe he’d seen something in her expression, because for once Seb looked less than completely assured.
‘You and Steph were my closest friends. Steph’s gone for ever, but we still have each other. I want you in my life again, Mila. If you’ll let me.’
Part of Mila wanted to smile and laugh, tell Seb Of course! And in so many ways that was the obvious answer.
She’d told him she’d forgiven him for his behaviour amidst his grief. But it had still hurt. A lot. Because she’d certainly had enough rejection in her life—her ex-fiancé being the latest purveyor of rejection. And part of her—the pragmatic side—just wondered what the point actually was.
Had too much time passed? Was it better that their friendship remained a fond memory? Limited only to the occasional catch-up message on social media?
Remembering how she’d felt when he’d held her hand before—the warmth and strength of his fingers and the echoing, unwanted warmth in her belly—Mila thought she definitely knew the answer.
Seb had just lost his wife. And he’d been Steph’s husband. She had no place considering the breadth of his shoulders or the strength of his hands.
She should keep her distance. Be his friend, but acknowledge that things could never be as they had been. They
could never have the connection of their childhood again. It was too complicated. The emotions too intense.
And yet—here he was. Right in front of her. This strange, compelling mix of the cute boy next door and this handsome almost-stranger next door.
Seb must have seen the conflict in her gaze.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘maybe I am too late.’
He was looking straight at her, but his eyes now gave nothing away. Gone was all that emotion, shuttered away.
He really wanted this, Mila realised. This was more than an extended apology or an attempt to make amends. And what was she worried about, anyway? Really?
So what if Seb still had the smile that had made her teenage self weak at the knees? She’d dealt with all that years ago. All that messy unrequited love and the whole heap of angst that came with your best friend marrying the first boy you’d fallen in love with. The first boy you’d kissed.
That had been for ever ago.
Today the butterflies in her tummy meant nothing. She was being silly. Right now Seb didn’t need her pushing him away for no apparent reason. And—frankly—she didn’t really want to push him away. She’d missed him.
‘So, do you honestly want a tour of my pottery studio?’ she asked.
Seb grinned triumphantly. ‘Lead on, Ms Molyneux!’
And of course Mila found herself smiling back.
CHAPTER THREE
‘KNOCK, KNOCK!’
The familiar female voice floated through to Mila’s shop and was promptly followed by an impatient rattling of the workshop’s back door.
‘Mila!’ Ivy called out. ‘Could you hurry, please? I really need to pee.’
Mila grinned as she hurried to greet her sister. Her nephew, Nate, was fast asleep in his pram on the other side of the fly screen, looking exactly as angelic as Ivy said he was not.
‘Mila? I mean it. I have about fifteen seconds.’
Mila dragged her gaze away from Nate to glance at her sister.
‘Maybe ten,’ Ivy clarified.