Teach Your Heart: A New Zealand Opposites Attract Romance (Far North Series Book 3)

by Tracey Alvarez

  Two sick kids in her brother’s household—guess she could cut Jamie a break. She’d planned to stay with him and Erin and the boys for a few days until jet lag had run its course, and she could figure out what to do next.

  “Poor kids,” she said.

  With a grunt, her father headed for the exit. “Public school, what did they expect?”

  Gracie refrained from commenting and trailed after him into a stunning, sun-kissed morning. Clear blue skies stretched overhead, the air clean and fresh, even with the steady stream of taxis and private vehicles clogging the pickup zones. She hesitated at the zebra crossing, glancing up at the huge, triangular signs above the entrance with City of Sails emblazoned on them.

  Home. Familiarity. Safety.

  She hadn’t set foot in Auckland since she’d left with her pack, passport, and a fourteen-thousand-dollar university debt, just before her twentieth birthday. Four years ago now.

  “The parking meter is still ticking.”

  Her father’s voice snapped her out of a moment’s nostalgia.

  “Five minutes before I’m charged for another hour,” he added.

  “Sorry.”

  Gracie strode across the road, the sun beating down on her face making her squint. After enduring half of a perpetually gloomy winter with two roommates cramped in a three-bedroom flat, she’d forgotten how unforgiving the harsh summer sunshine was in New Zealand. She dumped her loaded-with-everything-she-owned hiker’s pack into her father’s Mercedes and climbed into the passenger seat. No words were spoken as they left the airport and pulled into the busy stream of traffic heading back toward the central city.

  She used the time to study the changing face of Auckland’s motorway system out of the window, all the while hunting through her mental files for anyone she knew locally who’d let her couch surf for a couple of nights. She hadn’t kept in contact with the few girls she’d known at the snotty private school her father had enrolled her in, and her fellow Bachelor of Commerce uni friends had since completed their degrees and moved to other parts of the country or overseas. That left, well, no one she knew well enough to ask.

  “Before you head over to the Shore, just drop me at the YMCA hostel in the city,” she said.

  Gracie didn’t miss the curl of her father’s lip at the name of the backpackers’ accommodation in downtown Auckland.

  “My daughter is not staying at the Y.” James avoided the first available exit that would’ve taken them into the city. “You’ll stay with me.”

  In the house she’d grown up in, where nothing had changed since well before her mother had died during Gracie’s second year of university. She referred to her family home as “the mausoleum,” or “the morgue” if she was having a particularly bitter day. “I’d rather stay in the city, thanks. It’s only for a few days—a week, at most.”

  “How on Earth will you afford a room in the city on a bartender’s income? Unless you’ve got a nest egg stashed somewhere?”

  Truth was, Gracie had only managed to scrape up enough cash to afford her airfares home. With her credit card maxed out—and no, she didn’t have any leftover savings from the highest-paying job she’d had, as a Swiss au pair last year—and this student loan hanging over her damn head, two nights in the city were more than she could afford. But the alternative of being trapped in the morgue with her father?

  “I was working in a café,” she said. “Not a bar. Maybe you’re thinking of the two innocent women who died serving drinks in a nightclub two months ago.”

  Her father’s cool blue gaze flicked to her side of the car. The impending lecture on how the youngest Cooper child had screwed up her life would begin in T-minus thirty seconds. If needed, Gracie could deliver from memory a word-for-word summary of her father’s usual lecture. How she was irrational and impulsive, blah-blah. How she’d ruined her education by not finishing her degree, blah-blah. Wasted opportunities by bumming around Europe and working in low-paying jobs, blah-blah-blah. How her mother would spin in her grave. But the one time her father had thrown that stinker in her face, she hadn’t spoken to him for six months afterward.

  “It could’ve just as easily been you, Grace,” he said.

  “I know.” Gracie clenched her hand resting on the armrest until her short-clipped nails dug tiny crescents into her palms. “That’s why I’ve come back.”

  Just as her other friends in Camden had drifted away after the attack. A few, like her, had returned to their home countries. Others, like her two housemates, had no choice but to continue living and working only a short distance away from the burned-out nightclub. It was a constant reminder that nothing and no one was safe from terror. Gracie had hung on as long as she could, returning to work each day to stand behind the enormous espresso machine, but with half an eye always directed out at the crowded street. Would today be the day strangers forced their way inside?

  Finally, a few weeks ago, a phone call had come from her brother Glen. He was the middle son who’d walked away from his career as their dad’s lackey. Six years older than her, she and Glen had something in common, at least.

  “Come home, Gracie,” he’d said. “Stay with me and Savannah in magical Bounty Bay. I’ll teach you to surf.”

  She’d laughed down the long-distance line, but her eyes had filled with hot tears. “It’d have to be magical, because you’re a sucky surfer.”

  But after she’d disconnected, she’d given notice at the café and had cleaned out her bank account for a one-way flight home.

  Now her father accelerated past the final exit into the city, heading along the busy motorway to the Auckland Harbor Bridge.

  “Hey.” Gracie watched the green exit sign flash by. “You missed the turnoff.”

  “We have matters to discuss.” He glanced over his shoulder then changed lanes. “Including a junior position that might open up at one of the corporations I represent.”

  “You’ve got me a job lined up already?” When she’d only stepped off a plane less than an hour ago? She shouldn’t be surprised, but that was fast—even for “time-is-money” James Cooper, Senior.

  “Am I mistaken in thinking you’re not on vacation?”

  The Mercedes flowed like liquid silver over the bridge. Auckland Harbor spread beneath it, and sailboats of all different sizes buffeted along the white-capped waves. Gracie kept her face turned away from the cluster of skyscrapers lining the harbor front. Above the metal and glittering glass loomed the distinctive spaceship topped Sky Tower, where she’d once plummeted a hundred and ninety-two meters on a BASE jump—after accepting a dare from Glen.

  She focused through the windshield ahead to a large catamaran heading out to the Hauraki Gulf. She wished she could hitch a ride and convince the skipper to sail straight north to Bounty Bay. But no, her father was right about one thing. She wasn’t here on vacation. At least, not only on vacation. God knew she needed a few weeks of R&R to clear the toxins of fear and stress from her system before she entered the workforce again.

  “I need to work, but with no formal qualifications, even a junior position is waaay above my pay grade.” Nor did she know if she even wanted to set foot in that world again.

  “It’s entry level, and I have some influence with the company. If you got the job, you could go back to university—continue your degree part time.”

  Eighteen-hour days spent cramming her square peg into a round hole to fit into the corporate world…plus study on top. Sounded fun. Not.

  Her father took her silence as Gracie flipping him off.

  “You have a responsibility to pay off your student loan in a timely manner,” he said. “Menial jobs will only make repayments that much harder.”

  Menial jobs like the ones she’d spent the past four years working her ass off at so she could contribute a pittance toward paying off her loan. Years of long hours on her feet earning minimum wage, but she’d been out in the big, wide world, where she wasn’t living under a microscope. Where people didn’t know anythin
g she didn’t choose to tell them. Where she was often just “that kiwi chick with the big smile and cute accent.”

  “I hear exotic dancing pays well.” The words dropped from her mouth before she could censor them. Ooops. Blame it on the jet lag.

  The muscles around his mouth tightened subtly.

  “That would be squandering your talents.”

  “After thirteen years of ballet, it’s about time that particular talent paid for itself.” Though what her actual talents were—other than having a smart mouth—she’d yet to pin down.

  A soft snort from the other side of the car. “I guess exotic dancing isn’t any worse than penning fairy tales.”

  A little dig at Glen, who’d landed a three-book deal last year for his fantasy novels. But as well as the dry resignation in her dad’s voice, there was a hint—just a smidgeon, really—of pride warming his words.

  Maybe Dad had finally mellowed out of his Darth Vader-like must control the Rebel Alliance way of dealing with his children.

  “We’ll discuss your future plans—or lack of them—over dinner tonight. Six, sharp.”

  Gracie sighed and stared out the window again. Or maybe not.

  Chapter 2

  “I quit.”

  Owen stared at the silver-haired woman filling the doorway of his house. Her face displayed a you can’t pay me enough to put up with this shit grimace. From behind her shell-shocked stare came a blast of upbeat music—Charlie, watching a DVD in the living room.

  “You can’t quit,” he blurted. Because, damn, he’d just arrived home after back-to-back meetings and a hysterical mother in the emergency department after her only boy-child had nearly severed a finger in a school metalwork class. Now he needed to find another babysitter before 7:00 a.m. tomorrow?

  No-no-no-no. Hell, no.

  He gripped the doorframe on either side, as if it would prevent his two-doors-down neighbor from fleeing. “Please. The kids need you.”

  He didn’t dare take his eyes off Mrs. Collinss in case the elderly woman got a sudden burst of energy and ducked under his arms to freedom. Not that he’d blame her. In fact, envy consumed him over the fact that in less than fifteen minutes, Mrs. Collins would be alone in her house with a glass of something stronger than chocolate milk—another of Charlie’s favorites—with only the hiss of waves rolling onto Bounty Bay beach in her ears. Unlike what Owen had to look forward to over the next three hours.

  “Please.” Guardianship of three mini-gangsters over the past eleven days had eviscerated his pride. He’d no qualms about groveling at the level of Mrs. Collins’s sensible brown Hush Puppies.

  She cleared her throat with a sound resembling a V-8 motor starting up, then folded her arms over her floral apron. “Today, while I was trying to help Morgan with her impossible math problems, Charlotte got into my handbag and used up my expensive body lotion.”

  “I’ll replace it. No problem,” Owen said quickly.

  “By used up, I mean she covered every available inch of bare skin with it. She’d changed into a swimsuit, so there was a fair bit of skin to cover—not to mention, she thought the lotion would be good for her hair.”

  “Oh.”

  “Forty minutes she was in the bathtub while I wrestled with the slippery little madam, rinsing it all out. Then another hour removing the lipstick prints from the bathroom, bedroom, and hallway walls. You owe me a Revlon Hot Carnation, too, by the way.”

  Owen groaned. Lipstick prints? “Of course—”

  “And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” Mrs. Collins’s eyebrows drew together in a thunderous V. “William doesn’t want to do anything remotely like schoolwork unless it involves sharks or Harry Potter, and Morgan drags her feet doing her worksheets since it’s time away from her phone.” She clucked her tongue. “Those two should be in school. They’ve only missed a week since the kids started back at the beginning of February. It’s not too late to enroll them now, you know.”

  “It’s not up to me.” Owen scrubbed a hand down his face, wincing at the scruff on his chin. Had he even shaved this morning before leaving for the hospital? “Their mother wanted…”

  Ali had wanted many things for her kids. Joy in the simple things, the freedom to learn, a close and loving relationship between the three siblings. She’d just never expected that she and Shaun wouldn’t be around to witness those desires coming to fruition.

  Owen cleared his throat. “She wanted this lifestyle for them.”

  The wrinkles in Mrs. Collins’s brow smoothed, and her gaze softened. “Yes, dear. A terrible tragedy for the poor babes to recover from.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry about your sister and brother-in-law; I truly am. But I can only give you tomorrow. You’ll have to find someone else over the weekend to take over Monday morning.”

  Music cut off from the living room, and Charlie skidded into the kitchen behind Mrs. Collins. “Uncle Owen! You’re finally home!”

  Everything out of his niece’s mouth was punctuated by invisible exclamation points. Cute. But loud.

  She streaked toward him in a blur of red polka dot tee shirt, green shorts, and pink glittery fairy wings, latching onto his legs like a limpet. Big puppy-dog eyes looked up at him as she tugged on his chinos.

  “Mrs. Collins is mad at me,” she whispered—which, at Charlie volume, was slightly lower than a shout. “I was trying to make my skin look pretty like the lady next door.”

  His mid-forty-something neighbor whose backyard deck was visible from the right side of his house. This summer, he’d avoided the windows overlooking Lucy Gordon’s property, since topless sunbathing regularly took place there five minutes after he arrived home. Since the kids had arrived, Lucy had luckily restricted her evening exhibitionism to applying lotion while wrapped in a bath towel.

  Owen sighed. “You’re already pretty, honey.”

  Charlie nodded, her cherublike lips pursed. “I know. And I looked more prettier wearing the pink lipstick. But Mrs. Collins made me wipe it off.” Her gaze zipped accusingly sideways.

  Morgan wandered into the kitchen, probably the first time in hours she’d been out of the bedroom she and Charlie shared. “That’s because you stole it and then you kissed it all over the walls.”

  “It’s my sing-ga-ture until I can write my whole name. Charlotte has too many letters,” Charlie said.

  William’s head popped over the couch in the open-plan living room. “It’s got the same amount of letters as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

  Charlie’s little nose crinkled. “No it doesn’t; my name’s not that long.”

  “He means Voldemort,” Morgan said with big-sister vicious glee.

  William clapped his hands over his ears and hissed, flinging himself back onto the couch.

  “See what I mean?” Mrs. Collins said.

  She gave Owen a glance that made his inner child shrivel and prepare to write I will be a good boy a hundred times in cursive.

  “One more day,” she added.

  Charlie tugged on his pants again, trying to leverage herself upward. Owen dumped his briefcase and scooped her up into his arms. She clung to him, rubbing her face against his shirt. She smelled of shampoo, popcorn, and an under note of old-lady lavender.

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done for the kids.” He’d appreciate it a helluva lot more if she wasn’t leaving him holding the baby. Literally.

  “My advice”—the wrinkled corner of Mrs. Collins’s mouth kicked up—“would be to find yourself a nice girl and settle down. Then you’d have a contingency plan when the unexpected crops up.” She nodded a meaningful double chin at his chest and strode past him. “I’ll see you all in the morning at seven.”

  Owen closed his eyes for a moment, Charlie’s head a warm bowling ball against his shoulder, his shirt front suspiciously damp.

  “Who’s gonna be stuck with babysitting duties now?” Morgan leaned against the dining table in his kitchen, her voice full of ’tude, but beneath it lurked the tightly woven threads
of insecurity. A lot of weight had fallen onto Morgan’s shoulders since her parents’ death three years ago. Weight no teenager should ever have to carry.

  “I don’t know. I’ll find someone.”

  Owen kept his eyes shut. Wondered if any childhood imagination remained inside him so that upon opening his eyes, he’d see Mary Poppins parachuting down with her umbrella, or Nanny McPhee with her bad-ass walking stick. He blinked. Nope, just Charlie, staring up at him with her thumb lodged securely in her mouth.

  Owen gently pulled out her thumb. “I’ll find someone,” he repeated.

  “Why don’t you have a girlfriend, Uncle Owen?” Charlie asked.

  “I don’t have time for one in my life right now.” Which was only part of the reason he came home to an empty house every night. Part of the reason he put his hand up for the extra shifts and didn’t bitch about on-call weekends like the rest of the doctors.

  “Like he doesn’t have time in his life for us.” Morgan’s dark eyes—from her dad’s Mediterranean heritage, since Ali’s had been like Owen’s, a boring hazel—were full of hurt and accusation.

  Charlie twisted in Owen’s arms to face her big sister. “Morgan, that’s not kind! Nana says we should always be kind to each other ’cause we’re family.”

  “Whatever.”

  Another stink-eye from his teenage niece, and then Owen got the ear-buds treatment as she stalked from the room.

  “She’s just being a meanie, isn’t she?” Charlie asked. “You do have time for us.”

  Time for his monthly uncle duties, which consisted of an afternoon at the movies, or playground visit, or ice cream binge? Sure. He had those Sunday afternoons blocked out in his calendar. Full-time, uncle-slash-dad duties to three kids who unintentionally demanded what remained of his physical and emotional energy? Not so much.

  He forced his stiff lips into a smile. “I’ve time now to see what those Minions are up to before dinner.” Thank God for the smell of Mrs. Collins’s heat-and-eat casserole, warming in the oven. “How about it, Charlie-chimp?”