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

by Tracey Alvarez

  The only excitement in the room was positioned against the back wall. A king-sized bed with an unusual headboard carved from a warm golden timber. One of Sam Ngata’s creations, Owen had told her—but slightly damaged, which was how he came by the piece for a discounted price. Damaged or not, it was singularly the most beautiful piece of furniture Gracie had ever seen.

  Glen bypassed the couch and stretched out on the bed with a giant sigh. He wriggled on the crisp white duvet cover and laced his fingers behind his head.

  “Guess this is more comfortable than the futon in our office,” he said.

  “Pillowtop mattress. Can’t beat ’em.” Gracie faced him, resting her butt on the sofa’s padded back. “And there’s a huge tub with jets in the bathroom.”

  “Perks of working for a man with means, I guess. Speaking of which…isn’t this all happening a bit quick? Even for you?”

  “Nothing’s happening.” Just a few overlong glances and a boat load of sexual tension, which was probably ninety-nine percent in her head.

  “Ah, hello, do you have any self-awareness?” Glen rolled onto his side and propped his head on a palm. “Yesterday you were meant to arrive at our place by dinnertime then boom! You’re a nanny to this guy’s three kids.”

  He nailed her with a know-it-all stare, which fifteen years ago would’ve resulted in her pouncing on him in an attempt to smack him upside the head. Yeah, she and Glen were tight—didn’t mean he wasn’t six years her senior and therefore duty bound to act as if he were the final word on The Best Thing for Little Gracie.

  “This guy is meant to be your friend,” she pointed out. “And you couldn’t ask for a more respectable member of the community. There’s nothing scandalous about me working for him for a couple of months.”

  “Who said anything about scandalous?” His wide-open gaze transformed into two squinty blue slits. “There’s nothing going on—you know, with Owen—is there?”

  Before Gracie could even splutter indignantly, Glen continued.

  “Course there isn’t. I’m just yanking your chain. You and Doctor Respectable?” He blew a raspberry. “As if that’d ever happen.”

  “Nice to know you’ve cast your vote in the Could Gracie Ever Bag a Professional Man? poll.” She rolled her eyes, pretending not to feel the bitter pill of hurt sliding down her throat to sit heavily in her stomach.

  He was right, though. Men like Owen didn’t go for flighty chicks who carried all their worldly goods in a hiker’s backpack and approached life with a scattergun tactic—fire yourself in as many directions as possible and see what sticks.

  “As if you’d go for that type.” Glen snorted. “Wasn’t your last boyfriend—the one who lasted more than a month—a drummer with an indie rock band in Soho? The one you described as having tatts like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. Stud or Killer or Rebel-Yell or something.” He smirked, the corners of his eyes creasing into familiar laugh lines.

  Gracie’s heart gave a little squeeze. Though the house they’d grown up in felt like a mausoleum, some of her fondest memories were of her and Glen hanging out in each other’s rooms—just like this. Teasing, laughing, and sometimes plotting to overthrow their dictator father. Then Glen surrendered his dream of becoming a published writer in order to follow his father’s footsteps and had entered law school.

  “His name was Patrick, and he turned out to be a complete tool,” Gracie said. “The relationship went downhill when I refused to get his nickname—Patch—tattooed on my ass.”

  “Should’ve called me, sis. I would’ve flown over and inserted his drumsticks in a convenient orifice of his, near to where he suggested you get inked.”

  “You don’t have to fight my battles for me anymore.”

  And he’d tried. Oh, how valiantly her big brother had tried to save her as a teenager. But in the end, as it should be, she’d had to save herself.

  “And me looking after Morgan, William, and Charlie is not something you need to be concerned about,” she continued. “Once the kids’ grandparents can care for them again, I’m gone. US and Canada, this time. Fresh air, mountains, snow. Meantime, I get to spend some time with you and Savannah and pay off a decent-sized chunk of my debt.”

  Glen jerked up on his elbow. “Just how much is Owen bloody paying you?”

  She chuckled. “He’s paying me a fair amount in exchange for homeschooling the kids and caring for them twenty-four-seven over the next eight weeks.”

  “And that’s wise, do you think?”

  “Well, it’s better than the nine-to-five, just-kill-me-now job Dad had all but set up for me.”

  He waved a dismissing hand. “We both know that would’ve never worked, and that’s not what I meant, Grace.”

  Uh-oh. The only time Glen referred to her by her birth certificate name was during a shit has just gotten serious moment. Gracie didn’t need one of those with Glen, not if it meant she’d have to think about stuff she really didn’t want to think about.

  “I’ve worked as an au pair before,” she said, “and they weren’t half as sweet as Owen’s nieces and nephew.”

  “Your Swiss kids weren’t wounded little birds like these ones are. You didn’t connect with them like you have with Morgan, William, and Charlie. I saw the way you were with them today—you’re already invested.” Glen shook his head, pulling a face. “And Morgan? With her body-image issues and the puppy fat—”

  “Don’t you dare judge that girl!” Gracie lurched to her feet, walked over to the bed, and smacked his bare feet. “She’s fine. She’s thirteen and still a child…”

  The corners of Gracie’s eyes burned. Dammit. Glen had forced her to take an unappealing time-travel trip to her teenage years anyway.

  “She reminds you of you,” Glen said. “Right around the time bulimia took over your life. Doesn’t she?”

  “Maybe.”

  Because she never could lie to her big brother. He was the one who snitched to their mother after he’d caught her vomiting after a late night binge session. The one who wouldn’t let it slide. Who harangued their father, when he didn’t want to admit his daughter had an eating disorder, into getting the help Gracie needed to finally free herself of bulimia’s deadly hooks.

  “I don’t want you slipping back into bad habits.”

  His voice gentled, but to Gracie it grated her ears like Patrick’s awful punk rock.

  It was as if Glen thought the binge-purge-guilt-repeat cycle was akin to nail-biting or picking your nose. As if Gracie hadn’t razed her soul to ashes in order to beat the bulimia back. As if she hadn’t risen like a phoenix and flown out of her old life and across the ocean to a new one. But her brother meant well.

  She sat on the bed edge and met his gaze. “I won’t go back. I’ll never be a resident of Bulimiaville again. I live life pedal-to-the-metal, always heading forward to the next adventure, remember?”

  “Well, I’m glad your latest adventure is in Bounty Bay.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  A scuff of shoes on the low deck outside was followed by a masculine throat clearing. Heat already prickling in her cheeks, Gracie swung her head toward the sound. Owen stood directly beside the open door, his fist raised to knock on the glass.

  “Ah…the steaks and sausages are done.” He lowered his hand, shoving it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. “Lauren and Savannah are bringing out the salads and ordered me to come find you both.”

  “Great.” Glen rolled off the bed to his feet and rubbed his hands together. “I’m starving.” Then, seeming to realize what he’d said in light of their conversation, he sent her an apologetic smile.

  Gracie rolled her eyes. Puh-lease. Like she’d lost her sense of humor along with her self-destructive urges. “I’m starving, too. Thanks.”

  She didn’t need to meet Owen’s eyes to know he’d overheard way more than she was comfortable sharing. Her inner temperature continued to skyrocket, face now hot enough to act as a heat lamp to the barbecued mea
t. While Glen didn’t judge her—because the big oaf loved her—Owen the doctor had awkward pity written in every line of his slightly hunched posture.

  “No problem.” His voice was gentle and laden with the one thing Gracie hated more than pity.

  Of being judged and found wanting. Of not being enough.

  Chapter 8

  During dinner, Owen watched Gracie eat.

  He couldn’t help it—not after what he’d overheard. Though he told himself he observed only with a physician’s concern, he was lying. Sure, he’d encountered patients with eating disorders before, and professionally, as he tracked Gracie adding a grilled lamb chop and plenty of salad to her plate, she appeared healthy, full of energy, and well adjusted.

  But concern wasn’t the only reason he watched her.

  She shone, star-bright, even seated between Lauren, the ex-model, and Savannah, the former actress. Gracie’s smile, when she was caught up in animated conversation with the two women, dimmed everyone else’s to a shadowy blur. At least, a blur through Owen’s eyes.

  The Frasers and Savannah and Glen left soon after dinner, Drew already yawning as Nate carried him from the house to the Range Rover. Charlie had also exhausted herself, playing with her new “boyfriend,” as she referred to Drew out of his earshot, giggling to Morgan, who supervised her bedtime routine.

  Owen kept out of the way, retreating into the kitchen to unload the dishwasher while Gracie read Charlie a bedtime story.

  His nape prickled at the soft squeak of her footsteps in the hallway, and a moment later she strolled into the kitchen. He rose from where he’d crouched behind the island counter to stack dinner plates away. Outside, cicadas chittered as the last streams of sunshine sparkled on Bounty Bay’s horizon. Dying light filtered through the large picture windows and spun highlights of gold through Gracie’s hair. The pretty dress she’d worn for their guests—his ego wasn’t that big he thought she’d changed for him—swirled around her bare legs, and a flash came from the gold-link chain encircling her ankle.

  “Charlie’s asleep,” she said by way of greeting. “And William’s not far off.”

  “Great. Good job.” Owen nudged the cabinet door shut with his knee.

  Great? Good job? What was she, fourteen on her first babysitting gig? And he the awkward parent? Yeah, he was awkward. Behaving like a total muppet, as his mate Sam would’ve said. Hell, he shouldn’t even be awkward. Putting people at ease was part of his job.

  Yet every time he opened his mouth around Gracie, he was convinced he’d blurt out something inappropriate like, “Do you have any idea just how bloody hot you are?” Apparently, she’d no clue the effect she had on him.

  Gracie hesitated on the other side of the island counter, her gaze skittering beyond him to the back door. Torn between wanting her to go so he wouldn’t have to point a finger at the elephant in the room, and wishing she’d stay and share a glass of wine with him, Owen just stood there staring at her like…well, like a total muppet.

  Googly eyes and everything.

  He made the mistake of dragging his jaw off the floor and letting his tongue loose. “Sorry about eavesdropping on you and Glen earlier.”

  Guess he was going there after all. He’d never been one to ignore the obvious, no matter how painful. Career-wise, anyway. You ignored the obvious in emergency medicine, and people died. Ignoring the obvious in personal relationships was normally a different story.

  Her gaze zipped from the door and locked on his. He met her stare, studied the shuttering of emotion in her eyes and the hint of movement in the corner of her mouth, which could’ve turned into a frown or a smile. She could’ve made a damn good card shark—she revealed little of herself, while maintaining such a sweet expression that you automatically wanted to trust her. And to earn her trust.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “We tend to zone out the world around us when we disagree over something.”

  “You were disagreeing about my kids”—he paused, blinked—“I mean, my nieces and nephew.” Owen braced his hands on the countertop, the cool surface doing little to steady his pulse, which punched in a quickening rhythm through his palms. “About his concern for them and for you, considering your history with an eating disorder.”

  Gracie’s jaw firmed, and her lips thinned into a bloodless sliver. “I should go to bed. The kids will be up early in the morning, I’m sure.”

  “Grace…”

  Each individual vertebra in her spinal column tightened, becoming rigid as she straightened to her full height.

  “It’s Grac-ie,” she said. “Not Grace.”

  “Sorry. Gracie,” he amended. “But we should talk about this.”

  She continued to stare at him, her slightly arched eyebrows drawing into a soft V. Then the fine wrinkles on her brow disappeared to a doll-like smoothness.

  “About my bestie, bulimia?” Her mouth twisted. “Or should I say, my ex-bestie.” With one more shooting glance at the back door, she walked around the island counter and leaned a hip against the edge. “Are you asking as a doctor or as my employer?”

  Said in a tone which implied ‘judge’ and ‘executioner.’

  Owen faced her, mirroring her hip against the counter edge and trying—probably failing—to look nonjudgmental. “How about as your friend?”

  A flash of indefinable emotion crossed her eyes. “We’re not friends. We’ve only known each other for just over twenty-four hours.”

  “A lot can happen in twenty-four hours.” He tipped a shoulder forward. “And since we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the next two months, it makes sense to be friends.”

  “Let me guess.” She pursed her lips. “You were the kid who played with another kid in the sandbox for ten minutes and thought the two of you were BFFs?”

  So close to the truth it surprised a laugh out of him, Owen nodded. “Something like that.”

  Something very close to that. Moving around so much as a child, he’d learned if he didn’t make friends fast, he didn’t make friends at all. But some of those friendships had lasted half his lifetime. “How about you pretend I’m not a complete bastard and concede we could become friends.”

  Or more than friends, a little voice piped up from somewhere close to his groin region after Gracie’s gaze skimmed down to his lips and hovered there for couple of seconds beyond polite. He silenced the voice and donned his best you can trust me; I’m a doctor smile.

  Once more, Gracie’s gaze skittered to the side, toward her escape route. She folded her arms under her breasts. “You realize this is hard for me, not just because I’ve just met you and you are my employer and a doctor—and, trust me, I’ve had enough of doctors to last a lifetime—but because I choose not to feed that particular wolf anymore.”

  He blinked stupidly at her for a moment—then got the proverb reference about the good and evil wolves battling inside us. “A dark but apt analogy about an eating disorder.”

  “I have a pretty dark sense of humor,” she said. “And I enjoy starving the shit out of my evil inner wolf. Mangy bugger.”

  The defiant spark returned to her eyes, and Owen let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  He picked up the half bottle of merlot left over from the barbecue and offered it. “Nightcap?”

  “Am I relieved of baby-sitting duties, then?”

  “Yep. This is strictly two adults sharing a glass of wine before going to bed.” Owen crossed to a high kitchen cabinet and pulled out two wineglasses.

  He poured them a half glass each then slid one across the counter toward Gracie. His gaze flicked up to her face, freezing momentarily on the two pink spots warming her cheekbones. His brain did a quick rewind to his last comment…ah. That could’ve been misinterpreted. But while Owen’s brain kicked his ass for lack of censorship, the predatory male part of him stretched and flexed long-seized-up muscles. That flush meant he wasn’t the only one fighting a losing battle.

  Gracie snatched up the glass and drained
a quarter of it in one go. Then moved around to sit on one of the barstools.

  “Will you tell me about your evil wolf?” he asked.

  Speaking of battles…one played out over her slipping poker face as she continued to watch him with narrowed, wary eyes. He had no idea why, but it was important that Gracie trust him. Even just a little bit.

  “Please.” He softened his tone, reining in his tongue from adding useless platitudes about how he’d keep her confidences. How he somehow needed to understand who she was and where she’d come from.

  But experience with patients had shown him that digging for information or requesting trust before the person was ready to offer it was a sure-fire way to have emotional doors slammed in his face.

  She looked at him for a moment longer, and then, after a minuscule nod, the harsh line of her spine softened. “How about a one-hundred-and-forty-character version?”

  “Whatever you want to tell me.”

  She paused, running a fingertip around the edge of her glass then licking it, a move both guileless and incredibly sexy at the same time—and completely at odds with their topic of conversation. Heat punched low into Owen’s gut then spread upward to prickle above his shirt’s neckline.

  “I was diagnosed with bulimia at fourteen, admitted to hospital, had years of psychological counseling and antidepressants.” Her nose crinkled. “That sounded really flippant, but I was pretty seriously screwed up for most of my teenage years. I blame it on a rigid upbringing and my mile-wide rebellious streak. I thought I’d nailed it by the time I left school and started university, but…” A belly deep sigh hissed out from between her lips. “But my mum died during my second year, and I was terrified I’d relapse.”

  Owen set down his glass, the wine in his stomach curdling. He’d known about her mother from a brief conversation with Glen a while back. Caroline Cooper died after a cerebral aneurysm, Glen said. His friend had then changed the subject—likely expecting a doctor’s typical analysis of the fatality, which, unfortunately, Owen and his medical brothers-in-arms were inclined to give without thinking. Death was part of his many years of training—part of his job—and something to strive against or unlock its mysteries like a Rubik’s cube. It wasn’t until he and Daniel had flown to Sydney to bring Alison and her husband home that death, for the first time, kicked his ass to the curb.