She pursed her lips because tears were threatening and she didn’t want him to see how his words affected her. She hadn’t realised until he said it, but she really did need a friend out here.
‘Thank you,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘And the same goes for you. I’m more than happy to listen about Serena if there’s anything you’d like to share.’
He laughed. ‘Nice try.’
Gibson forced himself to step away from Imogen. He’d felt her tense at his hug and knew he’d probably overstepped the mark, but he wanted to show his appreciation for her understanding with Charlie. It hadn’t been about sex – well, not until he felt his body react despite his best intentions. But it was hard when she smelled and felt so damn good against him.
He reflected on the way she’d spoken to Charlie about Jamie and in seconds the stirrings of his erection died.
He cleared his throat. ‘Guess we’d better go check on Charlie, say goodnight.’
She nodded and glanced at her watch. ‘I can’t believe how late it is. I hope the girls were okay closing the pub.’
‘They’ll have been fine,’ he said, starting towards the living room. ‘But thank you for taking the leap and leaving the pub tonight. I know that must have been hard.’ She’d done it for Charlie, because she cared about his grandfather as well. That knowledge both comforted and unnerved him.
Imogen followed, and they stopped at the door to the living room when they saw that Charlie – photo album still spread open on his lap – had nodded off on the couch. Gibson’s chest seized at the sight.
‘Sweet man,’ Imogen said, almost too quietly for him to hear.
He stepped up to his grandfather, gently pried the album from his grasp and laid it on the coffee table. He didn’t know whether to wake him or leave him. The couch was small, but Charlie wasn’t a giant anymore – in fact, for the first time ever he appeared almost frail to Gibson. He pushed the unwelcome thought out of his mind and stooped down to tug off Charlie’s boots. He recalled a time when Charlie had done such things for him. As a boy, he’d never imagined the time might come when Charlie needed Gibson more than the other way around.
‘Anything I can do?’ Imogen’s question jolted him from his thoughts.
Charlie hadn’t stirred while Gibson had taken off his shoes, so he said, ‘No thanks. I’ll just cover him over, drive you home and then come back to stay with him. I don’t want him to be alone tonight.’ He tugged the old crocheted rug from the back of the couch and tucked it around Charlie as best he could, all the while wondering if he should try convincing his grandfather to move back to the farm.
‘I agree. But you should stay with him,’ Imogen said, already picking her handbag up off the coffee table. ‘It’s not far, I’ll be fine walking.’
And Gibson was torn. He swept his hand through his hair, contemplating the decision. Part of him didn’t want to leave, but another part knew his grandfather would never forgive him if he let a lady walk home alone in the dark. Imogen was a strong, independent and capable woman, but it was late.
‘No, I’ll drive you,’ he insisted. ‘Charlie will be okay for a few moments.’
‘Thanks.’
Then she chipped away at his defences even more by crossing the room and bending down to Charlie. She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and whispered, ‘Thanks for a special night.’
Gibson shook the neckline of his shirt, loosening the top few buttons. The room felt stuffy. It had been a stressful night in many ways, and he could do with a few moments of fresh, near-midnight air.
He locked the door behind them and gestured for Imogen to go ahead down the garden path. Just before they got to his ute, he passed her and opened the passenger door. When she slid into the seat and her dress inched upwards, he scored a tantalising glimpse of bare thigh. He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the temptation. And when he got in beside her, he all but glued his hands to the steering wheel because he didn’t trust himself, not when he was all over the place with worry about Charlie.
Chapter Twenty
The streets were quiet, dark and empty so there wasn’t time for talk – small or otherwise – on the way to the pub. When they stopped in the back car park and looked up to see a light glowing in her apartment, he found that he didn’t want to leave her just yet. As if sensing his unease, she turned and smiled at him. ‘Do you want to come up for a few moments? I make a mean Milo.’
He knew she was offering an ear to listen, but he couldn’t help teasing. He needed to lighten the mood before he suffocated. ‘Aren’t you supposed to offer me coffee?’
Her lips broke into a smile that went all the way to her eyes. She shook her head, laughing. ‘Yes, except this offer isn’t a euphemism. Just friends, remember?’
‘Damn!’ He hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand theatrically.
‘Come on,’ she said, her hand already on the door handle. ‘I can be a good listener too.’
He well believed it. He just hoped he could trust himself alone in her house. The morning at his farm on the quad bike with her had been pure torture; being on the couch at Charlie’s a severe test of his willpower … Putting the temptation out of his mind, he yanked the key out of the ignition and undid his seatbelt. She didn’t need to tell him to tread quietly as they crept across the car park and into the building. He didn’t want to be the one responsible for tarnishing her reputation, especially when nothing was actually happening. The empty pub seemed odd without its music and jovial chatter. They passed through the bar and into the corridor that led to the stairs and her apartment.
Neither of them made a sound as they walked by the staff quarters, and the carpeted stairs muffled their steps as they trekked upstairs to her rooms. He stopped behind her at the door, waiting while she located her key in her bag and then pushed the door open. She stepped inside and he followed, automatically scanning the open-plan apartment, which was low-lit with lamps scattered throughout. A couple of shelves rested against the back of the lounge room, both chock full of books. An eclectic mix of art and photo frames decorated surfaces and walls. Coffee cups and discarded clothes littered the floor.
‘Sorry about the mess, I’ve been focusing more on downstairs,’ she said, dropping her handbag near the door. ‘Aside from Amy and Jenna, you’re the first guest I’ve had. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a moment.’ While she walked off to put the kettle on, he accepted the invitation to snoop.
He turned his head this way and that as he perused the various works of art, but it was the photos that captured his interest. There were a few photos of people he guessed to be her parents and sisters and a couple of her, Jenna and Amy, but there was a definite theme: Imogen plus Jamie equalled happiness. Every second photo was of them. And in every shot she glowed, her hand always touching him in some way. Jamie looked liked the cat that had scored a packet of never-ending mouse, his chest permanently puffed up. Imogen smiled more than anyone Gibson had ever seen anyone smile. He couldn’t help but wish she’d smile that smile at him.
By contrast, all his photos of him and Serena looked posed, as if they’d been waiting for a professional photographer to take a snap. Serena had certainly never looked at him that way. But could he blame her? As he stared down at a solo photo of Jamie in his fire-fighting gear – didn’t all girls like a guy in uniform? – one word came to mind: virile. You could never compete with someone like that, he warned himself. Even if he planned to … which he didn’t.
‘Here you are.’
He swung round at the sound of Imogen’s soft voice to see her walking towards him carrying two steaming mugs. She’d changed out of her dress into stripy pyjama pants and a beer t-shirt. On her feet she wore the fluffiest slippers he’d ever seen. He couldn’t help but smile.
‘Nice outfit,’ he said, taking a second glance up and down her body and pushing thoughts of her dead husband far from his mind. He took the mug she offered, soaking in the warmth as he wrapped his
fingers round it and sniffed. The delicious aroma of malted chocolate was much better than coffee.
She pointed one foot out in front and grinned downwards. ‘Those heels were really uncomfortable.’
‘Maybe so, but they were damn sexy.’ He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her legs all evening. ‘Sorry,’ he rushed, ‘I didn’t mean to overstep the mark. I’m trying like hell not to.’
‘I know.’ She smiled and sank down into an armchair. ‘I appreciate it.’ She gestured to the couch behind him.
He stepped back, sat down and took a sip of the sweet drink, before placing it on the coffee table. His hot feet twitched in his boots and he wanted to take them off, but didn’t think he should be making himself comfortable. In theory, he was here to talk about Charlie, but now – alone in her house – wayward thoughts threatened to take over.
‘I should spend more time with him,’ he said, focusing.
‘No.’ Imogen laid her mug on the table and came to sit beside him. She squeezed his shoulder. ‘You do so much for him. You visit every day and he appreciates it. He loves your visits, can’t talk enough about you. Please don’t beat yourself up. That’s the last thing he needs.’
She was so close, it’d be easy to lean forward and kiss her, but he somehow summoned restraint. ‘Has he ever told you about Bert?’
She shook her head, removed her hand and retrieved her drink. She settled on the couch beside him, taking sips as she listened.
‘He was his best mate from the time he moved here. They were mates for decades. He died a year ago.’
‘Oh.’
‘Granddad was okay before Bert went, at least I think he was.’ Gibson paused, finding it difficult to actually admit his grandfather might not be okay anymore. ‘Bert was a widower too. They did everything together. He and Bert used to come out to the farm a lot, and they’d go into Southern Cross to play bowls twice a week. His life was full. Then Bert died – heart attack on the bowling green – and Granddad took on more shifts at the pub, I think so he didn’t feel so lost. He also started talking more about Elsie. Seriously, I’d never heard so many stories about her until these last few months. Now she seems to be all he wants to talk about, that and …’ Fixing Gibson up with a nice girl.
He took another gulp of his Milo, but despite all its settling qualities he wished for something stronger. He turned his head to Imogen, shrugging because he didn’t know what else to say.
She smiled, edged closer on the couch and took his hand – one friend supporting another. ‘We’ll look after him,’ she said earnestly. ‘Cal, Pauli and I, we already adore him. Not to mention Karen and Tom. He’s not alone out here. And neither are you.’
Her touch might have been lethal but it was her words that really affected him. His throat grew thick and his eyes felt scratchy. Gibson couldn’t remember the last time he cried, and he didn’t want to now, because whatever she said, he was alone. Always. Imogen might support him with Charlie, they may even be able to get past the chemistry and embrace friendship, but in all the ways that really mattered, he’d always be alone.
‘Thanks.’ He swallowed, squeezed her hand quickly to show his appreciation and then extracted his. He made a show of glancing at his watch. ‘I’d better get back to him.’
‘Yeah.’ Imogen stood and escorted him out of her apartment, down the stairs and to the back door of the pub.
He stood there like an awkward teenager at the end of a first date. But after all she’d done for Charlie and him tonight, it felt wrong to leave without some sort of acknowledgement. Shaking her hand would be naff. A hug would have them up close and personal again. Not allowing any more time for contemplation, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against her cheek in the briefest of pecks. He hoped she took it for the platonic kiss he meant it to be, even if his body was screaming at him otherwise.
As Imogen closed the door behind Gibson, her hand rushed to her cheek where his lips had fluttered only moments before. How could a mere peck on the cheek invoke so much reaction? She turned and almost collapsed against the back of the door; part of her wanted to scrub her face clean and part of her never wanted to wash that spot again!
For a fleeting second she fantasised about what might have happened had she pulled Gibson in when he’d kissed her, instead of standing as straight and lifeless as a fence picket. But what kind of mixed signals would she be giving the poor man then? She’d told him she didn’t want to be more than friends and she meant it. They’d done a good job of it tonight; she’d tried so damn hard. It wasn’t her fault her hormones were taking a little longer to get with the program.
At the raging battle between logic and lust, her head began to throb, the telltale first signs of a headache. But it wasn’t only her feelings towards Gibson Black causing anxiety; it was also worry about Charlie. She sighed a deep sigh that flicked hair out of her eyes. Gibson had finally opened up, finally admitted that Charlie might have a problem. She hoped that in the light of day he’d still be willing to talk, because as much as he liked to be a sole operator, Charlie was her business as well. She couldn’t bear it if something were to happen while he was working for her.
A yawn escaped her lips. It was now after midnight, well past her usual bedtime. She yawned again and glanced ahead up the stairs to her apartment. They could have been Mount Everest for all the enthusiasm she could summon to climb them. Tonight had been emotionally draining in more ways than one, and it was only the thought of bed and the oblivion of slumber that forced her tired legs to work.
Once in her apartment, she locked the door behind her, made a lame attempt at brushing her teeth and then flung herself under the covers. Despite the still-warm weather, Imogen drew the doona up under her chin and tried to get comfy. She’d speak to Jamie tomorrow. Blowing his photo a kiss goodnight, she leaned over and switched off the bedside light. Lying flat on her back, she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for sleep to come.
But of course it didn’t.
Her body felt as taut as freshly tuned violin strings, and she groaned as she listened to every creak and squeak the old building made. She’d never noticed the noises before, and for a second or two it sounded as if someone were creeping around downstairs. Had she forgotten to lock the back door in her haste to get rid of Gibson? Her heart stammered and only the thought of Cal and Pauli not too far away comforted her.
Gibson would be better. No one would mess with him.
And dammit, she couldn’t get that thought out of her head. The noises ceased but it was too late. The fantasy had returned with a vengeance: what would have happened after she’d pulled that big, muscular body into her embrace, where they’d have ended up, the way their limbs would have twisted and tangled blissfully in the act.
She flung the doona back, no longer in need of comforting but of something else altogether. Beads of sweat swam across her brow, between her breasts and in other unmentionable places. She stormed out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, almost yanking the fridge door off its hinges in her rush for ice-cold water. Drink it or toss it over herself? That was the question. She opted for drink, feeling the cool liquid spreading through her body, but unfortunately doing nothing to quell the fire that raged within her.
Arousal. There was no other word for the intensity she was feeling. Discarding the jug of water on the kitchen bench, she trekked back to her room. She almost resorted to the vibrator. Almost, but not quite. Oh, she knew plenty of people used them – had never judged Jenna for her love affair with hers – but she just couldn’t bring herself to take that step. Wrongly or rightly, she felt that bringing the pink battery-operated boyfriend out of its box would be like admitting defeat.
Imogen needed to be able to control her physical feelings towards Gibson without artificial assistance, and she swore she’d win this battle if it killed her.
Chapter Twenty-one
Having remembered to turn the alarm off on her mobile when she went to sleep, Imogen was shocked at the time when she woke only
a few hours later. Whether she liked it or not, her body clock had become adapted to early morning exercise. Unable to get back to sleep, she decided to get up and go with her usual run.
Not wanting a repeat of that embarrassing incident where she’d almost been run over by Gibson, Imogen had altered her running route after that. But today, without making a conscious decision, she found herself heading back that way.
Gibson woke in the hard single bed in Charlie’s spare room, his mind flashing with episodes from the previous night as he tried to recall why he was still there. He stared at the ceiling for a few long moments before recollection dawned. He rolled onto his side and groaned, not only at the shocking psychedelic wallpaper (the kind that was briefly fashionable in the seventies) but also at the hard decisions that lay ahead of him regarding his granddad.
Should he confront Charlie about his worries? Should he call his parents and risk an earbashing from his mother? She’d likely have Charlie summoned to some institution in Perth. Or maybe he could just monitor the situation a little longer. Times like this he wished he believed in all that new-age craziness his sister Paris constantly rabbited on about, because right now, calling a psychic and asking for direction seemed like a mighty fine plan.
Noise from the kitchen jostled Gibson from his thoughts. He sprung from the bed, grabbed the pants he’d shucked off when he returned from Imogen’s in the early hours of the morning, pulled them on and headed out to greet his granddad, dreading what kind of confusion he might find. Yawning, he stepped into the kitchen and smelled freshly brewed coffee. Just the medicine he needed.
Charlie turned from where he’d been opening the curtains to let in the dawn and grinned at Gibson. He glanced to the empty champagne bottle on the table and chuckled. ‘Had a big night, did we? That’s why I zonked it on the couch and you couldn’t drive home. You did see Imogen home first, didn’t ya?’
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