Kiwi Strong (New Zealand Ever After Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  I couldn’t wait forty minutes. Not possible. The sickness was rising again like an evil tide. I barely got off the phone before I was retching again, and my dark glasses were no match for the sun that was slicing all the way to my brain.

  I rang Daisy.

  She answered on the second ring. Not sounding sleepy, even though she had to be. Her first words were, “Gray? All right?”

  “Yeh,” I said. “No. I need some … extra migraine tablets. Uh … bedside table. Uh … can’t remember the name, sorry.” I was blanking. Zoning out. I refocused with an almighty effort.

  “I’ll find them,” she said. “Coming now. Fifteen minutes. Give me the address.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “You’re sleeping.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said, and despite the pain and the nausea, I almost smiled. And then I put one careful foot in front of the other and went over to meet the concrete mixer.

  Daisy

  It took me a while to find Gray. First, I had to explain who I was and why I was here. Then I had to get a hard hat, and have somebody show me how to adjust it so it didn’t cover my entire head. Eventually, though, we caught up with Gray. Not on the bed in the first-aid station where he belonged. Standing to one side of an enormous, dirty-white concrete mixer making a noise loud enough to raise the dead, shouting to somebody over the din.

  I touched his arm, and he turned to me, frowning. His skin had a grayish tinge to it, and lines of strain stood out on his forehead and cheeks. I held up the packet of medication, and he shouted some more at whoever it was, took the packet, punched out a tablet, swallowed it dry, and nodded at me. In dismissal.

  I asked him, leaning in and shouting so he could hear me, “Did you eat?”

  “No,” he said. “Never mind.”

  I held up the bag I’d packed and the paper cup I’d brought. “Sandwich,” I yelled. “Also coffee.” Strong and black and plenty of it.

  He made no move to take it from me. He waved a hand instead and said, “No, thanks. Go back home.”

  “No,” I said. “You need to eat.”

  He stared at me. “Daisy. Go home. I don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m putting it in the truck,” I told him. “Where is it?”

  Somebody else yelled something at him, and he took a few steps toward him and yelled back. I saw the stagger, the dragging of his leg, his attempt to correct it, and I was hustling forward again, tugging at his sleeve.

  This time, when he turned to me, he looked angry. “Go home,” he said. “I’m fine.” Weaving on his feet.

  “You’re not fine,” I said.

  He said, “Leave. I mean it. You can’t be here. I don’t have time!” The last part was a shout. After which he leaned over from the waist and dry-heaved into the dirt, and the bloke he’d been talking to took a step back. Gray stood up, seemed to forget where he was, and took a couple of stumbling steps to the side. His arm went out to brace himself, but there was nothing to brace himself on.

  What did I do now? What did you do when you were invading his space, interfering with his work, but when your work and your training told you he was in danger?

  You dug in. At least, that’s what I did. I leaned close and yelled at him, “If you don’t come with me right now, you are never having sex with me again.” I was loud. He heard it. So did two other guys, because they smiled. I didn’t care. Gray glared some more, and I said, “Right now. Also, I’ll call WorkSafe.”

  He shouted back at me, “Go nurse somebody else! I’m not your patient! Go the fuck home!”

  Standoff.

  I reached into his shirt pocket, found the packet, and got out another tablet, since I was pretty sure he’d lost the first one in that bout of retching. He swallowed it and glared some more. His nostrils were actually flaring. I put the cup of coffee in his hand, and when he tried to give it back to me, said, “Don’t you dare. Drink it. You’re an idiot, and you’re unsafe, and I’m leaving. The sandwich will be in your truck.”

  I stomped off. The young fella joined me after a second and escorted me across the jobsite again. I’d have thought it was Gray being solicitous, but it was actually Gray wanting to get rid of me.

  The drive home, then, pounding the steering wheel. And no more sleep for me.

  Gray

  It was seven-thirty before I made it home.

  Daisy met Xena and me at the door. She didn’t jump into my arms, and she didn’t resume the fight. She got an arm around me, helped me up the stairs and into the bedroom, stripped off my clothes, and put me under the duvet. She closed the blinds, got the wet facecloth for my eyes, sat beside me and massaged my temples, and didn’t say a word. I wanted to ask her to feed the dog, but I didn’t have the energy.

  I fell asleep to all the unspoken things between us. To the knowledge that I was failing in every possible way.

  I woke up sometime much later, because it was fully dark. I was exhausted, as drained as if I’d just lost a championship game against the Springboks, and the mental post-migraine fog hung around me like the barometric pressure of a storm coming, weighing me down. I stumbled to the shower, stood in water as hot as I could manage, shivered hard, and leaned against the wall. Afterwards, I put on a dressing gown and went downstairs.

  Daisy was at the dining table, working on something on her laptop. She closed it when she saw me and said, “I’ll get you some soup.”

  I said, “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t,” she said. “I’m choosing to.” She came back with a bowl of chicken soup with noodles, a piece of toast, and a glass of water, set it all down in front of me, and said, “Try to eat all the soup and drink the water. You’re probably dehydrated and low on electrolytes.” After that, she went back to her chair and opened her laptop again.

  I took a bite of soup and said, “This isn’t the silent treatment, because you’re talking. I’m trying to decide what to call it.”

  “It’s a postponement,” she said. “You’re too ill to fight. I’m postponing. And I need to get ready for work.”

  “You missed your workout,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “I did my workout downstairs in your gym. I didn’t miss a thing.”

  52

  Step by Step

  Daisy

  I came home at nine o’clock the next morning, not knowing what I’d find there.

  The first thing I found was Xena, coming to the door to greet me, her tail sweeping in a full circle. I gave her a pat and said, “Hey, girl. Hey. You must’ve been worried yesterday, huh? So was I. Why does he have to be such a stubborn bugger?”

  In answer, she wagged some more and smiled. I patted her again, but absently, because right there in the hideous green lounge, in the middle of the bulbous, varnished-to-orange coffee table, was a jar stuck full of crabapple branches crowded with sweet-scented pink blooms.

  Haphazardly arranged, with no possible kind of talent.

  He’d cut me flowers. The only pretty flowers he could find.

  There was a note propped against the jar. Not a beautiful card, or anything like that. A piece of computer paper, folded over, with my name scrawled on the front.

  I unfolded it.

  Sorry, I read. I was a dickhead. Thanks for helping me anyway. I love you.

  I looked up, and he was in the doorway. Arms folded, ankles crossed. Shorts and T-shirt and muscle and frown. Trying to make this casual, like it didn’t matter.

  I set my note down and asked, “How are you?”

  “Better,” he said. “OK.”

  “Bit shaky?” I asked.

  “Yeh. Think I slept about twelve hours. I made us veggie breakfast bowls, though. Just poaching the eggs now.”

  I said, “Quick shower, and I’ll be down to eat it.” I started to walk to the stairs, then doubled back, picked up my note, and took it with me.

  Too much emotion. Shutting down.

  Five minutes, and I was downstairs again in my dressing gown.

>   Hard things are possible. Step by step.

  I walked straight into the kitchen, and straight into Gray’s arms. They came around me tight, and I leaned all the way into him, let myself feel all the warmth and security of that rock-solid comfort, and said, “Could we just do this a minute?”

  “Yeh,” he said, and there was a catch in his voice. “Yeh.”

  We did it for more than a minute. And he didn’t say anything at all, just waited until I stepped back and said, “All right. I’m ready.”

  He gave me a crooked smile. “Sounds like you’re about to face the firing squad. It won’t be as bad as that, surely. Not if we love each other.”

  Whoa. I took a step back, and he said, “Somebody told me to eat first,” grabbed two plates from the oven, where they must have been staying warm, and took them to the dining room. He said, “Tea,” and went back for it, then sat down beside me.

  I said, “You cooked.”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “It looks good.”

  He laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised. It took twenty minutes. Easy nutrition.”

  It was more than that. It was a pile of tender, browned slices of sweet potato in the center, surrounded by heaps of sautéed crimini mushrooms, crispy kale, and red cabbage topped by two poached eggs. A spoonful of hummus to one side, some avocado oil and balsamic vinegar drizzled over all of it, and buttered Vogel’s toast. I said, “I had no idea you could do this.”

  “Well, you see,” he said, “I had no choice but to learn. I haven’t had a beautiful, loving woman to cook me something delicious, and be better to me in general than a grumpy bugger deserves.”

  I said, “Oh,” past the lump in my throat. I forked up some cabbage, then set my fork down and said, “I was trying to help.”

  “I know.”

  “I didn’t think you were safe.”

  “I know. You may have been right.”

  I said, “I’m more than a pretty face handing out meds. I can evaluate a person with a problem. It’s my job.”

  “Daisy.” His hand came out to cover mine. “I knew you were right. I knew I was too ill, that I wasn’t fit. That’s why I lost my temper.”

  “And swore at me,” I put in.

  “Yeh. And swore at you. Not forgivable, but I’m asking you to forgive me anyway. I’ve been … running scared, maybe. Too much on my plate, and not handling it as well as I should. So caught up in the day-to-day that I don’t stop to find a better way. I’ve got this meeting today, and I’m worried about that, too. And I’ve been distracting myself with sex instead of facing the things I need to face.”

  I took my hand away. “I’m a … a distraction? That’s what this is?”

  “No.” His eyes were intense. Honest. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. But I’m not used to this much emotion. I do it alone. I always have. That’s another thing I haven’t looked at straight on, maybe. What we’re doing here. How I feel about you. Being afraid …” He took a breath and went on. “That I can’t keep all these balls in the air. That I’m too far behind on the jobs, that I’ve bitten off too much. That you can’t love a man who fails. And that the migraines could be a sign of something worse. They don’t come often, but when they do, they’re bad.”

  “I was just worried.” My throat was closing, my eyes stinging. “You were staggering. You could barely see. On a construction site! And then I tried to make you come with me and lie down, and you wouldn’t, and I thought … And why would I care about whether you’re behind on the job, whether you have some … some growing pains, or whatever? Why would you have to perform for me, to be some big … some big success for me? Have you seen my flat? And I’m sorry, but I’m going to care about you. I’m always going to care about you, even if you do swear at me, so get used to it. You don’t get to be protective all alone.”

  “Did I mention that I’m stubborn?” He had my hand in his now. “I’d stuffed up, and I didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t have my tablets. Didn’t want to take your coffee, even though I needed it. Didn’t want to admit that I needed that sandwich, either. I’m trying to say that I’m sorry for shouting at you, and swearing at you. And that my not listening wasn’t about you. It was about me.”

  “No.” Time to tell the truth. He’d been honest, and it was time to see what I could do. “It’s about me, too. You’ve always done it alone? So have I. I’m scared to get this close. I’m terrified. I’m scared to tell the truth, because the truth is that I was so worried about you, and I care too much, and I don’t know what we’re doing here. I know it’s too much, with the girls, with Gilead. Too much complication. Too much responsibility, when you have so much already. And I know that sooner or later, you’ll figure that out, and when that happens, I’ll finally fall apart the way I never have, because I’ve let myself fall in love with you. So … so hard. And I’m so afraid that …” I had to stop a minute. “That loving you is going to be the thing that breaks me, because it’s the one thing …” Another pause. For breath. And for courage. “The one thing I don’t have any defenses against. Because they’re gone. My defenses. They’re gone. I cried yesterday, and I swore I’d never let another man make me cry. But I couldn’t …” I was breathing hard now, too close to crying again. “I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop.”

  This time, when he kissed me, it was gentle. Healing. “You don’t have to be scared,” he told me. “Or maybe you do. Maybe I do, too. Maybe that’s all right, because we’re not going to be perfect. Reckon we just have to feel our way. And—sweetheart?”

  “What?” My heart was so full. I was completely overwhelmed, unable to swim over the wave this time, and maybe, just maybe, that was all right. Maybe, this time, I could let the wave take me down.

  He smiled at me. Warm. Solid. Real. “Thanks for coming home.”

  Gray

  I didn’t think about the rest of it. About the golf game. The investors’ meeting. The firm. I was here, and this was now.

  We ate our breakfast sitting close to each other, the air filled with relief, and with love. A touch of a hand, a pause for a kiss, for a word. A moment when I held her head in my hand, pressed my forehead to hers, and told her, “I’m a lucky man, and I know it.”

  And after breakfast, I took her to bed.

  The blinds were drawn, and I kept them that way. A dim room, a wide bed, and Daisy lying across rumpled white sheets in a raspberry dressing gown.

  All the life in the world.

  I made love to her like I’d done the first time. Like it was the first time. Long, sweet kisses and slow, soft touches, melting away the doubts, the fears, the pain. Her hands greedy for me, pulling off my T-shirt, shoving at my shorts. My hand parting that dressing gown, sliding over the silken skin of her midriff. Pressing my lips into her palm, closing her fingers over that kiss, then going back to kiss her mouth again. Nothing but time. Nowhere but here.

  I touched her and kissed her and pleased her, and I did it the way she liked. Step by step, taking her higher. Until her body was quivering, until her hands were in my hair and her back was arching straight off the bed, until she was calling out with the force of her orgasm.

  I needed to do something different today, though. I needed to hold her under me, and I needed to hold her safe. I rose up her body, kissed her again, our hands on each other’s faces, and said, “I want to do it like this. Can you trust me?”

  It was a long moment, and I held my breath.

  “Yes,” she said. And opened her legs.

  Sliding into her, her hands on my shoulders. Burying myself all the way inside her, rocking her long and slow. Her legs around my waist, her hands running down my biceps and back up again. Her mouth pressed to my tattoo, starting to bite. Her breath in my ears. Her voice, telling me, “Do that. Please. Oh, please. Do that some more. Gray. Gray.”

  There’d never been a love like this. Never in the world.

  Daisy

  We lay together, afterward
s, for a long time. My fingers trailing over his chest, his hand playing with a strand of my hair. I said, “It was so hard to believe.”

  He said, “I know. But you can, you know. You can. I’m not perfect. But I’m yours.”

  “You said something like that,” I told him. “You said today, and tomorrow, and the next day. I didn’t think you meant it.”

  “I meant it. And it matters to me that you do, too.”

  I rolled over him so I was holding him better. Holding him all the way, so he could feel it. I took his face in my hands, kissed his mouth, and said, “I mean it, and I’ll mean it tomorrow. And the next day, too. I know you’re not perfect. Neither am I. Maybe you’ll get knocked down again. Why would that matter to me? I know you’ll get back up again, just like you have every other time. I don’t love you because you’re standing now. I love you because you got up again. Because you work so hard. Because you never let up. Because the harder it gets, the harder you dig in. Why wouldn’t I bet on a man like that? Why wouldn’t I count on him?”

  “You realize,” he said, a smile twisting his mouth, “that that’s you, too. Everything you just said is you.”

  “Maybe,” I said, loving him so much, it hurt my heart. “We’ve both got baggage. Got too many scars.”

  He said, “Maybe so. Or maybe that’s just life. If we could only love somebody who never disappointed us, I reckon we’d be in for a pretty lonely life. All we can do is try.”

  I said, “I’ll try.”

  He said, “I know you will. And so will I.”

  He held me until I fell asleep.

  53

  Sucking at Golf

  Gray

  I wasn’t at my best for my golf game that afternoon, that was for sure.

  On the second hole, I sliced the ball straight into the trees and never found it again. After it happened again on the back nine, Drew grabbed his bag, started to walk to the next hole, and said, “Want to tell us what’s happening?”