The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) (10 page)

He must think she was the worst sort of self-pitying sook—in
addition to being emotionally unstable, of course.

His parting words came to her then.

What makes you think I’m in a position to
judge anybody? Everyone’s got their own shit to shovel,
Mackenzie.

At the time she’d thought he was simply being kind—continuing
to be kind, really—but now she thought...maybe not. There had been a look in his
eyes as he’d spoken, a sort of hard, lonely bleakness....

Something else he’d said slipped into her mind.
It suited me to get away for a few weeks.

It occurred to her that maybe she wasn’t the only one
struggling with a less-than-stellar life right now. The thought that she might
not be alone in her messed-up state, that maybe she hadn’t made as big a fool of
herself as she’d imagined, loosened the tense knot in her belly. Maybe, as
Oliver had suggested, she was allowed to have a bad day occasionally.

Maybe—revolutionary thought—she could even afford to cut
herself some slack.

It wasn’t exactly a philosophy she was familiar with.
Everything she’d achieved in life she’d gained through hard work and
determination. She’d attacked her recovery with the same zeal—every exercise a
challenge, every milestone achieved a victory and a spur.

She had no idea how to turn off that part of herself. No
concept of what it might be like to hold herself to a lesser standard. But maybe
she needed to try, because, as she’d said to Oliver, she was so, so tired.

Tired of the constant fear she would never be able to reclaim
her old life that sat behind her breastbone.

Tired of pretending to the world that everything was just
dandy, that having her body torn apart had been a mere hiccup, a temporary hitch
in her stride.

Tired of pretending to herself that she was still the same
woman she’d been twelve months ago.

Would it be the end of the world if
everything didn’t go back to being the way it used to be?

She’d never really asked herself that question. She’d been so
busy trying to make it as though the accident had never happened. But maybe she
should be thinking less about resurrecting the past and more about what the
future might hold. Maybe it was time to stop trying to alter an irreversible
reality and instead work out how to live with it.

A few days ago, the notion of moving toward acceptance and away
from defiance would have felt akin to heresy. Tonight...tonight it felt
timely.

* * *

M
ACKENZIE
WOKE
TO
the
sound of birdsong outside her window. As always, she started planning her day
the moment her brain came online, allocating time to all the things she needed
to do, making lists in her head. Breakfast, then she needed to ramp up her rehab
exercises so she could return to her regular workload. She had three days of
downtime to make up for, after all.

She also needed to do something about getting a job. She
wouldn’t be fit for full-time work for a few months yet, but she needed to put
her ear to the ground so she could find out who was where and what was happening
and what opportunities might be on the horizon. She could renew her subscription
to
Inside Film Magazine,
the industry bible, call a
few contacts, put out some feelers....

She flung back the covers and swung her legs to the floor.
Instead of standing and plunging into the day, however, she simply sat
there.

Not eight hours ago, she’d posed a number of questions to
herself—or, more accurately, Oliver had—and she’d decided they were worth
considering. Yet here she was, ready to embark on yet another day of pitting her
will against her injuries, trying to alter reality by sheer dint of willpower
and determination alone.

But what if this
was
her new
normal? What if all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put her
back together the way she’d once been? What would the world look like if she
ceased trying to shove a square peg into a round hole?

Or, on a simpler, more practical level, what did she
really
want to do today, rather than subject herself
to a grueling rehab session that would leave her feeling weak and potentially
nauseous?

It was a novel question and it occupied her for all of five
seconds. Then she stood to let Smitty in before returning to bed and pulling the
covers high, because she knew the answer: she was going to stay warm and snug
with her dog and read one of the books stacked on her bedside table. Then, when
her stomach dictated, she would make herself something delicious for
breakfast—pancakes, perhaps, or waffles. Then, and only then, she would figure
out what else she felt like doing.

Smitty didn’t need to be invited onto the bed—it was his
favorite place in the world, and he was up in a flash. Mackenzie ran a hand
along his back and smiled as he turned to lick her wrist. She picked up a book
and wriggled herself into a comfortable position. Her conscience nagged at her
for the first twenty pages, telling her to get moving and sweating and striving.
She ignored it and continued reading until finally the nagging stopped and she
was simply
being.

How very...interesting.

After a while, a warm feeling of well-being stole over her and
she found herself remembering the kindness and gentleness of Oliver’s touch as
he soothed his hand in circles on her back last night.

This respite she’d allowed herself felt a lot like that hand on
her back. Reassuring and right and—perhaps most importantly—
kind.
She was suddenly filled with an overwhelming surge of
gratitude toward her neighbor for his calm good sense and patience.

The jury was still out, but it was possible that last night
hadn’t been a disaster of epic proportions, as she’d first imagined. Maybe it
had, in fact, been exactly what she needed.

* * *

O
LIVER
WAS
BUTTONING
his coat when a knock sounded at the door. Strudel raced down the hall,
feet skidding on the polished floor, determined to be the first to greet their
visitor.

“And yet I’m the one with the opposable thumbs and the ability
to actually open the door,” Oliver told her as he joined her in the foyer.

Strudel gave him an impatient look and pawed at the wood. He
opened it to find Mackenzie on his doorstep, covered plate in hand. As usual,
she was dressed in monochrome from head to toe, the only color the neon flashes
on her running shoes.

“Long time no see.” She gave an awkward, self-conscious wave
with her free hand.

“Mackenzie. How are you?”

She looked surprisingly good for someone who had lost it in a
big way not so long ago. Her eyes were bright, her shoulders square. Not a whiff
of despair anywhere.

“I’m good, thanks. Which is mostly because of you. I wanted to
thank you again for talking me down last night. And to offer you this to make up
for the world’s most depressing dinner party.” She thrust the plate toward
him.

“Is that the rest of the lemon tart?”

“It is.”

“In that case...” He took the plate. “I’d like it noted for the
record that normally I’d refuse to take anything for simply being a reasonably
decent human being, but this tart is too good to say no to.”

Her smile was more genuine the second time around. “I was kind
of banking on that. And you were far more than reasonably decent last
night.”

Strudel surged forward to sniff her shoes, quickly rising up to
put her paws on Mackenzie’s thighs.

“Down, Strudel. Four paws on the floor, please,” he said.

“It’s okay. She can probably smell Mr. Smith.” She scratched
Strudel’s chest and beneath her chin. When the dog dropped down again, Mackenzie
took a step backward. “Anyway. I wanted to say thanks. You said all the right
things last night and I really appreciate that you didn’t start looking for the
exit the moment I started crying.”

She shrugged, so self-conscious it was difficult to watch. He
understood why—she’d been intensely vulnerable last night, stripped bare—but he
hated the idea that she thought he was judging her for having such a human,
understandable reaction to disappointing news.

“Four months ago I discovered my wife was having an affair with
her former boyfriend.” The words were out before he could think about it. “In
fact, it turned out she’d never stopped seeing him for the six years of our
marriage.”

Mackenzie’s eyebrows rose toward her hairline. Even though he
could feel his face heating, he held her eye and kept talking.

“Like I said last night, everyone’s got their own shit to deal
with.”

“God. I’m really sorry, Oliver.”

He shook his head. He hadn’t told her because he wanted her
pity. “It is what it is. I’m dealing with it. Just like you’re dealing with your
stuff. And some days are good, and some days suck the big one.”

“Yeah, they do.”

“I figure there isn’t a rule book for getting through crap. You
get through it however you can.”

She cocked her head. “Including driving a thousand miles south
to clear out a dead woman’s house?”

“Yeah. Including that, along with some inappropriate use of
alcohol, punching of inanimate objects, self-pitying moping and late-night jam
sessions on the guitar.”

Truth be told, a part of him had envied her the crying jag last
night. At least she’d found an outlet for her pain and frustration. And she
hadn’t had to do it alone the way he’d done those times he’d broken down.

“Hang on a minute—was that you playing the guitar the other
night? The acoustic stuff?”

He winced. “You could hear that? My apologies.”

“Are you kidding? It was great.”

There was no doubting her sincerity. He shrugged. Apparently it
was his turn to be self-conscious.

“I was messing around. Self-indulgent doodling.”

“I meant to ask you who it was so I could buy the album.”

He barked out a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on the other side of the
mixing desk.”

“Maybe you should reconsider that.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” His days of being a professional
musician were long gone.

She studied his face for a moment, her eyes warm and searching.
Finally she smiled. “Thanks, Oliver.” There was a world of meaning and nuance in
her voice.

His gaze dropped to her mouth and he found himself fighting the
very inappropriate urge to lean forward and kiss her. She was complicated and a
bit messed up, but so was he and he’d dreamed about her last night. About how
she’d feel in his arms, and that kiss she’d pressed to his cheek and the round
curves of her ass and breasts.

He really wanted to know what she tasted like. What that full
bottom lip of hers would feel like pressed against his, and if the connection
he’d felt when she’d touched him last night had been a fluke or something more
important.

As though she sensed his intent, Mackenzie took another step
backward. “Give me a yell over the fence when you’ve finished with the plate,
okay?” She turned to go.

For the second time that morning Oliver found himself opening
his mouth without first weighing his words. “Strudel and I were about to go for
a walk along the beach. Would you and Mr. Smith want to come?”

She paused, and he couldn’t read the expression in her
eyes.

“Actually, that sounds good. Can you give me a few
minutes?”

“Sure.”

“Then I’ll be back in five.”

He stared after her as she walked along the driveway, wondering
at himself.

What was he doing, exactly? Making a play for the neighbor?
Exercising his rusty charm?

It was one thing to acknowledge he was a single man and another
thing entirely to act on it. If that was what he was doing.

He thought about it for a minute, then went inside to find
Strudel’s lead.

The truth was he had no idea what was going on in his own mind
at the best of times. And this was definitely not the best of times.

CHAPTER SIX

M
ACKENZIE
SHED
HER
VEST
and shoved her arms into her
warmest wool coat, then reached for the fluffy scarf her niece had knitted her
for Christmas. Made from multicolored wool, it was lumpy and misshapen and far
too long, but it was also incredibly warm and it never failed to touch her that
the niece she almost never saw had labored for hours to produce it. Wrapping it
around her neck several times, Mackenzie headed for the door.

Her faithful hound did the happy dance when he saw her collect
his lead and harness from the hook in the kitchen. She waited until his
excitement had subsided before securing him. Then they went to join Oliver and
Strudel.

As she’d half expected, he was waiting for her in the street,
Strudel sitting patiently with a long-suffering expression on her face. The
schnauzer perked up the moment she saw Mr. Smith, however, and Mackenzie and
Oliver waited patiently while they fawned over each other before turning in the
direction of the beach.

“Just as well you’re with me. I wasn’t really sure how to find
the beach,” Oliver said.

“Somehow I feel pretty confident you would have worked it out,”
Mackenzie said as they left the road and started down the path that led through
a narrow band of bush to the sand. The sound of the surf was clearly audible,
readily indicating which way the beach lay.

“You’d be surprised. I have a gift for getting lost. No sense
of direction whatsoever.”

“He said proudly.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t say I’m proud. More resigned.”

“Have you considered GPS?”

“That would be cheating.”

They reached the part of the path where it narrowed to single
file and Mackenzie fell back, an action that afforded her a perfect view of
Oliver’s backside as he strode ahead. He was wearing faded jeans today, the worn
denim hugging his firm, round butt.

It occurred to her that it would have been far better for her
peace of mind if he’d been one of those men with a tiny, disappearing backside
or womanly hips.

No such luck, however.

“Does that mean you never stop to ask for directions, either?”
she asked, forcing her gaze away from temptation.

“Correct. Directions are also cheating.”

She could hear the laughter in his voice.

“Remind me not to take a road trip with you.”

They emerged from the protection of the bush onto a windswept
expanse of sand. The water was a dull pewter color, the waves white tipped as
they hammered against the shore. An icy wind found its way beneath Mackenzie’s
coat and she immediately buttoned it all the way to the neck and thrust her
hands deep into her pockets.

“Dear God, it’s like Antarctica down here,” Oliver said,
copying her actions.

She watched as he flipped up the collar on his coat, feeling
guilty for not having warned him that the beach could be harsh in winter.

“That’s probably because the wind comes straight from
Antarctica.”

“No kidding.”

They let the dogs loose and watched as they bolted along the
sand, taking turns chasing one another.

“Kids, eh?” Oliver said, tucking Strudel’s lead into his jacket
pocket.

They started walking, following the trail the dogs had left in
the wet sand.

“So, you ever been married?” Oliver asked.

The subject was such a non sequitur it threw her for a moment.
Although, perhaps his curiosity made sense in light of their recent mutual
confessions. “Yep. Three years.” She pulled a face. “Not exactly a stellar
achievement, but we both realized early on that we’d made a mistake.”

“How long ago?”

“Nearly four years.” It seemed hard to believe that much time
had passed. Of course, part of her disbelief could be because she’d been silly
enough to fall into an affair with Patrick more recently—but Oliver didn’t need
to know that.

“Edie and I should never have gotten married. I have no idea
why she said yes when I asked her, since she pretty much picked up with Nick the
moment we got back from the honeymoon.”

Mackenzie winced mentally. He hadn’t referred to his wife by
name before, but she understood now that he’d married the lead singer of the
band, Edie Somers. It was too unusual a name for him to be referring to some
other Edie. And last night Mackenzie had blathered on about how special and
talented the other woman was.

Open mouth, insert foot.

“Are they still together?” she asked.

“I have no idea and I don’t want to know. If I could walk away
from it all and never hear about them again, I would.” There was a world of
anger beneath his words.

She opened her mouth to apologize for prying but he stopped in
his tracks and blew his breath out in a rush.

The look he gave her was rueful. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant for
you.”

“I’d be pissed, too, if I were you. Six years is a long time to
lie to someone you share a bed with.”

“Yeah.” He dug his hands deeper in his pockets, hunching his
shoulders around his ears.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to.”

“There’s not much to say. I got married thinking I would stay
that way until one of us was carted off in a wooden box. Instead, I get to make
lists of my assets for the lawyers.” He shrugged. “It sucks.”

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. The wind was
playing havoc with his hair, ruffling it and pushing it this way and that. He
stared out at the ocean, his expression distant and stony—and yet he was still
the most vivid, alive thing on the beach, with his rich chestnut hair and long
stride. For reasons she didn’t care to examine, she wanted to erase that air of
disappointment.

“Tell me about your music. When did you start playing?” she
asked.

The glance he shot her told her he was fully aware that she was
steering the conversation to more neutral ground, but he followed her lead. They
walked and he told her how he’d learned the guitar in primary school to impress
a girl and discovered that not only was it an awesome pickup tool, it was also
something that came easily to him.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those revolting people who can
hear any song and then play it a few seconds later?” she asked.

“I’m afraid to answer that question honestly for fear of not
making it back from this walk alive.”

“I took violin lessons for five years with a girl like you. She
made me feel as though I had ten thumbs and a lobotomy.”

“I’d like to point out—again—that I am utterly inept when it
comes to map reading and general direction finding. If that makes you feel any
better.”

“It does, marginally. Thank you for reminding me.”

“Can I ask why you persevered for five years if you hated it so
much?”

“Overachieving child of overachieving parents. None of us knew
when to quit.”

“Funny. I would never have pegged you as an overachiever.” His
expression was so deadpan, his tone so dry she might almost have believed he was
serious—except for the teasing light in his eyes.

“You should know that overachievers are known for not having a
great sense of humor about their overachieving,” she said, matching his
expression and tone.

“Noted. Next time I will make sure to bring along a laugh track
so you know when I’ve been funny.”

She couldn’t stop herself from smiling then. Her instincts had
been right about this man—he was nice. A real, decent, sincere man.

He was also rather disturbingly sexy in a rugged, down-to-earth
way that she didn’t run into a lot in the highly groomed, fake-tanned world of
television.

Edie Somers must have had rocks in her head to have had this
man in her life and her bed and thrown it all away.

They’d reached the halfway mark and she checked to make sure
the dogs were still in sight. They were, running in and out of the surf, chasing
waves and each other.

“I know it’s almost un-Australian to say this, but I prefer the
beach in winter,” she said. “No crowds, no screaming kids, no rubbish in the
sand.”

“You’re right. This arctic wonderland is infinitely
better.”

More dryness. She was beginning to recognize it as his stock in
trade.

His collar had flopped down and he stood it up again, a meager
defense against the wind.

“If you’re cold, we can turn back,” she suggested.

“I’m fine. Besides, I want to see what’s on the other side of
those rocks.”

“I’ll give you three guesses.”

“More rocks?”

“Bingo.”

“Still. I think I need to see that for myself.”

He glanced at her and she saw he was enjoying himself. Which
was nice, because she was enjoying herself, too.

They talked some more about his music, then about her work. He
peppered her with questions about the game show she’d worked on before
Time and Again,
feigning outrage when he learned that
some of the segments were recorded several times for technical reasons. It
wasn’t until they’d reached the rocks at the end of the beach and he offered her
a hand to clamber to the top of them that she realized how cold he was, his
fingers icy against hers.

“This is ridiculous. I should have warned you it’s brutal out
here. You need to go home and warm up,” she said, digging her heels in.

“I want to see the other rocks.”

She assessed him. “Is this one of those man things, refusing to
let the elements get the better of you, yada yada?”

“Maybe.”

“Pathetic. Come on, we’re going back.”

She whistled to get Mr. Smith’s attention, letting him know
with a gesture that she was heading home. He loped to her side, Strudel hard on
his heels, both of them wet and speckled with sand, tongues lolling happily.

“I’m really fine,” Oliver said.

His shoulders were hunched even higher, his arms rigid against
his body as he buried his hands deep in his coat pockets.

“I feel cold just looking at you. Here, have this.” She started
to unwind her scarf.

“Get out of here. I’m not taking your scarf.” Oliver waved her
away.

“It’s ugly but warm. And you need it more than I do,” she
said.

“I’m not taking your scarf, Mackenzie. End of discussion.”

She frowned at him, the scarf hanging from her hands in big
loops. “Is this another man thing?”

“This is most definitely a man thing.”

“Okay, fine. If your pride won’t let you accept the whole
thing, take half.”

Before he could respond, she looped the end of the scarf around
his neck a couple times. There was still plenty left dangling so she looped the
other end around her own neck. Oliver looked at her, then at the lumpy,
multicolored band joining them.

“My God, it
is
ugly, isn’t it?”

“My niece made it.”

“Hence the fact you’re actually wearing this in public.”

They fell into step as they retraced their steps.

“This niece...she’s, what, six?” He examined the scarf
critically.

“Nearly twenty.”

He looked startled. “Really?”

She laughed. “She’s eight. And she tells me she’s taken up
beading now. Something to look forward to this Christmas.”

“So I take it you have a brother or sister?” he asked.

“A brother. Older. They live in Perth. He’s involved in
mining.”

They talked about their respective families as they walked. She
heard about his brother, Brent, and Brent’s two children, while she told him
about Gareth and her niece and nephew. The shared scarf meant they were close to
each other, and every now and then her shoulder or hip bumped his. It was
strange and nice in equal measures. Strange because it had been a long time
since she’d enjoyed this kind of casual intimacy with a man—or, in fact, with
anyone. And nice for the same reasons.

Oliver had to unwind a loop to allow them to walk in single
file along the bush path. He kept her laughing all the way, comparing them to a
couple of Buddhist teachers he read about a few years ago who made it a practice
to never be more than fifteen feet from each other at all times. She suggested
they were more like a line of elephants walking trunk in tail and Oliver
produced one of the best elephant calls she’d ever heard from a
non-elephant.

“You’re freakishly good at that,” she said.

“I have many pointless gifts.”

Gravel crunched underfoot as they left the sandy path and
started toward their houses, Oliver matching his stride to hers.

“Sorry for the slow pace,” she said, glancing at his much
longer legs. “The spirit is willing, the body not so much these days.”

He was silent a moment.

“Does it hurt?”

She wasn’t surprised by the question. She’d lost the natural
swing of her hips with her injuries and was well aware that her walk appeared
stiff and ungainly.

“Walking on its own doesn’t hurt. My hip is compromised,
though, so things don’t move around as easily as they used to. Which isn’t to
say that learning to walk again was a lot of fun. Still, it was better than the
alternative.”

There had been a few days following the accident when the
swelling on her spine had been so severe there had been a question mark over her
ever being able to walk again.

“Can I ask what happened?”

Another not-surprising question, but one she still wasn’t
comfortable talking about. Recalling the scene, however briefly and succinctly,
tended to resurrect the entire experience. Still, they had been swapping horror
stories.... “We had an early morning call-out for a location shoot. I was
driving to the location to meet the crew. The weather was terrible, it was still
dark, the road was wet... I came around the corner and there’d been a landslide.
I hit the brakes, but it was way too late.”

“Jesus.”

For a second she was lost in the memory, the world a dark,
scary place, death screaming toward her at sixty kilometers an hour. Then she
blinked and the sky was once again blue overhead, the wind chill on her cheeks,
Oliver at her side.