The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) (12 page)

“I know what you mean. I’ll see you tonight.”

He didn’t move off immediately. Instead, he reached out and
tweaked her beanie.

“Like your hat.” His cognac eyes glinted with mischief as he
walked away.

She realized belatedly that she was standing in the aisle
staring after him like an excited schoolgirl.

It’s called dignity, my dear. You might
want to reacquaint yourself with the concept.

She turned back to the dairy case and grabbed a package of Brie
and a round of Camembert. What the hell. She added a block of vintage cheddar
for good measure, then worked her way up and down the aisles of the small store,
occasionally catching glimpses of Oliver as he did the same. She heard him
talking and laughing with the guy behind the deli counter, caught him brooding
over the ice-cream freezer and wound up at the checkout three people ahead of
him. She was acutely aware of him in her peripheral vision as she waited for the
woman to ring up her purchases. She gave him a small, cheery wave as she
collected her bags.

“Seven o’clock. Be there or be square,” he said.

“A fate worse than death.”

There was a bounce in her step as she carried her groceries to
her car. Not because she thought his asking her over to dinner meant
anything—she hadn’t been rusticating out here on the peninsula so long that
she’d forgotten the subtleties of socializing with the opposite sex—but because
she found him interesting and stimulating and good company. No more, no
less.

Rather convincing argument if she did say so herself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

S
IX
O
’
CLOCK
FOUND
Mackenzie dressed in her black jeans and a soft cashmere sweater with
crossover ties that wrapped around her waist. She’d given in to vanity and was
brushing mascara on when a knock sounded at the front door. Mr. Smith
immediately bolted from the bathroom, his claws skittering on the
floorboards.

“One of these days you’re going to ricochet up the hall like a
pinball,” she called after him.

She could see a tall, broad silhouette in the glass panel as
she approached and she lifted a hand to her hair. She hadn’t had a chance to
repair the damage the beanie had caused yet. Plus, she’d applied mascara to only
one eye.

Oh, well.

“Hey,” Oliver said when she swung the door open.

He was standing with one hand thrust deep into his jeans
pocket, his posture stiff and uncomfortable. As though he was about to deliver
bad news.

“Hi,” she said, frowning.

Was he here to cancel dinner? She was surprised by the thud of
disappointment she felt. She’d really been looking forward to spending time with
him again.

“I have a confession to make.” He sounded very serious.

“Okay. Should I brace myself? Will I need smelling salts?”

“I’m hoping it won’t be that dire.” He shuffled his feet, then
cleared his throat. “When Brent and I went fishing as kids, he was the only one
who was allowed to use the knife to clean and gut the fish.”

He smiled sheepishly. She stared at him, momentarily bemused.
This
was his big confession? Then she got
it.

“You want to know if I know how to gut a fish?”

“Yeah. I was going to wing it, but there’s not a lot of fish
there and if I stuff up it’ll be pizza for dinner.”

She smiled, inordinately charmed by his honesty. Most men she
knew would have faked their way through the process rather than admit they
needed assistance.

“I wish I could help, but I have never been fishing in my
life,” she said.

“Ah.”

“But I have the next best thing to real-life experience. Hold
on a second.”

She spun on her heel and strode to the living room. Thirty
seconds later she was back, iPad in hand. She displayed it triumphantly.

“It’s called the internet. All the kids are using it. You ask
it a question and someone, somewhere, knows the answer.”

“You think someone’s got a blog about gutting fish?” he asked,
clearly skeptical.

“I bet there’s a blog about carving toenail clippings if you
looked hard enough.”

She hit the button to bring the screen to life and called up a
search engine. Within seconds she was trawling through the many results it
produced. She clicked on a link, read a few lines, then handed him the iPad.

“There you go. Step-by-step instructions.”

He scanned the page briefly. “You’re a genius.”

She bowed her head in mock humility. “Thank you.”

He read a few more lines, then glanced at her. “This is
actually pretty gruesome. I’m thinking it might be a two-person job. Someone to
eviscerate and whatnot, someone else to pass the wine and provide moral
support.”

She smiled. Couldn’t help herself. Not for a second did she
believe he needed her help, but she was flattered that he was keen to start
their evening together sooner rather than later.

“Going a little stir-crazy over at Tupperware Manor, are
we?”

“Let’s just say it would be good to talk to someone bipedal
with an actual voice box, as opposed to someone with four paws and a tail.”

“The tail
is
limited as a form of
communication, I agree.”

“You have no idea.”

Her smile widened into a grin. “I’ll be over in five.”

“I’ll prepare the sacrificial altar.”

Mackenzie watched him take the stairs two at a time, allowing
herself a few indulgent seconds of butt-staring—it really was a very, very nice
ass—before shutting the door and heading for the kitchen.

She gathered the salad ingredients she’d bought, shoving them
all into a salad bowl, then grabbed a bottle of wine and clipped Mr. Smith’s
lead on. It wasn’t until she was standing on Oliver’s porch that she realized
she still hadn’t applied mascara to her other eye or put on perfume or fixed her
hair.

It was too late, however—Oliver was already opening the door
and waving her inside, Strudel doing her best to slip past his legs and get to
Mr. Smith.

“I hope you have a strong stomach,” he said.

She let Smitty off the leash and followed Oliver to the
kitchen. She poured them both a glass of wine while he did a very competent job
of cleaning and gutting the fish. He kept up a running commentary throughout,
making her laugh until her sides ached.

“You have a great laugh,” he said as he dusted the fillets in
seasoned flour.

“Do I?”

“Yeah.”

She could feel heat climbing into her cheeks and she buried her
face in her wineglass. Honestly, she so needed to get out more. It wasn’t as
though he’d told her she was beautiful or fascinating or something else
blushworthy, after all. He’d commented on her laugh. Big deal.

He transferred the fish to a hot pan on the stove and she took
the chopping board to the sink to clean it so she could prepare the salad. They
talked easily as they worked, covering everything from the weather to Strudel’s
habit of sleep-barking to the state of the pothole-ridden Main Street in the
township.

The more they talked and laughed, the more Mackenzie relaxed
and let go of all the small and large concerns and anxieties that filled her
days. Her recovery, her future job prospects, her life in general...she let it
all fall by the wayside and simply enjoyed the fact that it was cold outside and
warm inside, that she was with a witty, funny, handsome man and that right now,
right this second, life was good.

They took the finished meal through to the living room where
Oliver had built a roaring fire and sat on the couch, plates balanced on their
laps. The dogs did their usual I’ve-never-been-fed-in-my-lifetime begging
routine, complete with fixed, pleading stares and the occasional pitiful whine.
After a few minutes Oliver caved and tossed them each a piece of fish.

“Softy,” Mackenzie said.

He grinned unabashedly. “Strudel knows how to work me. She’s a
pro.”

Once they realized they weren’t getting anything more out of
Oliver, the dogs switched their attention to Mackenzie.

“Not going to work, my furry friends,” she said. “This fish is
too delicious to share.”

It was, too—fresh and flaky with just the right amount of salt
and pepper. Simple but perfect.

Like this evening, really.

Mr. Smith stepped things up a notch then, dropping onto his
belly and crawling forward in the most tragic way possible.

Oliver laughed, raising his glass in a toast. “Excellent work.
If there was an Academy Award for dogs, you’d have my vote, Mr. Smith.”

“Smitty, come on. Have a little bit of dignity,” Mackenzie
admonished him.

Her dog continued to watch her with desperate, pleading eyes.
Finally she sighed, cut the remaining portion of her fish into two and gave one
half to each of the dogs.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Oliver said.

She threw her scrunched-up serviette at him, which only made
him laugh more loudly.

He left her with the bottle of wine and the fire while he
sorted out dessert. She shifted to the rug before the hearth and sat staring
into the flames, feeling warm and well fed and content as she listened to him
rattle around in the kitchen. After a few seconds she closed her eyes and let
her head drop against the couch behind her.

Funny how comfortable she felt around him so quickly. As a
general rule, she took a while to warm to people, her innate caution leading her
to keep her distance until she had a sense of who the other person was. She and
Oliver might have gotten off on the wrong foot initially, but once she’d seen
him clearly, he’d catapulted over her usual defenses with his openness and
sincerity.

It probably didn’t hurt that he was a very sexy, attractive
man, or that there was something about him that drew her like iron filings to a
magnet or ants to honey. Charm? Charisma? Presence? However you defined it, he
had it. A certain light in his eyes, a quickness to his wit, an innate
confidence in himself that was evident in every move he made. All of which meant
he could admit to being useless with directions or ask for help gutting a fish
and not lose one iota of his masculine appeal.

“Hey.”

She opened her eyes to find Oliver standing over her, plate in
hand. For a moment they simply stared at each other in the flickering firelight.
There was something in his face—an intensity—that made her wonder how long he’d
been watching her drowse. An odd little prickle of awareness tugged at her.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this. Tell me, is it
considered a compliment when the guest falls asleep between courses?” he
asked.

“If not, it should be.” She sat up a little straighter and
sniffed appreciatively. “I smell chocolate.”

His mouth kicked up at the corner as he handed her the plate.
“Brilliant detective work, Dr. Watson.”

He left the room briefly before returning with his own plate
and they were both silent as they ate their dessert.

“This mousse is really good,” Mackenzie said.

“Thanks. I opened the package myself.”

She smiled at his small joke, but for some reason she couldn’t
think of anything else to say. Suddenly she was acutely aware of the fact that
they were alone, surrounded by all the accoutrements of a clichéd romantic
evening—the wine, the fire, the dim lighting. She was sure it was
unintentional—not for a second did she think that Oliver had hatched a plot to
seduce her—but now the thought had popped into her head she couldn’t seem to get
it out.

He sat on the rug opposite her, his back against a wing-back
armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him. His legs looked so long and
strong, the muscles of his thighs discernible beneath the soft denim of his
jeans. At some point he’d taken his shoes off and his socked feet were crossed
at the ankles. Like the rest of him, they were big but surprisingly elegant
looking.

Stop staring at his feet, for Pete’s sake,
and say something.

She cleared her throat, even though she had no idea what she
was about to say. Before she could speak up, his phone rang.

“Sorry. It’s probably Brent, my brother.” He reached out to
grab the handset from the coffee table.

He glanced at the caller ID and frowned before taking the
call.

“Hello? Oliver speaking.”

She heard someone speak, a woman’s voice. Oliver’s expression
turned stony.

“I thought we agreed to do everything through the lawyers.”

The coldness in his voice, the abrupt change in his
demeanor—Mackenzie had no doubt whatsoever who was on the other end of the line.
Her stomach dipped.

The woman spoke again. Something flickered across Oliver’s
face.

“Are you all right?” The words seemed dragged from him.

Mackenzie realized she was eavesdropping as avidly as a voyeur
so she rose and collected first her plate then his. Without looking at him, she
slipped into the kitchen. She could still hear his voice, but not every word.
She busied herself at the sink, running water and washing first the dishes then
the frying pan and the salad bowl. All the while, she wondered why Oliver’s ex
was calling, trying to work out what she’d seen in his face when he’d asked if
Edie was all right. Concern? Lingering affection?

None of your business.

True, but it didn’t stop her brain from churning away. Oliver
was a nice guy, a lovely man—and his ex had betrayed him horribly. It seemed to
Mackenzie that the very least the other woman could do was leave him to lick his
wounds in peace.

She banged the salad bowl onto the draining board, only
registering how worked up she’d become as the sound echoed around the kitchen.
There was no reason for her to get so riled over Oliver’s private life. Yet here
she was, feeling oddly protective of him. And maybe a little...jealous?

“Sorry about that.”

She spun on her heel to find Oliver in the doorway, his mouth a
hard, unforgiving line, his body taut as a bowstring.

“It’s all right. Gave me a chance to tidy up a bit.”

He glanced around, absorbing the fact that she’d cleaned. “You
didn’t have to do that.”

He was so unhappy. So angry. She made a quick decision.

“Listen, you look as though you might need some time alone.
Smitty and I should probably be heading home anyway.”

She collected her salad bowl.

“I was going to offer you coffee.”

“I can’t drink it anymore, sadly. Which means you’re officially
off the hook. Thanks for dinner. I had a nice night.”

He eyed her intently. “I don’t want you to go.”

She blinked, more than a little thrown by his simple
honesty.

“I mean, I don’t want her call to ruin a good evening. Or, more
accurately, for me to let her call ruin it.”

She understood what he was saying, could hear the frustration
in his voice. She could remember the early days of her own divorce only too
well. The struggle to redefine herself. The need to move on.

“Okay.” She set the bowl on the drain board.

His expression softened marginally. “Are you allowed tea?”

“Tea’s great, thanks.”

“Go relax and I’ll bring it in.”

She returned to the living room and resumed her previous
position. Her wineglass was warm from being too close to the hearth but she
swallowed the remaining mouthful anyway. The dogs were in their usual tangle,
sleeping cheek by jowl. Oliver entered a few minutes later with two teacups and
a box of chocolates wedged beneath his arm. Some of the tension had left his
face and the look he gave her was sheepish. She lifted a hand to stay the
apology she suspected was forthcoming.