The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) (5 page)

BOOK: The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance)
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Since the rain was holding off, he decided to finish the fence
repairs. Strudel kept him company, sniffing around his feet and generally
getting in the way. Twice he had to push her aside when he was nailing a board
in place. He was about to put her in the house to save both her and his sanity
when she trotted off into the garden.

“Smartest thing you’ve done all day,” he muttered.

It wasn’t until he’d finished repairing the second-last hole
that it occurred to him to wonder where she’d gone. He tucked his hammer into
his tool belt and went looking. He spotted her the moment he rounded the shed.
More accurately, he spotted
them.
As in plural. As
in, two dogs, one silhouette.

“Hey!” he yelled, outraged.

He’d let Strudel out of his sight for five minutes and Doggy
Juan from next door had taken advantage. Unbelievable.

Neither Strudel nor Mr. Smith paid him any attention, the two
of them being very occupied with being humped and humping, respectively. Oliver
searched for the garden hose. It took him half a minute to find it, and by the
time he’d dragged it across the lawn Mr. Smith had finished and was simply
standing beside Strudel, panting and looking pretty bloody pleased with
himself.

“Don’t grin at me, mate. You’re in big trouble.”

“Mr. Smith? Smitty? Here, boy. Mama’s got a bone for you.”

Mackenzie’s voice floated over from her yard. Oliver scooped up
her miscreant dog and strode to the fence. Holding the dog under his arm, he
gripped the top of the fence and stepped on the cross rail so he could see into
her yard.

“He’s here. Again.”

Mackenzie stood on the deck, once again dressed in
expensive-looking workout gear. She frowned when she saw Mr. Smith in his
arms.

“I didn’t realize—”

“No kidding.”

He waited until she’d crossed to the fence before lowering the
dog into her arms.

“You might want to keep him inside until the fence is secure.
Since he doesn’t seem good at taking no for an answer.”

She smoothed a hand over her dog’s head. “Sorry?”

“I just caught him humping Strudel.”

“Oh.” She had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Yeah.” He was aware that he sounded like an outraged parent.
Frankly, he felt like one. Strudel was barely eighteen months old. Still a
puppy, really. She wasn’t in the market for the kind of adults-only behavior Mr.
Smith had dished out so enthusiastically.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize he was out.”

“You said that.”

Her eyebrows rose as she picked up on his tone. “I know that
technically he shouldn’t have been on your side of the fence, but they’re only
following their natural instincts. There’s no need to get all prissy about
it.”

Prissy?
Where did she get off
calling him prissy after she’d shut her door in his face not once but twice and
then let her reprobate of a dog run loose to do as he pleased?

He fixed her with a hard look. “Keep your dog out of my yard,
okay?”

She set the dachshund on the ground and brushed fur off her
body-hugging top. “It takes two to tango, you know. I bet Mr. Smith didn’t go
where he wasn’t wanted.”

He opened his mouth to respond, then realized he was one
riposte away from a schoolyard squabble. He released his grip on the fence and
dropped to the ground.

“Keep an eye on your dog,” he said as he walked away.

The only response was silence, but he could practically hear
her grinding her teeth. Good. She’d made him grind his teeth more than once in
the past twenty-four hours. Turnabout was fair play.

Strudel once again shadowed his every move as he patched the
last gap in the fence, taking every opportunity to lick his hand or rub up
against his leg.

“Don’t go sucking up. You barely know the guy. A little bit of
restraint wouldn’t have gone astray.”

Strudel eyed him uncomprehendingly and he reached out to
scratch her behind her ear. How could he resist that face?

Once he’d finished with the fence, he dragged the ladder out of
the shed and inspected the gutters. Sure enough, they were full of leaves and
silt and he worked his way around the house, scooping dead leaves and
who-knew-what-else out from the gutters. It was a disgusting, messy, smelly job,
and by the time he’d reached the front of the house he was well and truly over
it. He glanced at Mackenzie’s house as he cleared out the corner nearest her
property, wondering if she’d heard the storm warning.

For a few seconds he toyed with the idea of passing on the
information, then he remembered the superior way she’d looked down her nose at
him while blaming Strudel for her dog’s bad behavior. He was all out of favors
where she was concerned.

Once he’d finished the gutters, he checked the downpipes, then
cleared the drain that ran across the top of the driveway. Both his and
Mackenzie’s properties were on a slight slope, the street being higher than the
house. If there was water runoff coming his way, he wanted to be sure it had
somewhere to go, other than into his house.

He was putting the ladder away when the heavens opened, rain
sheeting from the sky so intensely it stung when it hit his arms and face.
Strudel at his heels, he bolted for the house. It wasn’t until he was washing
off the dirt beneath a hot shower that he registered that he hadn’t thought
about Edie or Nick once all day.

A new record.

Maybe walking away from everything and driving a thousand
kilometers south hadn’t been such a crazy idea after all.

* * *

M
ACKENZIE
HAD
PLANNED
to
take Mr. Smith for a walk along the beach that afternoon, but the weather had
different ideas. Instead, she spent some time online checking out the various
chat groups and fan sites for
Time and Again.
She
liked to dip her toe in occasionally to take the temperature and see how viewers
were responding to the show. The uneasy feeling that had sat in her gut since
her conversation with Gordon yesterday intensified as she read excited posts
from die-hard fans. According to them, the past few months had been some of the
best in the show’s history. Dramatic, exciting, romantic, funny...

It was hyperbole, written by fervent, biased fans. But it still
made her feel edgy. She recorded the show religiously every night but hadn’t
caught up with her viewing for a few days. Since she was on a roll with the
self-torturing thing, she watched three episodes in a row. Every time something
caught her attention—a change in the lighting, some alterations to a set, the
thrust of a storyline—she stopped and reviewed the footage. Two hours later,
she’d bitten her thumbnail down to the quick and the edgy feeling had become
full-fledged anxiety.

Gordon was right. Philip
was
doing
a good job. Possibly even a great job. She’d been aware of it before, of
course—God, she’d even been foolish enough to be relieved that the show was in
such good hands—but she hadn’t consciously registered how good his work was.

She stared at the darkened TV screen, rain slashing at the
windows, Mr. Smith snoring at her feet. If Philip held out for a longer
contract, the production company would be crazy not to give it to him.
She’d
give it to him if she were in Gordon’s
position.

Please, please, please don’t let that
happen.

She wasn’t even remotely hungry but she forced herself to make
and eat dinner. In the good old days, she’d lived on Diet Coke, black coffee and
take-out meals. These days, she made sure she gave her body what it needed to
recover—organic vegetables, lean protein and all manner of virtuous things. She
sat on the window seat in the living room and watched the trees thrash around in
the rising wind while she ate her chicken stir-fry. The storm showed no signs of
abating. Hardly unusual stuff for the Mornington Peninsula—she’d already endured
several storms like this since she’d taken up residence in the beach house—but
pretty spectacular to watch from the comfort of a warm, cozy house.

Her gaze was drawn to the golden light spilling from the house
next door. It was strange to see it lit up after all these months of darkness.
If her new neighbor hadn’t turned out to be such an uptight ass, she’d have
welcomed the signs of life. But after this morning’s dressing-down, the only
thing she’d welcome was his departure.

She made a rude sound in the back of her throat as she
remembered the way he’d looked down at her from his position on the fence,
telling her how to manage her dog and acting as though Mr. Smith was some kind
of pirate king who had buccaneered his way into the neighboring yard and raped
and pillaged its doggy occupants. Last time she’d looked, dogs were animals,
with all the attendant urges and instincts of animals. Clearly Oliver was one of
those uptight dog owners who policed their pet’s every move. No doubt poor
Strudel lived a regimented life full of rules and regulations.

Poor Strudel. Probably those few illicit seconds with Mr. Smith
were the most fun she’d had in a long time.

Mackenzie scooped the last mouthful of rice from her bowl and
swung her feet to the floor. She wasn’t going to waste another second thinking
about Mr. Uptight. Life was too short.

She was in bed by nine o’clock, listening to the rain drum
against the tin roof. She drifted into sleep and woke to deep darkness and the
sound of running water. For a few seconds she thought she’d left the tap on in
the en suite bathroom, but it didn’t sound like a tap running. The rain was
still thrumming against the roof and pelting the windows and a horrible
suspicion crept into her mind. She threw back the covers. The ominous feeling
intensified when she discovered Mr. Smith was missing from the hallway outside
her bedroom. Not a great sign. She turned on lights as she moved through the
house, checking first the open-plan living area at the back before making her
way to the front.

She found Mr. Smith at the door, ears up, posture alert in full
defcon-five watchdog mode.

“What’s going on, Smitty?”

He turned and gave her a darkly knowing look.

“That bad, huh?”

She opened the door—and froze.

Water rushed down her gravel driveway, a muddy brown torrent
filled with leaves and gravel and other debris. Once it hit the paved area in
front of her house, it had nowhere to go, and a lake was forming on her
doorstep, the water already lapping at the bottom step.

Dear God, she was about to be flooded.

For a moment shock stole her capacity to think. She stared at
the swirling, dark water, unable to comprehend what was happening. Then,
suddenly, her brain snapped into action. There was a storm drain across the
driveway. In theory, it should be channeling this deluge away from the house.
Which meant it must be blocked. Maybe if she could unblock it, she could avert
disaster.

Maybe.

She was barefoot, so she raced up the hallway, snatching her
rubber boots from the laundry, along with her garden gloves and the yard
broom.

She was soaked to the skin the moment she stepped beyond the
shelter of the porch, sheeting rain turning her tank top and pajama bottoms into
skintight apparel. Squinting against the downpour, she made her way to the
drain. The problem was immediately apparent—gravel had washed down from the road
and filled the grate covering the long channel, rendering it all but useless and
creating a bridge for the water to reach the house. She pulled on the gloves and
squatted, scooping the gravel away from the grate. She swore under her breath
when she saw that as fast as she scooped, the rushing water replaced what she’d
removed with yet more gravel.

She increased her pace, scooping the gravel away with cupped
hands, pushing it between her legs like a dog digging a hole. After ten minutes
it became painfully clear to her that she was rearranging deck chairs on the
Titanic.
Not only was the water faster than her,
but also she could feel her energy flagging. She glanced over her shoulder and
felt a sick jolt of adrenaline at the sight of the water lapping at the second
step.

She abandoned the drain and returned to the porch, collecting
the broom then wading into the fray. The water was already flowing around the
house, rushing down either side, but not nearly fast enough to prevent the
rising levels. But perhaps if she encouraged it on its way she could keep the
water from invading her home.

Perhaps.

She began pushing the water toward the side of the house with
the broom, gloved hands gripping the handle tightly. She worked doggedly,
putting all her weight behind each push. Soon her arms were burning and she was
panting.

And still the water kept coming.

She paused to catch her breath, despair filling her heart as
the rain intensified.

She was going to be flooded. There was no way she could stop
it. The best she could do was retreat inside to roll up rugs and move as many
valuables as she could off the floor.

She lifted a hand to swipe the water from her face—an utterly
useless, pointless gesture, just as all of her efforts had been useless and
pointless tonight—then lost her breath as a figure loomed out of the
darkness.

Tall and broad, his chestnut hair was plastered to his scalp,
his jeans molded to his thighs, his T-shirt to his chest.

Her neighbor, Oliver-the-ass.

He surveyed the situation, then zeroed in on the drain. She
started moving forward, intending to tell him that it was no use, that he
couldn’t possibly beat the water. But he was already pulling the metal grate
free, gravel and all, tossing it to one side to allow the water and gravel to
surge into the channel beneath the grate.

He didn’t wait to see if his radical surgery had had the
desired effect. He turned to her, jerking his chin toward the house.

BOOK: The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance)
12.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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