The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) (7 page)

Oliver opened his eyes and frowned at the tiled wall.

Was he really such a cheap date that a few minutes with a woman
in a wet tank top was enough to crank his engine, despite the fact he wasn’t
sure if he even
liked
said woman?

He thought about Mackenzie’s breasts again, about how round and
firm they’d looked the handful of times he’d allowed himself to peek at them,
and admitted to himself that it might be low and base and animalistic, but yes,
he was that cheap.

He was a man. He hadn’t had sex in over seven months, and he’d
just been in the same room with almost-naked breasts. Some things a guy didn’t
have much control over.

It didn’t mean anything. It certainly didn’t mean he was going
to be rushing to spend more time with Mackenzie again. Granted, she had
apologized for her prickliness and shown a rather charming willingness to mock
herself, but whichever way he cut it, she was hard yards. He wasn’t up for hard
yards, even if he thought there was a chance in hell that he’d get to see for
himself how perky and round her breasts were. He was fresh out of a marriage,
heading toward an ugly divorce.

More than enough for any man to deal with.

* * *

M
ACKENZIE
PULLED
ON
fresh pajamas after her shower and went to check that things hadn’t
taken a sudden turn for the worse out front.

It wasn’t pretty outside, but it was definitely better, and she
retreated to her bedroom and pulled the covers all the way up to her ears. The
bed had been kept warm by her electric blanket and she wiggled her toes against
the toasty sheets and contemplated how she would make things right with
Oliver.

Because she needed to. Big-time.

Not only for the way she’d snapped at him tonight, either. From
the moment she’d met him she’d been rude. Shutting the door in his face not once
but twice, then getting defensive with him over Mr. Smith when she should have
been thanking him for repairing the fence. She had excuses for some of it—her
nausea, Gordon’s much-anticipated and hard-fought-for phone call—but the bottom
line was that she’d behaved poorly.

She winced, remembering the way Oliver had described her as
scary, in an “intense, I’ve-had-too-many-coffees-today kind of way.” He’d been
joking, trying to ease the tension, but she was a big believer in the
many-a-true-word-said-in-jest maxim and she didn’t doubt for a second that that
was how he saw her: scary and intense. And, of course, overly sensitive and
snappish.

Hardly a flattering portrait. In fact, it made her squirm.

The defensive part of her said to hell with what he thought of
her. He wasn’t her friend, after all, or a colleague. Once she picked up the
threads of her former life and moved back to Melbourne, he wouldn’t even be her
neighbor.

But everything in her balked at leaving the situation the way
it was. As she’d told him tonight, he was a nice guy. He’d come over to
introduce himself, he’d repaired the fence without hassling her or asking for a
contribution to pay for materials, he’d come riding to her rescue and downed
half a glass of Scotch simply to be polite. He was funny, too, with an easy
charm and a deceptively quiet, dry wit.

I like him. And I want him to like
me.

The thought made her eyes pop open. She’d been so caught up in
herself and her recovery that she hadn’t given any consideration to the outside
world and other people for a long time. She’d deliberately sequestered herself
here on the very tip of the Mornington Peninsula, shutting herself away from her
friends so she could concentrate on her rehabilitation. She’d been isolated from
life by her accident, and she’d made the decision to continue that isolation,
and now she was...what? Lonely? Antisocial? A cranky, prickly hermit crab, holed
up in her shell?

There wasn’t much she liked about this new perspective on
herself and her current life.

Then do something about it.

She could invite Oliver over for dinner, for example, to say
thank-you to him. And, maybe, as a byproduct, improve his impression of her. Not
that she thought it was likely they would become fast friends after such a rocky
start, but at least she could show him that she wasn’t a complete cow.

She could try, anyway.

* * *

M
ACKENZIE
WOKE
TO
bright
sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains. Muzzy headed, she peered at
the clock and saw it was nearly midday. She never slept in, but clearly her body
had needed the rest. When she tried to roll over she realized how much—she ached
as if she’d run a marathon, as though thugs had broken in during the night and
given her a thorough going-over with baseball bats. She was used to a low level
of constant pain, a sort of background hum of discomfort, but this was a whole
other ball game. Her breath hissed from between her teeth as she swung her legs
over the side of the bed. Moving like a much older woman, she shuffled her way
to the bathroom.

She looked at her gray, washed-out face in the mirror and knew
that she wouldn’t be cooking dinner for anyone in the near future. Last night
had tapped whatever reserves she’d built in recent months, and unless she was
hugely mistaken, her next few days would involve lots of lying around in bed and
on the couch, being bored out of her skull.

She let her head drop forward, frustration and disappointment
at her own weakness momentarily getting the better of her. She’d thought she was
stronger than this. Further along in her recovery. Apparently she was still a
slave to her injuries and her broken body.

For long seconds she felt immeasurably heavy, defeated by the
sheer breadth of the challenge that still lay ahead of her. She had no choice
but to fight on, but right now it would be nice to be able to call a time-out
and curl up in the corner with her thumb in her mouth for a while.

Life didn’t offer time-outs, though. She needed to keep plowing
on with her rehab program, and she needed to keep getting better. Otherwise,
losing her job wouldn’t only be a possibility; it would be a certainty.

She spent the day in bed and woke feeling marginally better the
following day. She swapped the bed for the couch, and the evening found her
ensconced on the window seat, Mr. Smith warming her toes as she ate a bowl of
soup. The sun had set long ago and the world outside was dark except for the
glow of Oliver’s window next door.

She could see him moving behind the thin net curtain. By the
way he kept moving in and out of sight, she deduced he was in the kitchen. She
watched him idly, her thoughts slow and lazy. She wondered what he was having
for dinner, and how he was feeling after their shared ordeal, and if he ever
glanced out his window and wondered what she was doing.

Why on earth would he do that?

It was a good question, since she’d already established that
she’d given him precious little reason to be interested in anything she might do
or say. Plus, he was a married man—she was almost sure of it—so he had no
business wondering about her. At all.

She set down her bowl and picked up the book she’d been
reading, getting lost in a world of murder and mystery and romance. When she
tuned into the real world again she heard music emanating from next door.
Acoustic guitar, low and mellow. She wondered idly who it was. She wasn’t a huge
fan of instrumentals, but this song was like a warm breeze on a summer’s day,
easy and undemanding and thoroughly pleasant. One song melded into another, then
another. Then the music stopped and the only sound was Mr. Smith snoring from
the other end of the window seat and the creak of the wind in the trees
outside.

When she saw Oliver again, she would have to ask him who the
artist was. In the meantime, it was time for bed again.

Tomorrow I will start back with my
exercises,
she promised herself. She would also leave the house, and
she would go grocery shopping and, depending on how she felt, she’d invite
Oliver over for dinner. Maybe not for tomorrow night, but perhaps the next,
which was a Tuesday if her calculations were correct.

If he wanted to come, of course.

Potentially a big if.

CHAPTER FOUR

O
LIVER
DUMPED
THE
LAST
wheelbarrow load
of gravel at the top of the driveway and paused to wipe his forehead with the
bottom of his sweatshirt. Most of the gravel had washed down the slope and
collected in front of his house thanks to the storm, and he’d spent the past
three days alternating between cleaning up outside and trying to set the inside
of his aunt’s house to rights.

He wasn’t sure which was the least fun task—sweeping up dirt
and shoveling gravel, or cleaning out cupboards filled with the flotsam and
jetsam of a lifetime. So far, he’d made half-a-dozen trips to the local charity
shop, offloading books and china and knickknacks. He figured there would be many
more trips in his future, too, since he’d cleared out only one of the bedrooms
and part of the living room.

He grabbed the rake and started spreading the gravel across the
driveway. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and he glanced over in
time to see someone shifting through the front window of Mackenzie’s house.

He hadn’t had any contact with her since the storm. Hadn’t even
heard her calling to Mr. Smith or seen her out in the yard. The lights had been
going out very early on her side of the fence, too.

Not that he’d been looking. He’d simply happened to glance out
the window a couple of times and noticed she seemed to be keeping very early
hours.

None of his business, any of it. Even if there had been a
small, completely testosterone-driven part of his brain that had been looking
forward to seeing her again.

Amazing the power of a see-through tank top.

He resumed raking, but the sound of a door closing made him
lift his head. Sure enough, Mackenzie was descending the steps, Mr. Smith on a
leash.

“Hello,” she said.

He lifted a hand in greeting. She approached, Mr. Smith pulling
at the leash with the eagerness of a dog that had been indoors for several
days.

She surveyed his driveway and grimaced. “I guess the flood
messed with your place, too, huh?”

“Not too badly. Just putting this gravel back where it
belongs.”

There was something about the way she held herself—a sort of
wariness—that made her seem almost fragile this morning. As though a puff of
wind or a rough gesture could knock her over.

“I’ve been meaning to come see you,” she said. “I wanted to
thank you again for the other night.”

He shrugged. “Really, I didn’t do anything.”

“You saved me from bailing out my house. And I’d really like to
cook you dinner to say thank-you. Tomorrow night, if you’re available...?”

Oliver did his best not to let his surprise show on his face,
but he wasn’t sure he pulled it off. A dinner invitation was the last thing he’d
expected from the difficult neighbor. Any social invitation, really. She’d made
it pretty clear she wasn’t into chitchat and small talk.

She was waiting for his answer, her gaze fixed on his face. In
full daylight, the color of her irises was nothing short of arresting,
reminiscent of the deep, deep blue of tropical water or the clarity of the
summer sky.

His first instinct was to offer a polite excuse and keep his
distance. They didn’t have the best track record, after all. But there was
something about the way she was waiting for his response that appealed to his
better nature.

“Dinner sounds great,” he said after a slightly too long
silence.

She smiled, the action showcasing straight white teeth and the
rather charming crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. “Is seven okay for
you?”

“Sure. What can I bring?”

“Your appetite. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Her dog was sniffing the cuffs of his jeans, clearly looking
for eau de Strudel. Oliver bent to scratch him behind the ears.

“Sorry, mate, but she’s inside, staying out of all this
mud.”

Mr. Smith gave him a beseeching look.

“I think that’s a plea for clemency. Maybe you could bring
Strudel over when you come to dinner.”

Oliver looked into Mr. Smith’s pleading eyes and tried to
remember that it had taken this furry Lothario less than twenty-four hours to
impose himself upon Strudel in the most intimate way possible. Mr. Smith was the
picture of innocence and worthy doggy loyalty.

“That could probably be arranged,” Oliver said.

“Great. Then we’ll both look forward to seeing you tomorrow
night. Come on, Smitty.”

Mackenzie gave a little tug on the lead and Mr. Smith fell in
beside her as she headed up the road. Oliver stared after her, noting her
undemanding pace, the slight stiffness to her gait and the fact that her black
pants fit very snuggly over the curves of her small backside.

As he’d already observed, she was too scrawny for his tastes,
but what there was of her was nicely proportioned. Small but very nicely
formed.

He realized he was staring and shook his head, turning to his
work. Tomorrow night was sure to be awkward. They didn’t know each other, so
conversation would be polite and superficial and no doubt stilted, as it had
been the other night.

It was too late to take back his acceptance, so he would have
to simply suck it up and take his medicine. Mackenzie would have a chance to get
her gratitude off her chest and any sense of obligation that existed between
them would be a thing of the past.

Then they could go back to being strangers and each get on with
their lives.

* * *

M
ACKENZIE
SPENT
THE
evening
planning the menu for tomorrow night’s meal, flicking through cookbooks and
trying to work out what she could pull together given the limited supplies
likely to be available at the local supermarket. She settled for a pasta
dish—tortellini with salami, goat cheese and Kalamata olives, fresh bread and a
baby spinach, Parmesan and pear salad. She made a shopping list sitting up in
bed, more than a little amused by her own organizational zeal. She was planning
this simple dinner with military precision—a strong indication her mind needed
more to think about. The sooner she got back to work, the better.

She went into town first thing to do her shopping, then spent
the afternoon pottering around the house. She started prepping for dinner at
five o’clock so she could take her time and enjoy the process.

She was looking forward to tonight. There was no point denying
it, even to herself. Having another warm body to talk to would be a welcome
novelty.

“No offense, Smitty, but sometimes a lick and a scratch don’t
quite cut it in the witty repartee department.”

Mr. Smith lifted his head from his paws and gave her an
uncomprehending look.

“Exactly.”

She had everything prepped by six o’clock, the table set by a
quarter past. At loose ends, she wandered into her bedroom and caught sight of
herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair was limp and lifeless, her face
pale. Her black leggings had seen better days, as had the long-sleeved wool
tunic she’d pulled on. Combined with her sensible walking shoes, she
looked...
frumpy.
There was no other word for
it.

As if he’s going to notice what you’re
wearing. He’s going to have one eye on the exit all evening.

She wasn’t stupid. She’d noted Oliver’s hesitation when she
invited him. Given her not-so-enchanting behavior to date, it didn’t surprise
her that he might be cautious about breaking bread with her. The last thing he’d
be concerned with would be if she looked frumpy or halfway presentable.

So what? It concerns me.

She opened the closet on a surge of determination. She was
allowed to look nice if she wanted to. So what if Oliver was unlikely to
register the cut of her pants or the drape of her sweater? She would know, and
it would be a welcome change from workout pants and warm sweaters.

She pulled on a turtleneck made from cashmere and silk,
matching it with her steel-gray wide-legged linen pants. They made her feel
elegant, like the heroine from a thirties noir movie, and she felt infinitely
better as she slipped on a pair of simple ballet flats and went into the
bathroom to do something with her face.

Some blush worked wonders, as did a few swipes of mascara. Her
hair, however, refused to cooperate. Amazing to think that it had once been her
crowning glory, almost long enough to sit on, a sleek, smooth waterfall of hair
that—in her own mind, at least—had made up for the fact that she wasn’t exactly
stacked in the breast department. She’d never been the frilly, feminine type,
but the swish of her hair against her back had made her feel saucy and womanly
and sexy without fail.

Those were the days.

The E.R. nurses had shaved it all off when they prepped her for
emergency surgery after the accident. For long days and weeks afterward, it had
been the least of her concerns, but there was no denying that it had been a
shock to see herself in the mirror for the first time. The scars on her scalp
had been visible through the regrowth by the time they let her look in a mirror,
ugly and far too visible. She’d waited till she was alone in her room before
letting a few silly, vain tears slide into her pillow. A small moment of
mourning for her lost mane.

It had been tempting to grow it all out, but it was much easier
to maintain this way. She didn’t have to worry about tying her hair back when
she was doing her exercises and it didn’t require special conditioning
treatments or take half an hour to dry.

She did what she could with some styling product, trying to
coax some texture into it. Finally she rolled her eyes at her own reflection and
turned away from the mirror.

Enough, already. She was having dinner with the guy next door,
not attending a bloody state reception for the queen.

She was heading for the entry hall to turn on the outside light
when the phone rang. She grabbed it from its station on the occasional table as
she passed by.

“Mackenzie speaking.”

“Mac. It’s me.”

She came to a dead halt as she heard her ex-husband’s voice. It
took her a moment to summon the casual tone her pride demanded.

“Patrick. How are you?” she asked coolly.

It had been more than five months since she’d last spoken to
him. The ink was long-since dry on their divorce and technically he owed her
nothing, not even a phone call or two. But the friends-with-benefits arrangement
they’d slipped into in the months before her accident had led her to believe
that there was still a degree of affection between them.

Yet another misconception to add to the many misconceptions in
their shared history.

“I’m good. How about you?” he asked in the mellow, lovely voice
that made women across the nation swoon.

Her ex, the matinee idol.

“I’m well, thanks.”

“That’s really great to hear. Really great. Gordon’s been
keeping me up-to-date with your progress.”

“Has he? That’s nice of him.”

Her words hung in the small silence that followed. She could
hear the click of a lighter on the other end of the line and guessed he’d
started smoking again.

“Okay, fair call,” he said. “I’ve been an asshole. I should
have called and I didn’t. I should have sent flowers and I didn’t. I should have
done a bunch of things, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you.
It doesn’t mean I don’t care, Mac.”

Mackenzie stared at the toes of her shoes. There were so many
things she could say to him. She could take him to task for being lazy and
neglectful. She could tell him that he’d hurt her, that while she hadn’t
expected undying devotion, she’d assumed he at least liked her enough to want to
check for himself that she was doing okay. After all, that had been the raison
d’être of the highly inappropriate affair
they’d
been indulging in before her accident—that, despite everything, they still liked
and enjoyed each other.

There was no point, though. Their marriage was over, and
whatever friendship remained was not worth stressing herself over. She only had
so much energy to invest at the moment, and Patrick was a bad bet. Too much work
for too little return.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to read you the riot act. You’re
officially off the hook.”

“Don’t be like that, Mac.”

She pictured his face, the sheepish, naughty-boy hangdog
expression he’d be wearing. Patrick was accustomed to skating by on the power of
his charisma. Fortunately, she’d become immune to his powers during the first
year of their short marriage.

“I’ve got someone coming for dinner any second now. Did you
want something or was this just a social call?”

“It’s about work.”

So not a topic she wanted to discuss with Patrick. Anything he
had to say was probably the result of gossip and innuendo. She would do better
keeping her contact to the show—and her job—limited to conversations with
Gordon. So did she really want to hear whatever it was Patrick had to say? “What
about work?” Apparently she did.

“You’re not going to like this, but as soon as I heard I knew
you’d want to know. Gordon came out to the studio today to talk to Phil. It’s
not official yet, but the word is that Phil’s signed on for another two
years.”

Mackenzie closed her eyes.

She’d lost her job. All those years she’d put in, slaving away
like a good little worker ant. All the unpaid overtime, the days she’d worked
when she’d been dead on her feet with a cold or the flu, the many, many times
she’d gone beyond the call of duty to get the job done...

All for nothing.

Her loyalty, her passion, her dedication, none of it had
mattered when push had come to shove. She’d been replaced.

“Mac? Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

Barely.

“I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I figured
you’d rather hear it from me than through the grapevine. For what it’s worth,
everyone thinks it’s a shitty move.”