The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) (8 page)

BOOK: The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance)
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Everyone
being the other members of
the cast, she assumed. Which also meant the whole world knew and there was
absolutely no way for her to salvage an ounce of pride out of this
situation.

“You’ll get something else. The moment you’re back on the
market you’ll be snapped up. Everyone knows how good you are,” Patrick said.

It was nice of him to try to bolster her, but they both knew
she’d struggle to find a position at the same level. The opportunity to produce
a successful show didn’t come up every day in the Australian television
industry—and even if something did come up, her accident and extended
convalescence were well-known in this tight-knit world. No one would want to
take her on until she’d proved she wasn’t a liability or a spent force. She’d
have to start the climb all over again....

Despair gripped her. She could live with the fact that she
might never regain full range of movement in her arm and shoulder. She could
live with the occasional killer headache and the fact that she would never walk
with a swing in her hips again. But that job had meant so much to her. She’d
been so proud of it. She’d
earned
it, damn it.

It wasn’t fair. It simply wasn’t. She’d done all the right
things. She’d
always
done all the right
things—worked hard, sacrificed, kissed ass, taken shit, swallowed her pride. And
a slick mountain road had taken it all away from her.

“Mac, say something. You’re starting to freak me out.”

“I’m okay.”

It was such a lie she could barely get the words out her
mouth.

“If you need me, I can be there in an hour. Hour and a half,
max. Just say the word.”

She pressed her hand to her forehead. Her fingers were icy
cold.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to do it. If I’d be welcome, that is. You don’t deserve
this, Mac. No one knows better than me how much you put into your career.”

He’d blamed her work for the breakup of their marriage. Said
that she cared more about her career and proving herself than she did about him.
It wasn’t true, but the long hours hadn’t helped an already fraught situation,
that was for sure.

“I half expected it, anyway.” She had no idea where the words
came from, or her almost-casual tone. “Gordon warned me. So it’s not really that
big a surprise.”

Except it was, because she’d never really imagined that Gordon
would choose Philip over her. Amazing to think that after all these years
working in such a cynical industry she could still be so naive.

“You should sue them. You’re still on sick leave, aren’t you?
They can’t just give your job away.”

“They can. They only have to offer me something similar. One of
the game shows. Maybe the Christmas Carol special.”

“You’re better than a game show,” Patrick said, his tone full
of disgust.

“Listen, I need to go. My guest is here,” Mackenzie lied. “I
appreciate the heads-up, Patrick.”

“Call me if you need to talk, okay? Anytime. Evidence to the
contrary, I’m here for you, babe.”

“Thanks and noted. See you, Pat.”

She ended the call. She put the phone back on its cradle, then
she turned on the outside light and went to the kitchen.

The ingredients for the pasta were lined up along the counter,
neatly sliced and diced and ready to go. Two of her pretty Japanese glazed bowls
sat to one side, waiting to be filled. In the living room beyond, the table was
set with cloth napkins and shiny cutlery.

The last thing she wanted to do right now was entertain a
virtual stranger. The thought of smiling and making small talk with Oliver when
the rug had been pulled from beneath her life made her want to drop her head
back and wail like a child. Yet she couldn’t cancel on him. This dinner was a
thank-you, an acknowledgment that he’d put himself out for her. No way could she
pull the pin on their evening. It simply wasn’t an option.

Instead, she turned to the fridge and grabbed the bottle of
local white wine she’d bought to accompany their meal. She twisted the cap off
and poured herself a big serving. She sipped as she gazed grimly off into space.
Waiting for Oliver to arrive.

Waiting for this evening to be over so she could crawl into
bed, pull the quilt over her head and hide from the world for a while.

Because even feisty, scary, too-many-coffees-intense women were
allowed to have moments of weakness. Weren’t they?

* * *

O
LIVER
SMOOTHED
A
HAND
over his damp
hair. His other hand gripped the neck of a bottle of wine and Strudel’s lead as
he stood on Mackenzie’s doorstep, waiting for her to respond to his knock.

Dumb, but he was nervous. About what, he had no idea.

Annoyed with himself, he turned to study the paved area in
front of her house. Unlike him, she hadn’t done a thing about the damage from
the storm so mud and gravel and debris were still strewn across the expanse.

The snick of the lock had him spinning around as the door
opened. Mackenzie smiled at him, pulling the door wide.

“Right on time. The perfect guest.”

Mr. Smith rushed out, launching himself at Strudel. A
complicated exchange of sniffs, licks and tail wags took place, both dogs
quivering with excitement.

“Well. That’s them settled for the evening,” Mackenzie
said.

She looked different. It took him a beat to work out what it
was—makeup and real clothes instead of workout gear. Small changes, but enough
to make him realize something he hadn’t admitted to himself before tonight. She
was an attractive woman. Verging on beautiful, with her delicate features and
striking blue eyes.

He offered her the bottle. “Not sure if you’re a red or white
person or an equal-opportunity wine swiller like myself, but this looked
good.”

She examined the label. “It is. One of my favorite local
vineyards, actually.”

She gestured for him to enter, making him clue in to the fact
he was still hovering on the doorstep like a nervous schoolboy. He shrugged,
feeling stupid and self-conscious, and stepped into her small entryway. Strudel
strained at her leash, eager to cavort more fulsomely with her new beau.

“Hope you like pasta. And I bought a lemon tart for dessert,”
Mackenzie said.

“Sounds great.” It did, too. Lunch had been hours ago, a cheese
and Vegemite sandwich he’d shoved into his face one-handed while sorting through
one of the many boxes of books in the back bedroom. “Is it okay if I let Strudel
off the leash?” Before she choked to death trying to get at Mr. Smith.

“Of course.”

He unclipped the lead and Strudel and Mr. Smith rampaged down
the hall, disappearing in no seconds flat.

“No worries, guys, we’re cool. We can look after ourselves,”
Mackenzie called after them.

He smiled at her wry tone. “Hard not to feel like chopped liver
sometimes, eh?”

“I think Smitty would be more interested in chopped liver, to
be honest.”

She led the way to the kitchen, her perfume leaving a scented
wake.

“I never got around to asking, is this a permanent move for you
or have you bought next door as a holiday place?” she asked as she opened the
fridge and extracted a bottle of wine.

Let the small talk begin.

“Neither, actually. Marion was my aunt, and she left the place
to me and my brother. We’re both Sydney based so we decided it was best to
sell.”

“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss. I know it was a while ago, but
she was a great old bird. I used to enjoy chatting with her over the fence
whenever I was down here. I was really sad when I heard she’d died.”

“Thanks. To be honest, I didn’t know her that well. She lived
so far away, we didn’t see her much. Mostly it was Christmas cards and the
occasional phone call.”

“Right.”

He thought over what she’d said. “Does that mean you don’t live
here permanently, then? I thought you were a local.”

“I’m a city girl. But I’ve been masquerading as a local for the
past few months so I can concentrate on my rehab.” She handed him a glass of
wine. “So you’re the sucker who gets to prepare the house for sale, huh?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“That’s a big job. Your aunt had me over for tea a couple of
times and that place is stuffed with furniture.”

“And books and clothes and knickknacks. Then there’s the shed
out the back.”

“You’re a good brother,” she said.

“Not really. It suited me to get away for a few weeks, that’s
all.”

She raised her glass. “To being temporary neighbors, then.”

He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Cheers.”

“Grab a seat while I make this happen.” She waved him toward
the stools parked beneath the overhang on one side of the counter.

He sat and watched as she moved around the kitchen, setting
water to boil and washing a bunch of parsley. There was a restrained energy to
her actions, as though she was constantly holding herself in check. Or perhaps
it was her injuries that were doing that. He wondered what she’d been like
before the accident.

Unstoppable, he suspected.

His gaze dropped and he couldn’t help noting her small, round
backside again. He wondered what it would feel like in his hands.

He forced himself to look away. He wasn’t the kind of guy who
went around checking out women and wondering what they looked like naked. He
didn’t make a habit of it, anyway. Yet somehow his thoughts always seemed to
head in that direction when he was with Mackenzie. Even though she wasn’t his
type.

“So, what do you do when you’re not clearing out old
furniture?” Mackenzie asked.

“I’m a sound engineer. My business partner, Rex, and I have a
small recording studio.”

Her gaze was bright and assessing. “What sort of things do you
work on? Music, commercial stuff?”

“A bit of everything, but mostly session work for albums.”

“Interesting. How did you get into that?”

He shifted on the stool, not liking the direction of the
conversation but he had no easy way of changing it. “I was a musician—long time
ago. It seemed like the logical next move once the band broke up.”

“You were in a band? What was it called?”

“Salvation Jake.”

She set down the knife, her eyes wide with surprise. “Get out
of town. Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I loved you guys. I practically wore holes in your first
CD.”

Which, coincidentally, was also their one and only successful
album.

He could feel his shoulders getting tight. It always made him
uncomfortable talking about the band. It was so long ago, like a distant dream.
The gold records, the packed gigs. He was well aware that he ticked more than
enough boxes to qualify for the washed-up ex-rocker cliché. Eking out a career
in an associated field, tick. Days of glory long behind him, tick. Anonymous,
tick.

“Your lead singer, Edie Somers... She had such a sexy voice. So
much gravel. And such an amazing stage presence.”

“Yeah. She was something.”

The last thing he wanted to do was talk about Edie. He took a
big swallow of wine and focused on Mackenzie.

“How about you? How do you pay the bills?”

Her gaze dropped to the cutting board and she concentrated on
brushing the parsley she’d just chopped into a small bowl.

“I work in TV. Producing, that kind of thing.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a producer before.”

“We’re not a very exciting bunch. More or less glorified field
marshals.”

“What shows have you worked on?”

She shrugged, her head still down turned. “Game shows, dramas.
Most recently
Time and Again.
Really, it’s pretty
dull. I’m more interested in knowing what it’s like to be a rock god.”

“I was the bass guitarist. I don’t think I even qualified as a
demigod.”

“No underwear flying your way, then? No groupies hanging out at
the stage door?” Her words were light, but her grip was white-knuckle tight
around the bowl of her wineglass, as though she was holding on for dear life. He
studied her face, seeing past her smile to the misery in her eyes.

Something was wrong. He had no idea what, but he could
feel
it, and he had the sudden, odd urge to simply lay
his hand on hers. Anything to ease the terrible turmoil he sensed in her.

Those were disturbing thoughts. He didn’t go around touching
strange women to reassure them. He wasn’t about to start now, either.
Particularly not with this woman, who had already proved that she could be
prickly and difficult at the best of times.

“You’re not going to go all shy on me, are you, Oliver? I was
hoping for some salacious tales of decadence and excess. At the very least I was
hoping for some scuttlebutt.”

She gave him what he could only describe as a cheeky look and
he realized that whatever was going on, she had no intention of telling him. She
was being a good hostess, keeping things light and easy breezy. The least he
could do was follow suit.

As for touching her... No. That would not be a good idea.

So he talked about the band. He answered her questions and made
her laugh with stories about how gauche and spoiled and dumb they’d been as they
enjoyed their brief moment in the sun. She volunteered her own embarrassing
stories, and before he knew it he was looking at the bottom of an empty pasta
bowl, they’d finished one bottle of wine and she was opening the bottle he’d
brought over.

“I’d better not,” he said when she attempted to top up his
glass. “The saddest thing about pushing forty is not being able to handle
hangovers.”

“Oh, God, I never could, even when my liver was young and pink
and squeaky-clean. But it’s not going to stop me from having more. Not tonight,
anyway.”

There was a determined, bright note to her voice but all he
could see was the deep sadness in her eyes. For the second time that night he
was gripped with the urge to ask her what was wrong. Then he reminded
himself—again—that it was none of his business. She’d said it herself—they were
temporary neighbors. Besides, his own life was mostly in the toilet. He was
hardly in a position to offer anyone comfort or advice.

BOOK: The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance)
12.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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