The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) (9 page)

He looked away from her sadness and focused instead on the
dogs. They’d settled in the corner on what was clearly Mr. Smith’s favorite
lounging spot, a big floor cushion made from coffee-colored corduroy. Strudel
had claimed the prime real estate in the center of the cushion and Mr. Smith had
curled his long body around hers. His head nestled on his outstretched paws, and
he watched her every move with a single-minded devotion.

“I think we might have a romance on our hands,” he said.

She followed his gaze. “Smitty’s definitely enthralled. And she
doesn’t seem to mind it too much.”

“I’d say she was eating it up with a spoon.”

“Speaking of which, time for dessert.”

She cleared the plates. He watched her walk to the sink, his
gaze drawn yet again to her small, pert bottom.

“You want ice cream or cream or both?” Mackenzie asked.

“At the risk of imminent cardiac arrest, both, please.”

She was smiling when she returned with two plates bearing lemon
tart, ice cream and cream. “Man after my own heart condition.”

The lemon tart was just that—tart and sharp and sweet and sour
and so good that an involuntary moan of pleasure escaped him.

“That good, huh?” she asked.

“Lemon is one of my favorite flavors, and it’s been a
while.”

“I always make it a rule never to go too long between good
desserts. Life is too short.”

“That’s a pretty good rule.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

Her expression seemed self-satisfied, although not in a bad
way, and once again he was struck by how attractive she was. It wasn’t just her
eyes, although they were spectacular. It was the shape of her small nose and the
plumpness of her lower lip and the laugh lines around her mouth.

Her smile faltered a little and he realized he was staring
like...well, a little like poor, dumbstruck Smitty, if he were honest.

Mackenzie put an inordinate amount of attention into scooping
up the last of her ice cream and he tried to pretend he couldn’t feel heat
climbing into his cheeks.

He was really, really out of practice with this man-woman
stuff. Not that this was a proper date with any expectations attached to it or
anything like that, but still. Apparently he needed to brush up on his social
skills before he ventured out too far in public.

“That was really delicious,” he said. “The whole meal was
great. Definitely better than the canned spaghetti I had last night.”

“That’s a rather low standard you have there.”

“What can I say? I’m a man of simple tastes.”

He wasn’t sure how, but somehow his words came out sounding
loaded. As though he was talking about tastes other than the ones that
originated in his mouth.

“So, will your wife be enjoying this lovely, restful break in
delightfully wintery Flinders with you?” Mackenzie asked.

For a second he was thrown. How did she know he was married?
Then he realized she’d probably assumed he was. Not the craziest assumption
given his age, and one that would have been accurate four months ago. He opened
his mouth to tell her he was in the process of getting a divorce—then the memory
of the last time he’d told someone about him and Edie popped into his head. He
hadn’t stopped at sketching in the bare details, hadn’t been
able
to stop, and all the sordid, messy ugliness had
come pouring out. Trying to extricate himself—and the poor person who had been
on the receiving end of his spewing—from that embarrassing situation had been
almost as bad as baring his soul.

So no way was he gutting himself in front of Mackenzie like
that. He’d already made her uncomfortable with his dopey staring and rusty
social skills. Discretion was definitely the better part of valor in this
circumstance.

“No, she won’t.”

“That’s a shame,” Mackenzie said.

He made a noncommittal sound as she poured herself more wine.
The dogs stirred, shifting positions on the cushion. Mackenzie smiled
indulgently.

“How old is Strudel?” she asked.

“Eighteen months. How about Mr. Smith?”

“Nearly three now. Poor little guy. He was so confused when I
had my accident. He had to live with my friend Kelly for nearly eight months. I
was worried he’d forget me after all that time, but he still did the happy dance
when he saw me.”

He knew what she was referring to—the complicated little dance
Strudel did whenever he came home, complete with crazily wagging tail, bright
eyes and lolling tongue.

“Gotta love the happy dance.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Her gaze rested on her dog, her expression suddenly pensive.
“You know what I love about having a dog? They don’t have moods.” Her gaze met
his, very intense and maybe even a little fierce. “He’s always happy to see me.
He always wants to be tickled on his belly. He’s loyal and steadfast to a fault.
Utterly and completely reliable. I know he’ll never let me down. Ever. He’s
always got my back, no matter what.”

A single tear trickled down her cheek as she finished speaking.
She shook her head slightly and wiped her cheek. “Sorry. I don’t know where that
came from.”

“You’re okay. No worries.”

She nodded and smiled but when she blinked two more tears
slipped down her cheek.

“Sorry...” The look she gave him was anguished and
self-conscious at the same time.

“Hey, what are a few tears between temporary neighbors?” he
said.

Her chin wobbled, then her face crumpled and suddenly she was
crying in earnest. He froze, unsure what to do, what to say.

“I didn’t mean—” She stood abruptly. “Give me a minute.”

Ducking her head, she strode from the room.

CHAPTER FIVE

O
LIVER
STARED
at her empty seat,
feeling sideswiped and stupid and more than a little inadequate.

He should have said something. He should have at least told her
that he didn’t give a shit if she cried. God knew, he’d shed his fair share of
tears in recent months, deep in the dark of the night when no one would know
that he’d compromised his all-important masculinity by letting his emotions get
the better of him.

He started for the hallway. There he looked left, then right.
Right seemed more promising, so he made his way toward the half-open door at the
end. He could hear her sobbing as he approached and he paused to knock.

“Mackenzie...”

She didn’t respond. He hesitated a moment, then pushed open the
door and entered what was clearly her bedroom. She sat on the side of the bed,
head down, arms wrapped tightly around the pillow pressed to her chest. Her
shoulders shuddered with the force of her misery.

His first instinct was to put his arms around her. She looked
so bloody sad and alone and he’d always been a sucker for crying women. He
settled for sitting beside her and resting a hand in the middle of her back.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, still not looking up. He smoothed his hand
in a small circle and waited. After a beat she lifted her head and took a shaky
breath.

“They gave up on me. They were keeping my job open, but they’ve
given it away. So it’s all gone now. Everything I’ve worked for...”

Fresh tears welled. He pulled a handful of tissues from the box
on the bedside table. He pressed them into her hand and she made a hiccuping
sound that he guessed was thank-you.

“If they were willing to hold your job open that long, you must
be good at what you do. There’ll be other jobs, right?” he said.

She blew her nose. Her face was pink and shiny with tears, her
eyelashes spiky with moisture.

“I want
my
job. The job I earned.
I want my life back.
” There was a plaintive,
almost despairing note to her voice, like the wail of a scared child, and he
understood that this wasn’t only about the job. This was about everything—her
injuries, the loss of the life and world she’d once taken for granted, her long
recovery.

“It’ll get better, Mackenzie.”

“Will it? Will the headaches stop? Will my shoulder work
properly? Will I ever be able to sit cross-legged again? Will I ever be able to
take on a full nine-to-five working day without collapsing in a heap for a
week?” The questions fired out of her, bristling with anger and frustration.

“I don’t know.”

She hunched forward, gripping the pillow tightly. “I need to
know. I want to know
now
that it’s all going to be
okay. I’m sick of taking it on faith. I’m sick of proving everyone wrong. I need
some kind of guarantee that it’s going to be all right because I can’t just keep
trying and trying and trying when I can’t see the end.”

She started to cry again. This time he didn’t resist the
instinct. He folded his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest. She
remained locked in on herself, arms banded around the pillow. He tucked her head
beneath his chin and waited her out.

After what felt like a long time her body softened and her head
rested more heavily on his shoulder.

“I’m so tired,” she said, and he knew she was talking about
more than physical tiredness.

“You’ll be okay, Mackenzie.”

Her breathing evened out. After a few more minutes she stirred
in his arms, pushing away from his chest. She glanced at his face briefly before
grabbing more tissues. The glimpse was enough for him to see she was embarrassed
now that the crisis had passed. Self-conscious because she’d let her guard down
in front of a man she’d shared a meal and a bottle of wine and not much else
with.

“Don’t,” he said.

Her gaze found his.

“Don’t give yourself a hard time for letting it get to you.
You’re only human. No one can be strong all the time. No one.”

“You have to be strong in recovery. No one else will do it for
you.” Her voice sounded husky and thick.

“So, what? You’re not allowed to feel shit? You’re not allowed
to have a bad day?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like I can. Sometimes
it feels as though if I stop, that’ll be it. I’ll be locked in that one
place—never getting better, never moving forward, never getting back everything
I had. That’s why I wanted so badly to return to work. That was my benchmark. If
I could fool them all into believing I was exactly the same, then it would all
be okay. I wouldn’t be different. My life wouldn’t have changed. I’d just pick
up the threads I dropped a year ago. But they gave up on me. They bloody gave up
on me.”

She blinked rapidly, clearly determined not to shed any more
tears. He thought about the scars he’d seen on her head and arm and the
stiffness in her gait and it hit him that perhaps the hardest part of surviving
the kind of trauma Mackenzie had been through was accepting that life would
never be the same, no matter how hard you pushed yourself or willed it
otherwise.

“Would it be the end of the world if everything didn’t go back
to being the way it used to be?” he asked quietly.

Maybe it hadn’t occurred to her to ask herself that
question.

“What are you suggesting I do? Slip into early retirement on a
disability pension and take up crocheting and lawn bowling?”

“Not at all. I’m only wondering if there isn’t another way of
defining normal. That’s all.”

She stared at him. He could see her mind working, feel her
sifting through her response to his challenge. Although it seemed low of him to
leave her now, he knew Mackenzie well enough to understand she wouldn’t want him
hanging around while she grappled with redefining who she was.

“I’m going to get out of your hair.” He stood. “Spare you any
more of my amateur psychology. Such as it is.”

She rose, too, quickly collecting the crumpled tissues from the
bed and stuffing them into her trouser pocket. For the first time he glanced
around, taking in the decor. The wall behind the bed was a muted green, the
other three walls taupe. A hazy Asian-themed print hung above the headboard. Her
duvet was green, the pillows snowy-white. Some clothes were draped over an
antique chair in the corner. His gaze slipped away, but not before he’d noted
the delicate black lace of a bra dangling over the chair back, the cups still
curved to the shape of Mackenzie’s breasts.

Feeling like a voyeur, he headed for the living room. Strudel
was out cold, Mr. Smith draped across her neck. He clicked his fingers to wake
her and clipped on her lead. She gave him a dark look but lumbered to her feet
obediently.

Mackenzie was standing in the doorway watching him when he
turned to go, her expression rueful and chagrined and awkward. “Tonight was
supposed to make up for all the times I’ve been rude to you in the past few
days.”

“You don’t have to make anything up to me.”

“Right. Two doors in the face, belligerence over the fence,
ridiculous preciousness and now this.” She shook her head. “You must think I’m
an absolute fruitcake.”

He eyed her steadily. “What makes you think I’m in a position
to judge anybody?”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“Everyone’s got their own shit to shovel, Mackenzie. Believe
me.”

He started forward and she stepped aside so he could pass. She
followed him to the entryway.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said.

“It was my pleasure. Sorry about the entertainment.”

“As I said, there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

He turned to go, but she caught his forearm. He glanced down as
she transferred her grip to his hand. Her fingers were warm as they wrapped
around his.

“More importantly, thank you for your kindness.” She rose on
tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a good passer of tissues.”

She gave his fingers a small squeeze before releasing him and
taking a step backward.

“Good night,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what else to
say.

He walked away, Strudel padding at his side. The spot where
Mackenzie had kissed him felt warm. As though she’d branded him with her
lips.

She didn’t shut the door and turn off the light until he’d
started down his own driveway. The house was cold and dark and utterly
unwelcoming when he let himself in. He crouched in front of the fireplace and
built a stack of kindling and paper twists. He lit a match and watched flames
lick up the wood, trying to pretend that something hadn’t happened when
Mackenzie’s hand closed around his and her lips brushed his skin.

But it had. Something had stirred in him, the same thing that
made his gaze zero in on her breasts and backside every chance he got. The same
thing that had turned him into a dazed yokel when she smiled at him tonight.

Desire.

So much for her not being his type.

He threw a log on the fire and used the poker to prod it into
position, part of his brain already busy justifying his urges to himself. She
was an attractive woman and it had been an unexpectedly intense evening. He was
only human.... Just because he’d felt the pull of desire didn’t mean he would
necessarily act on it. He’d met dozens of women during his marriage whom he’d
found attractive and never laid a finger on any of them, because he took his
vows seriously. As far as he was concerned, marriage—

He sat back on his heels, a little stunned at himself.

Marriage?
Really?

The fire popped, sending sparks floating up the chimney and
snapping him out of his shock. He’d thought he’d drawn a line under his marriage
the day Edie had confirmed the affair. But apparently a part of him still lived
like a married man, still felt guilty about being attracted to another
woman.

Which was nuts, because he was a free agent now.

Free to make his own decisions.

Free to desire other women.

Free to act on that desire, should he so choose.

An image filled his mind—Mackenzie’s bra, a promise spun from
delicate black lace and fine silk.

If he wanted to, there was nothing in the world stopping him
from finding out how Mackenzie looked in that bra. Well, from trying to find
out, anyway. He was single. Available.

And, apparently, more than a little horny.

For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder. Then he shut down
those thoughts.

The truth was he didn’t know tons about Mackenzie. He knew she
was feisty and prickly and intelligent and challenging. She had a good sense of
humor and a sharp, sometimes acidic tongue. She was also sexy as hell, it turned
out.

She certainly wasn’t the kind of woman a man took on lightly.
Especially not a man who had next to no game where women were concerned—it had
been a long, long time since he’d even thought about trying to get a woman who
wasn’t his wife into bed, and he wouldn’t even know where to start where
Mackenzie was concerned. He had no idea if she was remotely interested in him as
a man. For all he knew, she was as likely to slap his face as kiss it if he made
a move.

And no, that kiss on the cheek did not count as a
sign.
He wasn’t that rusty or deluded.

He grabbed a couple cushions off the couch and settled in more
comfortably in front of the fire.

This being-single thing was complicated. Fortunately, there was
plenty of night left to ponder the subject.

* * *

I
AM
AN
IDIOT
.
I am an idiot. I am an idiot.

The refrain echoed through Mackenzie’s brain on an endless loop
as she cleaned the kitchen. Who in their right mind invited a man to dinner and
then had an almighty meltdown in front of him? Who did that?

You, you idiot.

She blamed the wine. She’d consumed four glasses in quick
succession trying to numb the shock of Patrick’s news. Instead of washing the
pain away, however, the alcohol had eaten away at her defenses leaving her weak
and emotional and unable to control herself when the tide of loss had risen up
inside her—as it had on and off all evening.

She’d managed to laugh and talk and put on a good show the
first few times the loss had threatened, even though inside she’d been wailing
and pulling her hair and rending her shirt. Then she’d had one glass too many
and suddenly there had been nothing between her and the pain and fear and she
hadn’t been able to stop the tears from coming.

She winced as she hung the damp tea towel over the oven handle.
Oliver must think she was a bona fide head case. She hadn’t had a single normal
interaction with him since he arrived. If she were him, she would barricade the
doors and windows and avoid any and all future contact with the crazy lady next
door.

She trudged into the bathroom and squeezed toothpaste onto her
toothbrush. The woman in the mirror had puffy, bloodshot eyes and a rueful
expression on her face.

Well she might.

She brushed and flossed, then headed for bed. She stopped in
her tracks in the doorway, pulled up by the sight of the twin indentations on
her quilt. One for her, one for him.

God. What a ridiculous evening. The poor man.

Mr. Smith sniffed at her heels and she bent to give him a
good-night pat before shutting him out in the hall. Then she changed into her
pajamas, crawled into bed and tried to pretend that she hadn’t lost it
spectacularly in front of the lovely, warm, kind man from next door.

Flashes of her own self-indulgent monologue came to her as she
squeezed her eyes shut.

I need to know. I want to know
now
that it’s all going to be okay. I’m sick of
taking it on faith.