All They Need

chapter SEVEN



THE FARTHER HE GOT from Mel’s place, the more Flynn felt like a dick. He couldn’t believe that he’d elbowed his way into her home and proceeded to dump all his crap on her. Every time he thought about how he’d almost cried he squirmed in his seat. Sure, he’d redeemed himself a little with the garden discussion afterward, but still…

She’d been great about it, hearing him out and offering her thoughts and feeding him, but that was beside the point. He felt as though he’d rolled over and displayed his soft underbelly to her like a beseeching puppy dog.

Was he really that desperate for a little comfort and companionship? This was the sort of behavior that had wound up with him hurting Hayley. He needed to get a grip.

Although, in all fairness, it had taken him a long time to tell Hayley what was going on with his parents. They’d been sleeping together for well over a couple of months before he’d shared his father’s diagnosis with her. It wasn’t information that he bandied about, out of respect for his father’s privacy and dignity. But with Mel, he’d let it all hang out. He wasn’t sure why.

Staring out the taxi window, he thought about the calm, serious way she’d watched him as he’d told her about his parents. She had a very warm, real presence. He’d felt…safe with her. Maybe that was why he’d spilled his guts so unceremoniously.

Or maybe you wanted her to hold you to that spectacular bosom of hers and offer you a different kind of comfort.

He shifted again, but there was no denying the fact that he was very attracted to Mel. His mouth thinned into a grim line. He’d like to think he had a little more finesse than to try to whinge and whine his way into a woman’s bed, but the evidence was definitely stacked against him.

He was still brooding when the taxi pulled up in front of his town house in Kew. He handed over the fare and was sliding out of the cab when his phone rang. He took the call as he pushed the car door shut.

“Hi. I feel like such an idiot— I forgot to give you your keys.”

It was Mel, her voice low and slightly breathless over the line. “Keys. Right.” He patted his pocket, and sure enough there was no telltale bulge beneath his hand.

Damn.

He was vaguely aware of the taxi driving off into the night as Mel spoke again.

“You left them in the Aston Martin and I locked it up and brought them home with me and meant to give them to you…?.”

He turned and considered the locked door to his town house. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But you’ll need your house keys, won’t you? I can bring them up to you. Give me your address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“You’re not making a two-hour round trip to bring me my keys. I’ve got a spare with the neighbors, and it wasn’t as though I was going to be able to drive the Aston Martin into work tomorrow, anyway. I’ll organize a courier to pick them up in the morning.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m the one who ran off like a moron. I’ll give you a call tomorrow to let you know when to expect the courier, okay?”

“All right.”

He hesitated, tempted to apologize for the gut-spilling and associated other self-indulgences of the evening. Then he decided that he should quit while he was ahead.

“I’ll see you later, Mel,” he said.

He ended the call and glanced at his neighbor’s window. There was a light on downstairs. With a bit of luck they’d be home. Otherwise he’d be forced to catch a cab to his parents’ place for the night.

Luck was with him and he was soon letting himself in with his spare key. He sent Mel a quick text, just in case she was worrying. She responded immediately:

Phew. Load off. Will get keys to you tomorrow.

He started composing a return text and then caught himself. He’d imposed himself on her enough for one day. Time to give the woman a break.

It didn’t stop him from thinking about her as he got ready for bed.

The way she’d thrown her car keys at him with no questions or caveats.

Her sympathetic patience as he’d talked about his father.

The admiration in her gaze as she looked over the design he’d sketched for her.

That moment this morning when she’d been adjusting the harness on the cutter and her fingers had brushed his belly and she’d looked up, straight into his eyes.

Mel Porter was one out of the box. Funny, smart, kind, generous—and, of course, sexy as hell.

Last night he’d decided that she wasn’t fling material because there was a vulnerability in her that demanded patience and commitment that he simply didn’t have to offer at the moment. But it hit him suddenly that he’d gotten it completely ass-about. The reason Mel wasn’t fling material wasn’t because she was vulnerable, it was because she was a keeper.

One night with her would never be enough.

It was the last thought he had before he drifted off to sleep.



MEL WOKE IN muffled darkness, covered in sweat. Her legs were bound, she couldn’t breathe…?. She flailed and kicked and suddenly was fully awake, in her bed, the sheets wrapped around her legs, the quilt over her face. She batted it away, kicked her legs free and reached for the bedside light. Golden light shone up the wall and she blinked. Her heart was pounding away, her pulse vibrating in her neck. She moved to the edge of the bed and stood, shivering in the cold with her clammy skin. She grabbed a towel from the ensuite, stripped off her pajamas and rubbed herself down. She found a fresh pair of pajamas in the chest of drawers and pulled them on. She straightened the covers, then got into bed on the opposite side, where the sheets weren’t damp from her panicky sweat.

She lay on her side, legs curled up, doing her best not to read too much into the nightmare. She’d had a lot of them in the early days after she and Owen separated, and she’d thought she was past them.



Apparently not.

Fragments from her dream floated back to her: Owen sitting beside her in the car, hands tight on the steering wheel, his silent, oppressive anger pushing her into her seat; Owen yelling at her, again, for getting it wrong, pacing up and down in their bedroom; her standing in a ballroom full of beautiful, glittering people, yet feeling utterly isolated and alone.

A delightful highlight reel from her marriage, although she’d left out a couple of doozies. Maybe they were still lurking in her subconscious somewhere, waiting to disturb the rest of her night. Lucky her.

She wondered idly what had come first—her becoming entwined in the bedclothes, or the dream with all its attendant memories of how trapped she’d felt in her marriage. Chicken or egg, dream or entanglement.

It probably didn’t matter. And perhaps it was timely for her to remember exactly how bad it had been, given the arrival of Flynn in her life and the conversation she’d had with her sister tonight. Perhaps it was a damned good thing for her to revisit exactly how powerless and trapped she’d felt. She’d been bound to her marriage in so many different ways—by expectation, by her vows, by pride, by her inability to fully comprehend how ugly things had become between them, by crippling self-doubt that had been fed by years of her husband’s criticisms, large and small.

Like water on a rock he’d worn her down until she’d started to believe the things he said to her. That she was stupid. That she was responsible for his failure to make headway with his political ambitions. That she deliberately went out of her way to anger him. That she’d never even tried to learn how to fit in with his world.

She sighed heavily. So much anger and unhappiness. For both of them, really. She wondered if Owen was any happier now that he was free of the wife who had “done nothing but hold me back.” She doubted it, because he would always have his rapaciously ambitious mother’s voice in his ear, urging him to be better, do better, and Diana Hunter would never be satisfied. Ever.

Mel almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

Finally she drifted off to sleep. When she woke again it was morning. Judging by the state of the bedcovers, she’d barely moved. She showered and wrapped herself in her Thai silk dressing gown before making her way to the kitchen. She was trying to decide between porridge or peanut butter toast when the doorbell rang. She answered the door to find Flynn standing there.

“Flynn,” she said, her voice high with surprise.

“Hi. I hope it’s not too early.”

His gaze drifted over her dressing gown. She was instantly acutely aware of the fact that she was naked underneath.

“No. Of course not. You’re here for your keys, right?” she said, one hand instinctively lifting to the neckline of her robe to ensure it wasn’t gaping immodestly.

“Yeah. When I thought about it again this morning I realized there was no point sending a courier when I needed to get the car sorted out, too, so I grabbed a couple of hours to make it happen.” He gave her what could only be described as a polite smile.

She stepped away from the door, waving him inside. “Come in.”

She led him to the kitchen and grabbed the keys off the counter, handing them over. “Would you believe they were sitting there all night and I forgot to give them to you?”

“Thanks.” He offered her another polite smile.

She frowned. Maybe she was reading too much into things, but he seemed different. More distant. Less warm. Not that that was a bad thing, all things considered, but it seemed out of step with the way they’d parted company last night. The way he’d kissed her cheek. The way he’d looked at her.

“Also, I was hoping there was a mechanic you can recommend locally. My regular guy’s in the city and I don’t particularly want to have Gertie towed all that way.”

“There are a couple of workshops in the village. Barry Cassidy has a good reputation. And the other guy is my father.”

“Well, that makes it easy. Obviously I’ll go with Barry Cassidy.”

Her mouth curved up at the corners. “Naturally. That seems like the obvious choice.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” His smile was more genuine this time and some of the stiffness had gone from his face.

“You want Barry’s number?” she asked.

“Sure. But I guess I might as well speak to your father, too.”

“Good plan. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

Flynn pulled his phone out and took her father’s number down as she reeled it off.

“In all seriousness, my dad is a good mechanic. He does a lot of work with classic cars—he and my brother restore them as a hobby. I would have mentioned him to you earlier but I figured you probably had some NASA-trained mechanic in the city somewhere.”



“As I said, I do have a guy but I believe he may have skimped on the NASA training.”

“It’s so hard to get good help these days.”

“Tell me about it.” His gaze dipped below her face for a second and she crossed her arms over her chest, conscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“So, um, how did you get down here this morning?” she asked. She could feel her heart beating out a hectic, nervous rhythm against her breastbone.

“I borrowed Dad’s car. He doesn’t drive anymore. I’ve been putting off selling, so at least it’s earning its keep this week.”

She nodded, thinking about what he’d said in relation to the conversation they’d had last night. “It’s what you were talking about last night, isn’t it? Taking away his freedom. I guess selling his car would really drive home the fact that part of his life is over, wouldn’t it?”

The tight look came back to his face. He cleared his throat. “Listen. About last night.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I wanted to apologize for dumping all that stuff on you…?. That was really uncool.”

It took her a second to process what he’d said and another second to put it in context with his behavior this morning. The polite smiles, the distance, his general awkwardness.

He was embarrassed for having let down his guard with her last night.

She propped a hip against the kitchen counter and studied him. “Let me get this straight. You’re apologizing for caring about your father?”

“No. I’m apologizing for spilling my guts all over your kitchen table.”

“Yeah. See, I happen to think they’re the same thing. You’re allowed to feel upset, Flynn. You’re only human.”

He shrugged uncomfortably.

“This is one of those male things, isn’t it?” she asked.

“I feel a little uncomfortable talking on behalf of my entire gender, but it’s definitely a Flynn Randall thing. I don’t generally go around blubbering.”

“You didn’t blubber last night.”

“Sure.”

“You know, if you were my brother, I’d punch you right now.”

He looked a little startled. Then a slow smile curled his mouth. “Then I’m glad I’m not your brother.”

“You should be. I pack a mean punch. The bruises last for days.”

“Now you’re just trying to scare me.”

“How am I doing?”

“Might need a little more work.”

“Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

“You do that.”

His phone beeped. He pulled it out to check it. She could tell by the way his face shifted into more serious lines that it was work.

“I need to keep moving,” he said. He sounded tired.

“Busy day, huh?”

“They don’t really come in any other size these days.”

They walked to the door and faced each other across the threshold.

“Good luck with the car,” she said.

“Thanks. And thanks for these.” He indicated the keys.

He turned away.



Before he could leave, she took a step forward and touched his arm. “Flynn.”

He paused, half turning toward her.

“Everyone has tough stuff, you know? Everyone. I don’t even want to think of all the times I’ve lost it over the past year or so. It’s called being human. And I certainly don’t think any less of you because of it. Okay?”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a long beat.

“Okay,” he said. Then he smiled, a sweet, small, very sincere smile. “Thanks, Mel.”

The urge to touch him in some way—even just his hand—was so strong that she took a step backward.

“Go make another million. Quickly. The world’s bankers need you.”

She was very aware that she was using humor to diffuse the sudden tension between them and she suspected he was, too.

“If you insist.”

He started down the stairs. Mel shut the door so she wouldn’t stand there like an idiot watching him walk away. Then she went to the kitchen to make herself peanut butter toast. The way she would if this was a normal day and she’d had a normal conversation with any old person.

“Fake it till you make it” had always been one of her favorite sayings.



FLYNN THOUGHT ABOUT his conversation with Mel as he drove into Mount Eliza village to locate her father. She was smart and she was funny and she always surprised him. He liked that about her.

He also liked how she looked in silk.

Fine, sleek silk in variegated shades of blue that clung to every line of her body. He’d taken one glance at her and known she didn’t have a stitch on underneath. The realization had played havoc with his self-control the whole time he’d been talking to her.

He went over the reasons why it would be bad to start anything with her as he pulled into a parking spot at Village Motors, but the old arguments felt as though they were wearing a little thin now. What he felt for her was far more than simple sexual curiosity or interest. He was drawn to her on every level. Which meant that whatever happened between them wouldn’t be a repeat of Hayley.

And it might be the best thing that had ever happened to him. Granted, the argument that the timing was bad still held a lot of water, but like Summerlea, Mel was unique. A one-off, never to be repeated. And he’d already decided that even if the timing couldn’t be worse, he wasn’t walking away from Summerlea.

He was starting to feel the same way about Mel. He glanced up at the building and pushed thoughts of Mel to the back of his mind as he got out of his car. Perhaps he was getting conservative in his old age, but he didn’t think it was appropriate to be thinking about ways to get Mel into his arms, his bed and his life while he was introducing himself to her father.

Village Motors occupied a double block, with a wide roller door leading into a workshop occupying the left side of the property and a small office area filling the right. A plastic sign above a glass-fronted door identified it as Reception. He entered and breathed in the smell of engine grease and metal. A counter bisected the room. On this side were a couple of beaten-up chairs and a table with some much-thumbed car magazines, while the other side boasted a desk with a young girl tapping at a computer.



“Hi. Can I help you?” she asked as he approached the counter.

“I hope so. I need someone to take a look at my car. It’ll probably need to be towed over, but it’s local. Mel Porter is a friend and she recommended you guys.”

“Oh, Mel. Cool,” the girl said. “I’ll get Mike so you can tell him what the problem is.” She stood and disappeared through the door to the workshop. She was back in thirty seconds with a tall, muscular, dark-haired man hard on her heels.

Flynn would have recognized Mike Porter as Mel’s father in a crowd of thousands. Clear gray eyes sitting above a nose similar to Mel’s regarded him neutrally. The shape of his face, the way he held himself—the family resemblance was startling, despite the thick horseshoe mustache that bracketed his mouth.

“Mike Porter. How can I help you?” He offered Flynn his hand.

“Flynn Randall. I’m having some trouble with my ’65 Aston Martin. Your daughter, Mel, said you might be able to help me out.”

Mike frowned slightly. “Randall. You’re not the bloke who bought Summerlea, are you?”

“That’s right.”

“Mel mentioned you the other day. So, what’s going on with your Aston?”

Mel had been talking about him, had she?

Interesting.

“I think it’s probably the brushes in the starter motor. I’ve had trouble with them before. The engine is turning over but not starting.”

“Starter motor trouble for sure,” Mike confirmed. “Where is it? Stacy mentioned something about you needing a tow?”



“It’s over at Summerlea. Is there a local tow-truck service I can use?”

Mike made a dismissive gesture. “Since it’s local and it’s only the starter motor, there’s no need to tow. Leave the keys with me and I’ll swing by and take a look at it this afternoon. If it’s the starter motor, I can unbolt it and bring it here to work on it. If it isn’t… Well, we’ll cross that bridge.”

“Great.” Flynn slid the key to the Aston free from the ring and handed it over.

“Mel said you’ve got a bit of a green thumb.”

“That’s right.”

Mike shook his head. “Gotta say, I don’t get it. If I had my way the whole yard at home would be concrete. No mowing, no weeds.”

“I suppose you’d paint that concrete green, too, huh?” Flynn asked.

Mike’s mouth twitched at the corners. “I hadn’t given it that much thought, but I probably would.”

“You know there’s that artificial grass you can get now, right? Stays green all year round. It’s a whole level up from green concrete.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.” Mike glanced over his shoulder toward the workshop. “Leave your details with Stacy, I’ll be in touch.”

“Just so you know, I may not be able to pick the car up again this week. So if it does need a tow in, you might be stuck with it over the weekend.”

“We can deliver the car to you in Melbourne if you like. We do that for a few of our customers.”

“Yeah? That would be a load off, I don’t mind admitting.”

“Consider it done. Thanks for the business, Flynn.” Mike gave him a nod before heading back into the workshop.

Flynn passed his business card to Stacy, grabbed a Village Motors card from the stack on the counter and exited to the street.

At least he knew where Mel had gotten her dry sense of humor. He crossed the pavement to his father’s car, thinking about the fact that Mel had mentioned him to her family. It was deeply pathetic, but he wished he could have asked what else Mel had said about him, apart from the fact that he’d bought Summerlea and was into gardening.

How old are you exactly?

It was a good question. The thing was, Mel made him feel young and stupid again.

He was still trying to work out whether this was a good thing or not when his phone rang, sucking him into yet another work issue, and, as usual, everything else in his life got pushed into the background.