Chapter FOURTEEN
THERE WERE TWO traffic lights between his place and the only pharmacy in town and Oliver was tempted to run them both when they changed on him at the last minute as he drove. He resisted the impulse—just—then scared the hell out of the pharmacist when he insisted she fill the prescription on the spot rather than make him kick his heels for ten minutes in long-standing pharmacist tradition. He made it to Mackenzie’s place in fifteen minutes and didn’t bother to knock before letting himself into the house.
She was on the bed where he’d left her, curled on her side, eyes closed, forehead creased with pain.
“How are you doing?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t open her eyes. “Not great.”
“Do you need water to take these?”
“Yes, please.”
He went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He helped her sit up, more than a little alarmed at how hot her back felt and the fact that she still hadn’t opened her eyes.
“Thanks—” She lurched forward suddenly, trying to scramble out of bed.
But it was too late—she threw up on herself and the bed, her small body bent almost double. When the spasm had passed, she cracked her eyes to survey the damage.
“Did I get you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Shit.”
“I think you’ll find that’s usually a different color.”
Her mouth twisted unhappily. “This is not a laughing matter. I just threw up on you.”
“But you mostly didn’t. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
He hooked an arm beneath her shoulders and helped her out of bed and into the bathroom.
“Could you stand a shower?” he asked.
“Yes. But can I have my tablet first?”
“Yes. God, sorry. Will you be able to keep it down?”
“I’ll have to.”
He made sure she was steady on her feet before grabbing the glass of water and handing her a tablet. Then he helped her strip and got her into the shower.
“You all right in here for a few minutes?” he asked.
She was very pale, her slim body hunched as though she could protect herself from the discomfort if she could make herself compact enough.
“Yes. Thanks, Oliver. I’m sorry to be dumping all this on you.”
“Shut up,” he said gently.
She smiled faintly before resting her shoulder against the shower wall and letting the water run down her back. He returned to the bedroom, working quickly to strip the bed. He found clean sheets in the hall cupboard. By the time he heard the shower fall silent he’d remade the bed and kicked the soiled linen into the hall.
“You shouldn’t have,” Mackenzie said.
She stood in the bathroom doorway, a towel wrapped around her torso. More wet than dry, hair plastered to her skull, her eyes clouded with pain. A surge of protective affection rose inside him. Mackenzie was such a fighter and fiercely independent, but right now she was intensely vulnerable and he was humbled that she was so willing to put her trust in him.
“Come to bed.”
She walked obediently to his side and he toweled her dry. She stood placidly, her brow slightly furrowed.
“How we doing now?” he asked.
“Bearable. If I can lie down for a while, I think I should be okay.”
“Where do you keep your pajamas?”
“Second drawer down.”
He found a T-shirt and a pair of pants and helped her dress, then helped her into bed. She sighed as the covers settled over her.
“Oh, that’s nice. Clean sheets.” She opened her eyes and touched his knee. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, Oliver.”
Something jabbed him in the chest as he looked at her. Something painful and sharp and sweet and good, all at the same time. The urge to take her into his arms was almost overwhelming.
“Would it disturb you if I stayed awhile?” he asked.
“No. That’d be nice.” Her words were a little slurred and he guessed the meds were kicking in.
He toed off his shoes and took off his jacket, then lay down beside her. She curled on her side and he wrapped his arm around her middle.
“This okay?”
“Yes.”
She wriggled a little closer. They lay snuggled together for what felt like fifteen minutes and slowly he felt the tension ease out of her body.
“Feeling better?” he guessed.
“Yes. Thank God.” She sounded drowsy, almost as though she was tipsy.
“Let me guess. You’re not supposed to operate heavy machinery on those pills, huh?”
“Something like that.”
He tightened his grip for a moment, pulling her closer. Unable to help himself. She felt strong and fine and infinitely precious cradled against him.
“Can I ask you something?” Her voice was slow and lazy and contemplative.
“Sure.”
“You can be honest, because I probably won’t even remember this tomorrow. Do they ever bother you? You never look at them, you never say anything, but it’s not as though they’re not obvious. They must register. Right?”
It took him a moment to understand she was talking about her scars. It hit him that this was something that had been playing in her mind for a while, even though he suspected she would never have raised the subject if she wasn’t dopey from the pills.
He hated the thought that she’d been worried about something so trivial, that beneath her surface confidence and assurance this had been eating away at her. If he had known, he would have said something long ago. Mackenzie’s scars were a part of her, testaments to her grit and courage. He couldn’t imagine her any other way. It was that simple.
“They don’t register, for the most part,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “You have to understand how the male brain works. When there’s a naked woman in the room, there are better things to focus on, if you know what I mean. But I do wonder sometimes if they hurt.”
“They don’t hurt. Not anymore. My hips hurt, sometimes. And my back. And I can’t lift my left arm past shoulder height. But otherwise I’m good as new.”
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re better than new.”
“So are you.”
Her hand slid over his, squeezing warmly. Words—affectionate, committed, emotional words—filled his head. Crazy and impulsive. He opened his mouth, but common sense stopped him before he could say what was in his heart.
It was too early to even be thinking like that. He needed to take a deep breath and remind himself that there was no need to rush into anything. They had time. Even though he would be returning to Sydney soon, Melbourne was only an hour’s flight away. He could visit every weekend if he wanted to. Or Mackenzie could come to him. His returning home was not the end of this. Of them.
“It would be really easy to fall for you, Oliver Garrett,” Mackenzie said. “So easy.”
He went very still, but she didn’t say anything further. After another minute or so her body loosened even more and he realized she was asleep. He lay beside her, breathing in her scent, thinking about what she’d said and what he hadn’t.
Was it possible to fall in love so quickly? It seemed to him that the answer had to be yes, because he was in love with Mackenzie. Fiercely so.
She challenged him, aroused him, fascinated him. She made him laugh, she made him think. She made him want more.
More of her. More happiness. More hours in the day. More laughter.
He could hear his brother’s cautious voice in his head, warning him to be practical and prudent, but he ignored it. His gut told him this was right, and so did his heart.
He waited until Mackenzie was deeply asleep, then eased from the bed and left the room, closing the door behind him. Mr. Smith waited in the hallway, his head resting mournfully on his front paws. He glanced at Oliver without lifting his head, giving him an even more lugubrious air.
“She’s fine, buddy. Don’t worry.” He leaned down and scratched beneath the dog’s chin. “You’re a good dog. But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for messing around with my girl.”
Mr. Smith settled his head back onto his paws, his gaze once more going to the closed bedroom door. Oliver left him to his watchdog duties, heading home to check on Strudel.
She seemed fine, if a little sleepy, but the vet had warned she might be lethargic in the early stages of her pregnancy. He fed her some liver treats and changed her water, then drifted from room to room, seeing half-a-dozen things he could do but not feeling inspired to do any of them. Finally he gave in to need and went to Mackenzie’s place, taking Strudel with him this time. The dogs skittered off to do whatever they did when they hung out on Mr. Smith’s cushion in the living room, and he let himself into Mackenzie’s bedroom.
She was still asleep, and he took off his shoes and joined her on the bed, wrapping an arm around her. She murmured in her sleep, then settled again. He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck.
“I love you,” he said very quietly.
He expected it to sound preposterous, like a teenager making a rash declaration.
It didn’t. It sounded...right.
He closed his eyes and let himself fall asleep.
* * *
MACKENZIE WOKE FEELING disoriented and woozy. It was very dark, and a heavy arm lay across her belly. Oliver, sleeping beside her.
She tried to ease out of the bed without disturbing him but his arm tightened around her middle.
“All good?” he asked.
“Yeah. I think so. My head doesn’t feel as though it’s going to split in half, anyway.” She glanced at him, even though she could only make out the shape of his face in the dark. “Thanks for staying with me.”
“Thanks for letting me stay.”
It hadn’t even occurred to her to send him away. Even though she’d been sick and pathetic and helpless. She trusted him. It was that simple. And having him near had made her feel infinitely safe and cherished.
“You want a glass of water?” he asked.
“I can get it.”
He slid his arm free as she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. There was a moment where her head was a little swimmy—a side effect of the pain meds—then the world righted itself and she was fine.
She made her way into the kitchen, aware of Oliver following her. She smiled at him as she opened the fridge door.
“I’m not going to keel over, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Never thought it for a second.”
She pulled out a carton of juice and found two glasses. Her stomach rumbled as she poured them both a drink.
“I can take a hint. You want some eggs on toast, or maybe a sandwich?” he offered.
“You don’t have to make me dinner on top of everything else.”
“Shut up,” he said, pushing her toward one of the stools on the other side of the counter.
“That’s the second time you’ve said that to me today.”
“And yet you’re still talking.”
She smirked at his joke and slid onto the stool, nursing her juice.
“How’s Strudel?”
“Asleep on Smitty’s cushion.” He gestured with his chin and she glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, the dogs were sleeping next to the sofa.
She rested her elbows on the counter, keen to give voice to the thought that had been sitting front and center of her mind once the fog of her medication had dissipated.
“I’ve made a decision.”
Oliver stilled. “And?”
She loved that he didn’t need to ask what she was talking about.
“I want to explore the possibilities with Mary,” she said firmly. It would mean the next few years would be a little dicey, income-wise, but she could manage.
A slow smile curved his mouth. Then he lifted his juice in salute. “Good decision.”
“It feels good.”
Especially because as a self-employed documentary producer, she would be able to base herself anywhere—Melbourne...Sydney...
Soon she would run that aspect of her decision past him, see how he responded. But not this morning. She wasn’t confident she could mask her disappointment right now if he didn’t say what she desperately wanted to hear.
The dogs chose that moment to patter into the kitchen in search of sustenance. Not for the first time it struck her that they made a very mismatched pair, Strudel knee-height and nicely proportioned, Mr. Smith ground-hugging and overly long.
“I can’t believe she’s going to have Mr. Smith’s babies. You have to send me pictures of the puppies when they’re born.”
He glanced at her as he cracked eggs into a mixing bowl. “You can see them for yourself when you come to visit.”
She blinked. Then she shook her head. “Sorry, I’m a bit thick at the moment.”
“I’m asking if you want to come visit me in Sydney after I go home.”
“Yes.”
She said it without hesitation.
“And if I can visit you here in Melbourne.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to think about it for a moment? Maybe phone a friend?”
“No.”
His mouth curled into a wide, unashamed grin. “Well, then.”
“Just what I was thinking.”
They locked eyes, both of them smiling. He abandoned the eggs and moved around the counter to kiss her. She rubbed her cheek against his and looped her arms around his neck.
Suddenly she felt crazy to have ever doubted him, to have doubted them. So what if it had been only a few weeks? So what if his life was in upheaval?
What was happening between them felt right.
“Why do you always smell so good?” she asked.
“Why do you always feel so good?”
They kissed until her stomach rumbled again.
“Yes, ma’am. Coming straight up,” Oliver said.
He made them both creamy scrambled eggs with toast and they ate on the couch. An old Cary Grant movie was on and they watched it and talked about their favorite movies and books. After a while she was struggling to stay awake and Oliver insisted she go to bed.
“Only if you come with me,” she said.
He did, and she made him roll away from her so she could spoon herself to his back.
When she woke again it was morning and she could hear the shower running in the en suite. She lay still, mentally shaking off the last of the pain medication. Then she joined Oliver in the shower and managed to convince him that yesterday’s migraine had not incapacitated her one iota.
They had a late breakfast and lounged around reading the paper and sharing the crossword puzzle. Oliver went next door to grab his guitar after lunch, and she looked through the De Garis files on her computer while he strummed away.
As days went, she figured they didn’t get any better. They decided by mutual consent that some fresh air and exercise might be beneficial to all, and they set off for the beach at a slow pace. Mackenzie stood on the windswept sand and let the cold air cleanse her, breathing in big mouthfuls of the stuff.
“Good?” Oliver asked, glancing at her.
“Perfect.”
He’d forgotten his scarf again and she gave him half of hers as they walked along the wet sand. This time, she knew she wasn’t imagining the sense of connection between them.
“I was thinking we should do something special for dinner. Maybe go out, if you’re up to it,” Oliver suggested.
“I’m up to it. There’s a place in Red Hill that does great French. La Petanque. I’ll give them a call when we get back and see if we can get a booking.”
The sky started to cloud over after half an hour so they whistled the dogs to heel and started back.
“I bought some Italian hot chocolate at the shop the other day,” Oliver said as they made their way up the sand to the bush track. “Want me to bring it over to you and we can see if it’s as thick and creamy as the packet promises?”
“Be still, my heart. You officially secured your status as the perfect man.”
“And all it took was a packet of hot chocolate?”
“Plus a night of Florence Nightingale duties.”
“Chocolate and spooning. You’re easily bought.”
She used the scarf to reel him closer and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “You have no idea.”
They reached the single-file section of the track and Mackenzie fell behind to allow him to take the lead.
“You need to make your elephant sound again,” she told him.
“You know it’s a mating call, right?”
“I had my fingers crossed.”
He laughed, then made her laugh with a series of ridiculous animal sounds, none of them remotely elephantine. She had tears in her eyes by the time they emerged at the end of their street.
“Did you win the lottery while we were at the beach and not tell me?” Oliver said.
She followed his gaze to the bright red Ferrari parked in front of her house. Her steps slowed.
“Someone you know?” Oliver asked.
“Yes. Patrick. My ex-husband.”
It took her less than a second to get past her surprise.
There was only one reason that Patrick would come calling out of the blue like this: he wanted something.
Tightening her grip on Smitty’s lead, she went to see what it was.
* * *
IT TOOK OLIVER a moment to catch up with Mackenzie. He’d known she’d been married before, but she hadn’t mentioned that her ex-husband had the kind of money that allowed him to drive around in a car worth a quarter of a million dollars.
Oliver wasn’t really a car guy—if he had a choice, he’d prefer to drop that kind of money on a 1959 Les Paul standard guitar—but he was man enough to feel a twinge of envy as they approached the Ferrari. Sleek and low, it looked as though it could break the sound barrier and then some.
“Does he often show up like this?” he asked.
“Patrick isn’t big on planning. So, yes. He probably woke up this morning and remembered I existed and decided he must see me right now, this second, for whatever reason.”
Mackenzie sounded more amused than annoyed, as though she’d long ago reconciled herself to her ex’s peccadilloes.
Oliver stopped at the top of Mackenzie’s driveway. She came to a halt also, throwing him a questioning look.
“You don’t need me hanging around, getting in the way,” Oliver said.
He did his best to sound casual, as though her ex-husband dropping into her life unexpectedly wasn’t a big deal to him, because he knew it shouldn’t be. But the truth was that he was feeling more than a little rattled.
He knew she had a life beyond the cottage and Mr. Smith and the time they spent together, in the same way that he had a life that involved the studio and all the other elements that made up his day-to-day. But until this moment that other life hadn’t seemed real to him. Mackenzie had seemed utterly his, accessible and attainable, their relationship a clean and simple meeting of minds and hearts. They’d been living in a cozy little bubble, sharing their beds and cooking meals together and monopolizing each other’s time and energy.
And now the real world had intruded, in the form of a Ferrari-driving ex-husband.
“You don’t need to disappear because Patrick is here. We’re not changing our plans to accommodate him.”
“Call me crazy, but I don’t think he’ll be thrilled to sit around drinking hot chocolate with some strange dude from next door after driving all this way to see you,” he said.
“Mackenzie. Thank God. I was about to call the police and tell them to launch a search party.”
Oliver turned to see a tall, dark-haired man striding toward them, a broad smile on his face. For a moment he didn’t quite believe what his eyes were telling him, because the blue-eyed, ruggedly handsome man bearing down on them had twice been voted Australia’s most popular actor and could usually be found smiling from the magazine racks at the supermarket.
Not once in any of the conversations he’d had with Mackenzie had she mentioned the fact that her ex was the television actor Patrick Langtry. She’d simply referred to him as Patrick.
“I checked around the back, just in case you’d fallen down an old mine shaft or into a wormhole to another dimension or something,” Patrick said as he covered the final few feet.
“Patrick—”
Mackenzie barely got the word out before she was scooped into a bear hug, her face crushed against her ex-husband’s shoulder. Patrick loosened his grip enough to drop a kiss onto her mouth before letting her go again.
“You look great, Mac. Really fantastic. My God, when I think of how you were last time I saw you... Those doctors are miracle workers,” Patrick said.
Oliver shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. It was either that, or give in to the need to reach out and forcibly move the other man back a foot or so out of Mackenzie’s personal space.
“Can I talk now? Is it safe?” Mackenzie said, her expression wry.
“Go right ahead,” Patrick said easily.
Mackenzie gestured toward Oliver. “First off, this is my friend Oliver. Oliver, this is Patrick. He doesn’t usually talk quite this much but I’m guessing he’s had too many coffees on the road here.”
“Three. But who’s counting? Good to meet you, Oliver.”
Oliver found himself the focus of Langtry’s intense pale blue gaze as they shook hands.
“Yeah, you, too.”
“You a local, Oliver, or down here visiting with Mac?” Patrick asked.
“Patrick. Does the phrase ‘none of your business’ mean anything to you?” Mackenzie said.
Again, she seemed more amused than irritated.
“What? I’m being polite. Making conversation,” Patrick said, smiling and shrugging helplessly as though he had no idea what he’d done wrong.
“Oliver is here from Sydney to sort out his aunt’s estate,” Mackenzie said.
“Not Marion? When did she go?” Patrick appeared genuinely dismayed.
Oliver felt an unreasonable niggle of irritation that not only did this handsome, charismatic guy feel free to kiss and manhandle Mackenzie and call her Mac, but he also knew Marion.
“She died at Easter last year,” Oliver said. “Pneumonia.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that. She was great fun. A real hoot.”
Patrick sounded utterly sincere, but Oliver figured that came naturally. The man was an actor, after all.
Mackenzie turned toward the house. “Come on. It’s too cold to stand around outside.”
Oliver hesitated, but she hooked her arm through his and all but forced him to walk with her toward the house. He was aware of Langtry noting the gesture and couldn’t help feeling pleased that Mackenzie had indicated they were more than friends.
Stop being a territorial dick. Next you’ll be competing with Mr. Smith to mark the yard.
“Who wants coffee, who wants tea?” Mackenzie asked as she entered the house.
Oliver followed her inside, Langtry on his heels.
“Have you got any of that French Earl Gray tea you had last time I was down?” Patrick asked.
“I have no idea. I’ll have to have a rummage,” Mackenzie said. “What about you, Oliver?”
“Tea’s good for me, too, thanks.”
Oliver could feel Langtry studying him, no doubt wondering if Oliver had registered his familiarity with Mackenzie, her house, her dog and her tea supply. Apparently, Oliver wasn’t the only one feeling the urge to piss in a few corners.
Mackenzie headed down the hall, her back very straight. He couldn’t help thinking of how fragile she’d been last night, and how trusting. The possessiveness working its way through his bloodstream dissipated as he remembered the things she’d asked him last night, and the way she’d fallen asleep in his arms.
Patrick Langtry might be almost offensively good-looking; he might drive the ultimate big boy’s toy; he might have charisma and charm to spare; but he was Mackenzie’s ex. He’d had his shot to make her happy and had failed and Mackenzie had moved on. It was stupid to get into a dick-stretching competition with someone who wasn’t even a contender.
Mackenzie threw Oliver a warm smile as he joined her in the kitchen.
“Would you mind grabbing that tin at the back of the pantry?” she asked, pointing to the highest shelf.
“Sure.”
He grabbed the tin in question and handed it to her.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“Wait till you see my next trick.”
“Okay, I will.” She reached out and brushed a speck of lint off his coat, a world of affection in the small gesture.
The last of his stupid jealousy drifted away. Which was good, because he wasn’t a jealous kind of guy. Certainly it wasn’t an emotion that had had a lot of airplay in his life to date.
“You need any more help here?” he asked.
“Thanks, but I’m good for now. You go grab a seat.”
She sent him on his way with a small tap on the butt, making him smile.
Langtry had already made himself comfortable on the couch and was flipping through a magazine. Oliver took the armchair and girded his loins to make small talk and whatever else was required of him until the other man got in his fast car and went on his way.