Chapter FIFTEEN
MACKENZIE WAITED FOR the water to boil, one eye on the kettle, the other on the two men in her living room. They were talking about Oliver’s work in Sydney, Patrick asking polite questions, Oliver answering them equally politely.
It was very, very strange seeing Patrick and Oliver in the same space. Revealing, too. She’d always been powerfully aware of Patrick’s charisma—the man wielded it like a weapon, it was hard to ignore it—but it was a little surprising to realize that Oliver more than held his own on that score. He had the edge on Patrick, actually, because not only was he good-looking with a lovely body and an engaging, compelling way about him, he was also sincere. When he asked a question, he waited for the answer because he genuinely wanted to know. With Patrick, there was often the sense that he was simply going through the motions of social niceties before he could hear the sound of his own voice again.
Meow. Saucer of milk, table two.
Mackenzie shrugged. She figured she was allowed to be a bit pissy with her ex. In the years since their divorce, they’d slipped into an easy friendship consisting of phone calls and emails and occasional dinners. They’d listened to each other’s woes and offered each other advice and enjoyed each other without the burden of forever hanging over them. They had become so comfortable she hadn’t hesitated to offer him the role on Time and Again when she took over the show. But letting their friendship become something more had been a mistake. That didn’t excuse Patrick from his shitty behavior since her accident, though. At the very least, he’d owed her some kindness and consideration. The kind of compassion you’d show someone you cared about on a very basic level. And yet Patrick had been nowhere to be seen when it counted.
She filled the teapot with water and added it to the tray she’d prepared before taking it in to the men.
“Smells fantastic,” Patrick said as she passed him a cup.
“This is very civilized,” she said as she added milk to Oliver’s cup. “I feel like an extra in Downton Abbey.”
“I don’t think the extras would have been given hot tea to drink,” Patrick said.
“True.”
They talked about his drive down the peninsula and the weather before touching on industry gossip. Mackenzie felt herself being drawn in, even though she was very aware that none of it would mean anything to Oliver.
“Enough scuttlebutt, we’ll send Oliver into a coma.”
“Sorry, mate. Lifestyles of the rich and famous and all that,” Patrick said lazily.
Mackenzie’s back went up instantly. She wasn’t sure if it was the look in Patrick’s eyes or the way he’d said it, but there’d been something subtly, sneakily dismissive in his manner. As though he was drawing a circle around himself and her and leaving Oliver on the outer.
“Oh, Oliver knows all about that. Probably had more underwear thrown at him than you in his day, right, Oliver?” Mackenzie said.
Oliver glanced at her and she could see the question in his eyes. Immediately, she felt stupid. Oliver didn’t need her to defend him. Clearly he felt no compulsion whatsoever to compete with Patrick or try to one-up him. Which was admirable and infinitely more mature and likable than the way her ex was behaving.
“Do tell,” Patrick said, settling back into the couch as though he was there for a good, long stay.
Oliver’s smile was self-deprecating. “Ancient history, hardly worth talking about. And there wasn’t that much underwear.”
Patrick glanced from her to Oliver and back again. “So, what, no one’s going to let me in on the joke now?”
“I was in a band in the early nineties. We had a bit of success.”
Patrick studied Oliver through narrowed eyes. “You know, I thought I recognized you when I saw you. What was the name of the band?”
“Salvation Jake.”
“Yeah? I went to that gig you guys did at the first Big Day Out.”
Oliver shook his head. “That was a while ago—ninety-one, right?”
“Ninety-two. That was an awesome concert.”
There was new respect in Patrick’s eyes but Mackenzie wanted to squirm in her seat for trotting out Oliver’s history, as though his fifteen minutes of fame made him more worthy or important.
He was worthy and important all on his own. No fame required.
She settled for standing and collecting everyone’s teacups. “Anyone want anything else to drink? Something to eat?”
The sky had continued to darken with cloud-making the interior dim, so she flicked on the overhead light as she walked into the kitchen. Unless Patrick cut to the chase soon, he’d be driving home in the dark.
She dumped the dishes in the sink and nearly leaped out of her skin when she turned and found Oliver had followed her into the kitchen.
“Sorry,” he said, touching her shoulder. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I didn’t hear you, that’s all.”
“My years of ninja training paying off at last.” He glanced toward the living space, then lowered his voice. “Listen, I might leave you guys to it.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I do. The guy came down to talk to you, and he’s not going to spill his guts while a total stranger is sitting here.”
He was right, but that didn’t mean she was happy about his assessment.
“But we were going somewhere special for dinner.”
“Tomorrow night will be as good.”
“I was looking forward to putting on makeup and getting all gussied up.”
He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss. “Tomorrow night. Lots of gussying. Tons of it.”
He was being generous, bowing out. She caught his hand in hers.
“Sometimes you’re too nice, you know that?”
“That’s a problem?”
“No. That is not a problem.”
Except that it made it extremely hard for her to keep her head where he was concerned.
“Give me a call when you’re done, okay?”
“I will.”
She waited at the counter while Oliver went to say goodbye to Patrick and collect Strudel, then she walked him to the door.
“I’m really sorry,” she said.
“Forget about it. It’s not a big deal.”
It wasn’t, but it was. She threw her arms around him and pressed her face into the place where his neck became his shoulder. He smelled lovely—like fresh air—and she kissed him before opening her mouth and tasting him. He tasted good, too, and she felt the stir of desire.
“Okay, now it’s becoming a big deal,” Oliver said.
He tipped her chin up and kissed her, his tongue stroking hers with lazy, carnal intent. She clutched at his coat, wanting to be closer.
“Mackenzie.” There was laughter in his voice and his eyes when he pulled back to look into her face.
“I know. Sorry. You go.”
“Call me, okay?”
“I’ll come over.”
“Even better.”
He and Strudel exited to the porch and she watched them for a moment before shutting the door.
He was such a good man. Solid and real and open and—
She shook herself. She had an ex-husband to get rid of, and the sooner she did it the better.
* * *
OLIVER CLEANED OUT the fireplace grate when he got home, carrying the ashes outside to the garden. He glanced over the fence as he climbed the rear steps. Mackenzie had drawn the curtains with the approach of night and all he could see was a thin strip of light where the curtains met.
He wondered what her ex wanted. From Mackenzie’s demeanor, she didn’t seem to think it would be anything too onerous or serious. Obviously, the guy hadn’t come looking for money. So what else could it be?
Unbidden, the memory of the way Langtry had pulled her into his arms and kissed her on the lips upon arrival flashed into Oliver’s mind. There had been a lot of familiarity in that embrace. A lot of assumptions, too.
They were married. They have history. Get over it.
Mackenzie had told him herself that they should never have gotten married. She’d said that she and Patrick had a fundamental disconnect. That she’d been worn down by all the times her ex had put himself and his own needs first and hers second.
She also said that she fell into an affair with him because she couldn’t help herself. Because he was charming and “sometimes even when you know someone is wrong for you, you get sucked into old patterns and behaviors.”
The thought curdled his gut. He turned away from it, grabbing a pot and banging it onto the stove. He pulled the fridge open and grabbed anything that looked as though it would turn into soup—potatoes, onions, carrots, half a head of cauliflower, sweet potato.
Working methodically, he peeled and chopped his way through the lot, tossing it into the pot with water and some powdered chicken stock. All the while he kept his mind on the matter at hand, and every time his thoughts wavered toward Mackenzie he yanked them back into line.
He trusted Mackenzie. He trusted what they’d started together. He trusted the way she made him feel, and he believed that feeling wasn’t one-sided. He would not sit over here in his cold house and dwell on the worst thoughts thrown up by his primitive lizard brain. He refused to.
Besides, Mackenzie would be calling soon to let him know Captain Bleached Teeth was gone and normal services would resume. Any second now.
He built and started a fire, the actions second nature after weeks of it being his primary source of heat. He fed the dog and checked on his soup and started reading one of the thrillers he’d kept from the boxes he donated to the thrift shop.
An hour later, the soup was ready and Mackenzie still hadn’t called. He abandoned the idea he’d had in the back of his mind that they’d eat soup by the fire and rub each other’s feet and instead ate a bowl on his own with only Strudel for company.
The phone rang as he was cleaning the kitchen.
“It’s me,” Mackenzie said. “This is turning into a bit of a thing, I’m afraid. Patrick’s had an offer for a movie and he wants me to look over the contract and the script. It’ll mean breaking his contract with Time, or at least pushing them pretty hard to give him a few months off the show, so he wants to be sure before he makes any hard-and-fast decisions.”
“Fair enough,” he said, even though what he was really thinking was that Patrick must have an agent who could do all of the above for him and get paid for the privilege.
“We were thinking of grabbing some Chinese from the place in town for dinner. Do you want to come eat with us?” Mackenzie sounded both hopeful and apologetic.
“Strudel and I just had dinner. But thanks for the offer.”
“This kind of sucks,” Mackenzie said quietly.
“It’s one night.”
She made a dissatisfied noise.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” he said.
“Okay. Give Strudel a pat for me.”
“Done.”
He hung up and walked to the sink. The yard outside was pitch-black and all he could see was his own reflection in the glass. Not wanting to look into his own eyes, he returned to the living room and took up his book. Twenty minutes later he heard the low rumble of the Ferrari starting up. It seemed to take a long time for it to return—more than the drive into town and back to pick up food.
Pull your head in. What are you, a stalker now?
He abandoned the book and picked up his guitar. He started fiddling with the song he’d composed but knew straightaway that he wasn’t in the right frame of mind. Everything felt wrong—the bridge, the chorus, the lyrics. He played a few classic Rolling Stones songs, then found himself fingering Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.”
Yeah.
He started watching the clock at nine, calculating how long it would take for Mackenzie to eat some Chinese food and then read a script. He had no idea how many pages the average movie screenplay ran to, but he figured that it couldn’t take longer to read a movie than it took to watch one. Which meant she should be well and truly done by now.
Can you hear yourself? You don’t own her. If she wants to stay up all night doing a bloody live read-through of the thing it’s none of your business. Calm the hell down.
He was way too wound up to be able to let it go, though. He kept thinking about the way Patrick had sprawled across Mackenzie’s couch, as though he was utterly at home. And maybe he was. Oliver had no idea how long Mackenzie had owned the beach house. Perhaps it had once been shared marital property. Perhaps Mackenzie and Langtry had once enjoyed long weekends and summers together beneath its roof.
He shot to his feet, sick of his thoughts, wishing he could take a break from his own head. Somehow he found himself at the window, looking out at Mackenzie’s place. He could see shadows moving behind the curtains. Mackenzie walking into the kitchen, maybe. Langtry following her...?
“What are you doing?” He said it out loud, because he needed to hear the words.
What was he doing, standing here at the window, projecting half-a-dozen ugly possibilities onto a perfectly ordinary situation?
Two people having dinner and discussing a work matter. Nothing could be more innocuous, even if they had once been married. And even if that marriage had extended into a postdivorce affair.
Sometimes, even when you know someone is wrong for you, you get sucked into old patterns and behaviors.
“Jesus.”
He stalked away from the window, glancing around the room, desperately seeking distraction. His gaze fell on Strudel, asleep by the fire.
A walk. He’d take her for a walk. Great idea. Get some fresh air, blow this craziness out of his head.
He strode to the bedroom and pulled on his coat, then wrapped his scarf around his neck. Strudel blinked at him blearily when she heard the clink of her lead, then shook herself to alertness as she understood a walk was in the offing. She waited patiently while he clipped her lead on and followed him out the door.
His breath steamed in the night air as he walked past Mackenzie’s house. The Ferrari was covered with a fine sheen of condensation and he had to resist the urge to write something profane and childish on the misty paintwork. Go home, wanker, or something to that effect.
He turned his back on the house and the car and walked, willing the cold and the dark and the rhythm of his stride to loosen the knot in his gut.
He wasn’t a jealous person. Never had been. For him jealousy had always signaled weakness, fear. A lack of belief in yourself. That wasn’t the way he saw himself. He had his own business, was on the way to owning his home—at least, he had been before the divorce. Now, he and Edie would either have to sell, or he could buy her out.
Or maybe she and Nick would buy him out.
Acid burned in his gut. He didn’t want to think about Edie and Nick while he was trying to keep thoughts of Mackenzie and Langtry at bay. Mackenzie was not Edie. Mackenzie was straight up and fierce and direct. She called a spade a spade. She would curl her lip with scorn at the thought of sneaking around behind her partner’s back. She’d see it as a cop-out, as the actions of a scared, indecisive, weak woman. And Mackenzie was none of those things.
Sometimes even when you know someone is wrong for you, you get sucked into old patterns and behaviors.
He swore. If there were a brick wall handy right now, he’d bang his head against it. As it was, all he could do was grind his teeth together as his brain kept feeding him worst-case scenarios.
Because Mackenzie might not be interested in Langtry, but there was nothing to say that he didn’t want to pick up where he’d left off. And Mackenzie might be angry with him, she might be hurt because he’d dropped her so callously after her accident, but she’d admitted herself that she had a weakness where he was concerned. She’d said Langtry was charming—and he was. Most of Australia agreed with her. The guy was good-looking, wealthy, famous. A walking, talking female fantasy, basically. Oliver was willing to bet that if the other man turned it on and applied himself, there weren’t many women who would say no to him.
Langtry could be working his magic right now. Using his shared history with Mackenzie to push all the right buttons. Wooing her, slowly but surely.
For Pete’s sake, stop. Just stop. Mackenzie is not interested in her ex. She’s interested in you. She’s sleeping with you.
He knew the voice in his head was right, but the worm of doubt kept working away in his gut. For six years he’d been a dupe. He’d swallowed Edie’s lies because he simply hadn’t believed that anyone was capable of that kind of deceit.
He knew differently now. People were weak. People said one thing and then did another. People made mistakes, then kept on making them, over and over. Was Mackenzie immune from any of that? Was he? Wouldn’t he be exactly the same gormless idiot all over again if he simply sat back and let this happen?
Somehow, he’d found his way back to his street. The Ferrari was ahead, a screaming testament to Langtry’s success and desirability. What kind of a chance did Oliver stand against a guy like that? How could he possibly compete?
There was so much adrenaline charging around in his system he felt sick. He stopped outside Mackenzie’s house and stared at the soft light showing through the glass panel in the front door.
He could simply walk up and knock, say he’d been out for a walk and thought he would join them for coffee.
Or he could sneak along the side of the house and take a look through the kitchen window. Just to check what was going on.
For freak’s sake, can you hear yourself? Are you insane? What is wrong with you?
He didn’t know. He felt possessed. As though there were two Olivers at war within him—the Oliver who was in love with Mackenzie, who believed in her, who was already planning a future with her, and the Oliver who had been badly burned by Edie’s lies and was still recovering from six years of deceit and betrayal. One part wanted to believe, to trust, while the other wanted to make sure that he would never, ever put his faith in someone or something without being absolutely certain that it wouldn’t turn on him.
Nothing in life comes with that kind of guarantee. Nothing.
Strudel strained against the leash, keen to return home, but he remained staring at Mackenzie’s front door, rooted there by his suspicion and jealousy and doubt.
Headlights flashed across him as someone turned into a driveway farther up the street. It was enough to make him move, and he turned away from Mackenzie’s place and trudged up the driveway to his aunt’s house.
Strudel resumed her spot by the fire the moment they entered, but he was too agitated to sit. He hated the way he was thinking, yet he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t push the ugly image of Mackenzie in bed with Langtry out of his mind.
Langtry touching her. Kissing her.
He thumped his palm against the side of his head, trying to dislodge the picture, but it was stuck there, held in place by pride and anger and hurt and self-doubt.
Call her. Call her and listen to her voice and remind yourself of who she is and who you are.
Relief flooded him. He could totally call her without coming across as some kind of possessive, jealous stalker. Even though that was how he felt right this second. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and dialed her number. The phone rang. He moved to the window so he could see her place.
The phone rang, and rang. His grip tightened on the handset. He stared at her house, willing her to pick up. Finally, it went through to voice mail.
What the...?
He glared at her empty, dark kitchen window, a sudden, violent rage ripping through him. What was she doing that she couldn’t answer the phone? What were they doing? How could she do this to him?
For long seconds he stood raging at the window, literally shaking with the force of his own fury. He wanted to smash the glass in front of him. He wanted to pick up the nearest chair and hurl it through like a cowboy in a saloon fight. He wanted to kick holes in the wall and tear pictures from the walls and drag the house down around his ears.
He didn’t.
He stood and shook and endured his own terrible anger. Then he forced himself to walk into the kitchen. He sat at the table and clasped his hands in front of him and tried to get a grip on his own sanity.
He didn’t know where all this anger had come from, but he knew it wasn’t about Mackenzie. This was all for Edie and himself. This was about his failed marriage, not the woman he’d fallen so precipitously and recklessly in love with. Trouble was, at this moment in time, he couldn’t for the life of him separate the two things.
He dropped his head into his hands, fingers pressing against his skull. A single, hot tear ran down his cheek and dropped onto the table.
For the first time he admitted to himself that the past five months had been damned hard. The hardest of his life. Dealing with Edie, keeping up appearances for all his friends and his business partner and his brother. Assuring everyone that he was a bit messed up but that essentially he was okay.
On one level, it was true. But on another, it was a thin, fragile lie.
He’d believed in his marriage. Even though he could see now that it had been flawed, he’d believed in it and invested in him and Edie. And she had smashed it all to pieces, destroying parts of him in the process.
In the midst of that chaos he’d met Mackenzie, and the world had seemed good again. He’d fallen, hard, eating up the happiness and certainty that she seemed to bring.
But nothing in life was certain. Certainly, people weren’t.
He had no idea how long he sat at the kitchen table. A long time. He grew colder and colder. At some point, Strudel joined him, curling up at his feet. Finally the need for heat forced him to his feet and into the living room. He stoked the fire and threw on another log and stood staring into the flames, feeling depleted and exhausted and oddly numb.
When the fire was blazing again he grabbed a blanket and stretched out on the couch. Strudel jumped up to lie across his legs and he drifted into almost-sleep, his thoughts chasing themselves in circles, indistinct images flashing across his mind’s eye.
He must have eventually drifted off properly, because when he woke it was very dark, the only light the glow of the embers in the fire grate. His neck was sore from being crooked at an awkward angle on the arm of the couch. He sat up slowly and circled his shoulders, then his neck. Then he stood and placed the screen in front of the fire.
“Come on Strudel, bedtime.”
He wasn’t sure what made him check out the front window before he headed for bed. Some innate, primitive instinct, perhaps.
He pulled the curtain aside enough to see into the street, expecting to see nothing but empty road where the Ferrari had been.
The big red sports car was still there, its paintwork shining dully in the moonlight.
Oliver stared at it for a long moment as an echo of his earlier rage and jealousy rippled through him. He closed his eyes.
He believed in Mackenzie. He really did.
But he couldn’t do this.
His brother had been right. It was way, way too soon for him to be throwing himself headfirst into a serious relationship. Even if he was crazy, madly in love with Mackenzie. Even if he felt as though life was full of possibilities when he was with her.
There was too much pent-up emotion pushed down inside him. Too much ugliness. He was nowhere near ready to trust again. Nowhere near ready to place his heart and happiness in the hands of another human being. Even if that person was Mackenzie, whom he admired and loved and desired.
Maybe especially if it was her, because if she failed him, if she was even now lying sated in her ex-husband’s arms...Oliver couldn’t guarantee his own sanity. He really couldn’t.
He didn’t have it in him to risk that kind of betrayal and unhappiness again. Not at the moment. Maybe that made him a coward of the highest order, but so be it.
He turned away from the window and walked to the kitchen. Even though he’d put the fire screen in place, he wanted to be sure the fire was out so he poured a jug of water onto the ashes. Smoke and steam billowed up the chimney. Once he was satisfied that the fire was extinguished, he went to the bedroom and packed his bag. It didn’t take long, no more than ten minutes. It took a little longer to collect his tools from around the house, but within half an hour he’d checked the shed, locked the back door and the windows and loaded the car. His mind carefully, thankfully blank, he ushered Strudel into the backseat, then went to secure the front door.
The car engine sounded loud in the stillness of the early hours. He reversed into the street and drove away, not once looking back.