Chapter FOUR
OLIVER DUMPED THE LAST wheelbarrow load of gravel at the top of the driveway and paused to wipe his forehead with the bottom of his sweatshirt. Most of the gravel had washed down the slope and collected in front of his house thanks to the storm, and he’d spent the past three days alternating between cleaning up outside and trying to set the inside of his aunt’s house to rights.
He wasn’t sure which was the least fun task—sweeping up dirt and shoveling gravel, or cleaning out cupboards filled with the flotsam and jetsam of a lifetime. So far, he’d made half-a-dozen trips to the local charity shop, offloading books and china and knickknacks. He figured there would be many more trips in his future, too, since he’d cleared out only one of the bedrooms and part of the living room.
He grabbed the rake and started spreading the gravel across the driveway. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and he glanced over in time to see someone shifting through the front window of Mackenzie’s house.
He hadn’t had any contact with her since the storm. Hadn’t even heard her calling to Mr. Smith or seen her out in the yard. The lights had been going out very early on her side of the fence, too.
Not that he’d been looking. He’d simply happened to glance out the window a couple of times and noticed she seemed to be keeping very early hours.
None of his business, any of it. Even if there had been a small, completely testosterone-driven part of his brain that had been looking forward to seeing her again.
Amazing the power of a see-through tank top.
He resumed raking, but the sound of a door closing made him lift his head. Sure enough, Mackenzie was descending the steps, Mr. Smith on a leash.
“Hello,” she said.
He lifted a hand in greeting. She approached, Mr. Smith pulling at the leash with the eagerness of a dog that had been indoors for several days.
She surveyed his driveway and grimaced. “I guess the flood messed with your place, too, huh?”
“Not too badly. Just putting this gravel back where it belongs.”
There was something about the way she held herself—a sort of wariness—that made her seem almost fragile this morning. As though a puff of wind or a rough gesture could knock her over.
“I’ve been meaning to come see you,” she said. “I wanted to thank you again for the other night.”
He shrugged. “Really, I didn’t do anything.”
“You saved me from bailing out my house. And I’d really like to cook you dinner to say thank-you. Tomorrow night, if you’re available...?”
Oliver did his best not to let his surprise show on his face, but he wasn’t sure he pulled it off. A dinner invitation was the last thing he’d expected from the difficult neighbor. Any social invitation, really. She’d made it pretty clear she wasn’t into chitchat and small talk.
She was waiting for his answer, her gaze fixed on his face. In full daylight, the color of her irises was nothing short of arresting, reminiscent of the deep, deep blue of tropical water or the clarity of the summer sky.
His first instinct was to offer a polite excuse and keep his distance. They didn’t have the best track record, after all. But there was something about the way she was waiting for his response that appealed to his better nature.
“Dinner sounds great,” he said after a slightly too long silence.
She smiled, the action showcasing straight white teeth and the rather charming crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. “Is seven okay for you?”
“Sure. What can I bring?”
“Your appetite. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Her dog was sniffing the cuffs of his jeans, clearly looking for eau de Strudel. Oliver bent to scratch him behind the ears.
“Sorry, mate, but she’s inside, staying out of all this mud.”
Mr. Smith gave him a beseeching look.
“I think that’s a plea for clemency. Maybe you could bring Strudel over when you come to dinner.”
Oliver looked into Mr. Smith’s pleading eyes and tried to remember that it had taken this furry Lothario less than twenty-four hours to impose himself upon Strudel in the most intimate way possible. Mr. Smith was the picture of innocence and worthy doggy loyalty.
“That could probably be arranged,” Oliver said.
“Great. Then we’ll both look forward to seeing you tomorrow night. Come on, Smitty.”
Mackenzie gave a little tug on the lead and Mr. Smith fell in beside her as she headed up the road. Oliver stared after her, noting her undemanding pace, the slight stiffness to her gait and the fact that her black pants fit very snuggly over the curves of her small backside.
As he’d already observed, she was too scrawny for his tastes, but what there was of her was nicely proportioned. Small but very nicely formed.
He realized he was staring and shook his head, turning to his work. Tomorrow night was sure to be awkward. They didn’t know each other, so conversation would be polite and superficial and no doubt stilted, as it had been the other night.
It was too late to take back his acceptance, so he would have to simply suck it up and take his medicine. Mackenzie would have a chance to get her gratitude off her chest and any sense of obligation that existed between them would be a thing of the past.
Then they could go back to being strangers and each get on with their lives.
* * *
MACKENZIE SPENT THE evening planning the menu for tomorrow night’s meal, flicking through cookbooks and trying to work out what she could pull together given the limited supplies likely to be available at the local supermarket. She settled for a pasta dish—tortellini with salami, goat cheese and Kalamata olives, fresh bread and a baby spinach, Parmesan and pear salad. She made a shopping list sitting up in bed, more than a little amused by her own organizational zeal. She was planning this simple dinner with military precision—a strong indication her mind needed more to think about. The sooner she got back to work, the better.
She went into town first thing to do her shopping, then spent the afternoon pottering around the house. She started prepping for dinner at five o’clock so she could take her time and enjoy the process.
She was looking forward to tonight. There was no point denying it, even to herself. Having another warm body to talk to would be a welcome novelty.
“No offense, Smitty, but sometimes a lick and a scratch don’t quite cut it in the witty repartee department.”
Mr. Smith lifted his head from his paws and gave her an uncomprehending look.
“Exactly.”
She had everything prepped by six o’clock, the table set by a quarter past. At loose ends, she wandered into her bedroom and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair was limp and lifeless, her face pale. Her black leggings had seen better days, as had the long-sleeved wool tunic she’d pulled on. Combined with her sensible walking shoes, she looked...frumpy. There was no other word for it.
As if he’s going to notice what you’re wearing. He’s going to have one eye on the exit all evening.
She wasn’t stupid. She’d noted Oliver’s hesitation when she invited him. Given her not-so-enchanting behavior to date, it didn’t surprise her that he might be cautious about breaking bread with her. The last thing he’d be concerned with would be if she looked frumpy or halfway presentable.
So what? It concerns me.
She opened the closet on a surge of determination. She was allowed to look nice if she wanted to. So what if Oliver was unlikely to register the cut of her pants or the drape of her sweater? She would know, and it would be a welcome change from workout pants and warm sweaters.
She pulled on a turtleneck made from cashmere and silk, matching it with her steel-gray wide-legged linen pants. They made her feel elegant, like the heroine from a thirties noir movie, and she felt infinitely better as she slipped on a pair of simple ballet flats and went into the bathroom to do something with her face.
Some blush worked wonders, as did a few swipes of mascara. Her hair, however, refused to cooperate. Amazing to think that it had once been her crowning glory, almost long enough to sit on, a sleek, smooth waterfall of hair that—in her own mind, at least—had made up for the fact that she wasn’t exactly stacked in the breast department. She’d never been the frilly, feminine type, but the swish of her hair against her back had made her feel saucy and womanly and sexy without fail.
Those were the days.
The E.R. nurses had shaved it all off when they prepped her for emergency surgery after the accident. For long days and weeks afterward, it had been the least of her concerns, but there was no denying that it had been a shock to see herself in the mirror for the first time. The scars on her scalp had been visible through the regrowth by the time they let her look in a mirror, ugly and far too visible. She’d waited till she was alone in her room before letting a few silly, vain tears slide into her pillow. A small moment of mourning for her lost mane.
It had been tempting to grow it all out, but it was much easier to maintain this way. She didn’t have to worry about tying her hair back when she was doing her exercises and it didn’t require special conditioning treatments or take half an hour to dry.
She did what she could with some styling product, trying to coax some texture into it. Finally she rolled her eyes at her own reflection and turned away from the mirror.
Enough, already. She was having dinner with the guy next door, not attending a bloody state reception for the queen.
She was heading for the entry hall to turn on the outside light when the phone rang. She grabbed it from its station on the occasional table as she passed by.
“Mackenzie speaking.”
“Mac. It’s me.”
She came to a dead halt as she heard her ex-husband’s voice. It took her a moment to summon the casual tone her pride demanded.
“Patrick. How are you?” she asked coolly.
It had been more than five months since she’d last spoken to him. The ink was long-since dry on their divorce and technically he owed her nothing, not even a phone call or two. But the friends-with-benefits arrangement they’d slipped into in the months before her accident had led her to believe that there was still a degree of affection between them.
Yet another misconception to add to the many misconceptions in their shared history.
“I’m good. How about you?” he asked in the mellow, lovely voice that made women across the nation swoon.
Her ex, the matinee idol.
“I’m well, thanks.”
“That’s really great to hear. Really great. Gordon’s been keeping me up-to-date with your progress.”
“Has he? That’s nice of him.”
Her words hung in the small silence that followed. She could hear the click of a lighter on the other end of the line and guessed he’d started smoking again.
“Okay, fair call,” he said. “I’ve been an a*shole. I should have called and I didn’t. I should have sent flowers and I didn’t. I should have done a bunch of things, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care, Mac.”
Mackenzie stared at the toes of her shoes. There were so many things she could say to him. She could take him to task for being lazy and neglectful. She could tell him that he’d hurt her, that while she hadn’t expected undying devotion, she’d assumed he at least liked her enough to want to check for himself that she was doing okay. After all, that had been the raison d’être of the highly inappropriate affair they’d been indulging in before her accident—that, despite everything, they still liked and enjoyed each other.
There was no point, though. Their marriage was over, and whatever friendship remained was not worth stressing herself over. She only had so much energy to invest at the moment, and Patrick was a bad bet. Too much work for too little return.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to read you the riot act. You’re officially off the hook.”
“Don’t be like that, Mac.”
She pictured his face, the sheepish, naughty-boy hangdog expression he’d be wearing. Patrick was accustomed to skating by on the power of his charisma. Fortunately, she’d become immune to his powers during the first year of their short marriage.
“I’ve got someone coming for dinner any second now. Did you want something or was this just a social call?”
“It’s about work.”
So not a topic she wanted to discuss with Patrick. Anything he had to say was probably the result of gossip and innuendo. She would do better keeping her contact to the show—and her job—limited to conversations with Gordon. So did she really want to hear whatever it was Patrick had to say? “What about work?” Apparently she did.
“You’re not going to like this, but as soon as I heard I knew you’d want to know. Gordon came out to the studio today to talk to Phil. It’s not official yet, but the word is that Phil’s signed on for another two years.”
Mackenzie closed her eyes.
She’d lost her job. All those years she’d put in, slaving away like a good little worker ant. All the unpaid overtime, the days she’d worked when she’d been dead on her feet with a cold or the flu, the many, many times she’d gone beyond the call of duty to get the job done...
All for nothing.
Her loyalty, her passion, her dedication, none of it had mattered when push had come to shove. She’d been replaced.
“Mac? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
Barely.
“I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I figured you’d rather hear it from me than through the grapevine. For what it’s worth, everyone thinks it’s a shitty move.”
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?
* * *
OLIVER 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.
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.