Chapter SIX
MACKENZIE SHED HER VEST and shoved her arms into her warmest wool coat, then reached for the fluffy scarf her niece had knitted her for Christmas. Made from multicolored wool, it was lumpy and misshapen and far too long, but it was also incredibly warm and it never failed to touch her that the niece she almost never saw had labored for hours to produce it. Wrapping it around her neck several times, Mackenzie headed for the door.
Her faithful hound did the happy dance when he saw her collect his lead and harness from the hook in the kitchen. She waited until his excitement had subsided before securing him. Then they went to join Oliver and Strudel.
As she’d half expected, he was waiting for her in the street, Strudel sitting patiently with a long-suffering expression on her face. The schnauzer perked up the moment she saw Mr. Smith, however, and Mackenzie and Oliver waited patiently while they fawned over each other before turning in the direction of the beach.
“Just as well you’re with me. I wasn’t really sure how to find the beach,” Oliver said.
“Somehow I feel pretty confident you would have worked it out,” Mackenzie said as they left the road and started down the path that led through a narrow band of bush to the sand. The sound of the surf was clearly audible, readily indicating which way the beach lay.
“You’d be surprised. I have a gift for getting lost. No sense of direction whatsoever.”
“He said proudly.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t say I’m proud. More resigned.”
“Have you considered GPS?”
“That would be cheating.”
They reached the part of the path where it narrowed to single file and Mackenzie fell back, an action that afforded her a perfect view of Oliver’s backside as he strode ahead. He was wearing faded jeans today, the worn denim hugging his firm, round butt.
It occurred to her that it would have been far better for her peace of mind if he’d been one of those men with a tiny, disappearing backside or womanly hips.
No such luck, however.
“Does that mean you never stop to ask for directions, either?” she asked, forcing her gaze away from temptation.
“Correct. Directions are also cheating.”
She could hear the laughter in his voice.
“Remind me not to take a road trip with you.”
They emerged from the protection of the bush onto a windswept expanse of sand. The water was a dull pewter color, the waves white tipped as they hammered against the shore. An icy wind found its way beneath Mackenzie’s coat and she immediately buttoned it all the way to the neck and thrust her hands deep into her pockets.
“Dear God, it’s like Antarctica down here,” Oliver said, copying her actions.
She watched as he flipped up the collar on his coat, feeling guilty for not having warned him that the beach could be harsh in winter.
“That’s probably because the wind comes straight from Antarctica.”
“No kidding.”
They let the dogs loose and watched as they bolted along the sand, taking turns chasing one another.
“Kids, eh?” Oliver said, tucking Strudel’s lead into his jacket pocket.
They started walking, following the trail the dogs had left in the wet sand.
“So, you ever been married?” Oliver asked.
The subject was such a non sequitur it threw her for a moment. Although, perhaps his curiosity made sense in light of their recent mutual confessions. “Yep. Three years.” She pulled a face. “Not exactly a stellar achievement, but we both realized early on that we’d made a mistake.”
“How long ago?”
“Nearly four years.” It seemed hard to believe that much time had passed. Of course, part of her disbelief could be because she’d been silly enough to fall into an affair with Patrick more recently—but Oliver didn’t need to know that.
“Edie and I should never have gotten married. I have no idea why she said yes when I asked her, since she pretty much picked up with Nick the moment we got back from the honeymoon.”
Mackenzie winced mentally. He hadn’t referred to his wife by name before, but she understood now that he’d married the lead singer of the band, Edie Somers. It was too unusual a name for him to be referring to some other Edie. And last night Mackenzie had blathered on about how special and talented the other woman was.
Open mouth, insert foot.
“Are they still together?” she asked.
“I have no idea and I don’t want to know. If I could walk away from it all and never hear about them again, I would.” There was a world of anger beneath his words.
She opened her mouth to apologize for prying but he stopped in his tracks and blew his breath out in a rush.
The look he gave her was rueful. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant for you.”
“I’d be pissed, too, if I were you. Six years is a long time to lie to someone you share a bed with.”
“Yeah.” He dug his hands deeper in his pockets, hunching his shoulders around his ears.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to.”
“There’s not much to say. I got married thinking I would stay that way until one of us was carted off in a wooden box. Instead, I get to make lists of my assets for the lawyers.” He shrugged. “It sucks.”
She studied him out of the corner of her eye. The wind was playing havoc with his hair, ruffling it and pushing it this way and that. He stared out at the ocean, his expression distant and stony—and yet he was still the most vivid, alive thing on the beach, with his rich chestnut hair and long stride. For reasons she didn’t care to examine, she wanted to erase that air of disappointment.
“Tell me about your music. When did you start playing?” she asked.
The glance he shot her told her he was fully aware that she was steering the conversation to more neutral ground, but he followed her lead. They walked and he told her how he’d learned the guitar in primary school to impress a girl and discovered that not only was it an awesome pickup tool, it was also something that came easily to him.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those revolting people who can hear any song and then play it a few seconds later?” she asked.
“I’m afraid to answer that question honestly for fear of not making it back from this walk alive.”
“I took violin lessons for five years with a girl like you. She made me feel as though I had ten thumbs and a lobotomy.”
“I’d like to point out—again—that I am utterly inept when it comes to map reading and general direction finding. If that makes you feel any better.”
“It does, marginally. Thank you for reminding me.”
“Can I ask why you persevered for five years if you hated it so much?”
“Overachieving child of overachieving parents. None of us knew when to quit.”
“Funny. I would never have pegged you as an overachiever.” His expression was so deadpan, his tone so dry she might almost have believed he was serious—except for the teasing light in his eyes.
“You should know that overachievers are known for not having a great sense of humor about their overachieving,” she said, matching his expression and tone.
“Noted. Next time I will make sure to bring along a laugh track so you know when I’ve been funny.”
She couldn’t stop herself from smiling then. Her instincts had been right about this man—he was nice. A real, decent, sincere man.
He was also rather disturbingly sexy in a rugged, down-to-earth way that she didn’t run into a lot in the highly groomed, fake-tanned world of television.
Edie Somers must have had rocks in her head to have had this man in her life and her bed and thrown it all away.
They’d reached the halfway mark and she checked to make sure the dogs were still in sight. They were, running in and out of the surf, chasing waves and each other.
“I know it’s almost un-Australian to say this, but I prefer the beach in winter,” she said. “No crowds, no screaming kids, no rubbish in the sand.”
“You’re right. This arctic wonderland is infinitely better.”
More dryness. She was beginning to recognize it as his stock in trade.
His collar had flopped down and he stood it up again, a meager defense against the wind.
“If you’re cold, we can turn back,” she suggested.
“I’m fine. Besides, I want to see what’s on the other side of those rocks.”
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
“More rocks?”
“Bingo.”
“Still. I think I need to see that for myself.”
He glanced at her and she saw he was enjoying himself. Which was nice, because she was enjoying herself, too.
They talked some more about his music, then about her work. He peppered her with questions about the game show she’d worked on before Time and Again, feigning outrage when he learned that some of the segments were recorded several times for technical reasons. It wasn’t until they’d reached the rocks at the end of the beach and he offered her a hand to clamber to the top of them that she realized how cold he was, his fingers icy against hers.
“This is ridiculous. I should have warned you it’s brutal out here. You need to go home and warm up,” she said, digging her heels in.
“I want to see the other rocks.”
She assessed him. “Is this one of those man things, refusing to let the elements get the better of you, yada yada?”
“Maybe.”
“Pathetic. Come on, we’re going back.”
She whistled to get Mr. Smith’s attention, letting him know with a gesture that she was heading home. He loped to her side, Strudel hard on his heels, both of them wet and speckled with sand, tongues lolling happily.
“I’m really fine,” Oliver said.
His shoulders were hunched even higher, his arms rigid against his body as he buried his hands deep in his coat pockets.
“I feel cold just looking at you. Here, have this.” She started to unwind her scarf.
“Get out of here. I’m not taking your scarf.” Oliver waved her away.
“It’s ugly but warm. And you need it more than I do,” she said.
“I’m not taking your scarf, Mackenzie. End of discussion.”
She frowned at him, the scarf hanging from her hands in big loops. “Is this another man thing?”
“This is most definitely a man thing.”
“Okay, fine. If your pride won’t let you accept the whole thing, take half.”
Before he could respond, she looped the end of the scarf around his neck a couple times. There was still plenty left dangling so she looped the other end around her own neck. Oliver looked at her, then at the lumpy, multicolored band joining them.
“My God, it is ugly, isn’t it?”
“My niece made it.”
“Hence the fact you’re actually wearing this in public.”
They fell into step as they retraced their steps.
“This niece...she’s, what, six?” He examined the scarf critically.
“Nearly twenty.”
He looked startled. “Really?”
She laughed. “She’s eight. And she tells me she’s taken up beading now. Something to look forward to this Christmas.”
“So I take it you have a brother or sister?” he asked.
“A brother. Older. They live in Perth. He’s involved in mining.”
They talked about their respective families as they walked. She heard about his brother, Brent, and Brent’s two children, while she told him about Gareth and her niece and nephew. The shared scarf meant they were close to each other, and every now and then her shoulder or hip bumped his. It was strange and nice in equal measures. Strange because it had been a long time since she’d enjoyed this kind of casual intimacy with a man—or, in fact, with anyone. And nice for the same reasons.
Oliver had to unwind a loop to allow them to walk in single file along the bush path. He kept her laughing all the way, comparing them to a couple of Buddhist teachers he read about a few years ago who made it a practice to never be more than fifteen feet from each other at all times. She suggested they were more like a line of elephants walking trunk in tail and Oliver produced one of the best elephant calls she’d ever heard from a non-elephant.
“You’re freakishly good at that,” she said.
“I have many pointless gifts.”
Gravel crunched underfoot as they left the sandy path and started toward their houses, Oliver matching his stride to hers.
“Sorry for the slow pace,” she said, glancing at his much longer legs. “The spirit is willing, the body not so much these days.”
He was silent a moment.
“Does it hurt?”
She wasn’t surprised by the question. She’d lost the natural swing of her hips with her injuries and was well aware that her walk appeared stiff and ungainly.
“Walking on its own doesn’t hurt. My hip is compromised, though, so things don’t move around as easily as they used to. Which isn’t to say that learning to walk again was a lot of fun. Still, it was better than the alternative.”
There had been a few days following the accident when the swelling on her spine had been so severe there had been a question mark over her ever being able to walk again.
“Can I ask what happened?”
Another not-surprising question, but one she still wasn’t comfortable talking about. Recalling the scene, however briefly and succinctly, tended to resurrect the entire experience. Still, they had been swapping horror stories.... “We had an early morning call-out for a location shoot. I was driving to the location to meet the crew. The weather was terrible, it was still dark, the road was wet... I came around the corner and there’d been a landslide. I hit the brakes, but it was way too late.”
“Jesus.”
For a second she was lost in the memory, the world a dark, scary place, death screaming toward her at sixty kilometers an hour. Then she blinked and the sky was once again blue overhead, the wind chill on her cheeks, Oliver at her side.
“I was lucky someone came along a few minutes later and called for help. Probably wouldn’t have made it otherwise,” she said matter-of-factly.
They’d arrived at the houses and he turned to face her.
“Scary stuff.”
“Yeah. I guess the downside of a long recovery is having an excess of time to think about it—repeatedly. I like to think I’ve mostly desensitized myself—” a slight exaggeration, perhaps “—but who knows. I definitely make a point of noticing and appreciating the small stuff these days.”
“I bet.” He unwound the scarf and handed his end to her. “Thanks for sharing your bounty.”
“I’ll pass your compliments on to my niece.”
“Tell her it’s the warmest half scarf I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing.”
“Will do.”
Neither of them said anything for a beat. Mackenzie glanced toward her house. It was cold out here and she wanted to be inside, but she didn’t want to stop talking to Oliver. He was easy company, fun and fast on his feet. She wondered what he’d say if she invited him in for coffee.
“I suppose I should finish sorting through the back bedroom,” he said.
“Sure.” She shortened Smitty’s leash to signal that the canine love fest was about to end. “I’ll see you around, okay? Thanks for the walk.”
“Yeah, you, too.”
She started up her driveway, very aware of the fact that Oliver still remained in the street, watching her. She concentrated fiercely on her stride, trying to make it as smooth and effortless-looking as possible. She didn’t want him pitying her.
It occurred to her that a year ago she would have been more concerned about the size of her ass than the way she walked. Amazing how the world could tilt on its axis and things that had once seemed so vital could be rendered so insignificant.
She allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder when she reached the porch. Oliver was still there, crouched beside Strudel as he attempted to brush sand from her damp coat. He was talking to her and shaking his head and Mackenzie wished she could hear what he was saying. Something funny, no doubt.
She was staring—again—and forced herself to go inside. Mr. Smith headed up the hallway at a leisurely trot, clearly tuckered out after his romp. She didn’t immediately follow him. Instead, she stood in the foyer, hand pressed to her belly, trying to understand what was happening to her.
Somehow, she’d gone from acknowledging Oliver’s attractiveness to being attracted to him. A thin line under ordinary circumstances, perhaps, but at the moment it seemed a huge leap. For months she had been nothing but a body, a collection of bones and muscles and organs that the doctors had stitched and stapled and screwed back together and that she had nurtured back to strength. She hadn’t thought about sex or desire or men or anything even close to it. She’d been sexless, essentially, and she hadn’t even noticed.
Then Oliver had arrived less than a week ago and she’d caught herself feeling nervous and primping and dressing to please him, even when she’d suspected he was happily married. Now he was unhappily on the verge of divorce and her awareness of him as a man had expanded exponentially.
Which meant...what, exactly? That she was horny? That she was lonely? That he was an attractive man and that her libido hadn’t been crushed in the accident after all?
Without really thinking about it, she lifted his end of the scarf to her nose and inhaled. She smelled wool and ocean and something with hints of sandalwood and musk. Oliver’s aftershave.
She remembered the way his shoulder had bumped against hers as they walked, how good it had felt to find the rhythm of another person’s stride and match her own to it. How good it had felt to be connected, intimate.
He’s a mess. And so are you.
Hard to disagree with the logician in her head. Bunching the scarf in one hand, she made her way to her bedroom and returned it to the cupboard. The odds were strong she wouldn’t see him for a while now, anyway. Which would be a good thing.
Apparently.
* * *
OLIVER SAT AT his aunt’s kitchen table, warming his hands around a mug of coffee. If he was a smoother guy, more practiced in the art of seduction, he would have somehow inveigled Mackenzie into inviting him to her place and right now he’d be sitting at her table, warming his hands on her mug and doing his best to make her laugh some more.
But he wasn’t practiced, and he hadn’t pressed his advantage. Instead, he’d retreated. Not exactly Art of War tactics.
He sipped his coffee and thought about how she’d had to stand on tiptoes to loop the scarf around his neck. His soon-to-be ex-wife was almost as tall as him, and he’d always believed that he preferred women of stature. But there was something about the sleek compactness of Mackenzie’s body.... She may have been broken by the accident, but she’d clearly worked hard to regain what she’d lost and she was lean and toned and perfectly proportioned. He kept catching himself wondering how it would feel to throw her over his shoulder and take her off to have his way with her.
Good, he suspected.
It was absolute knuckle-dragging caveman stuff, of course. Embarrassing to admit even in the privacy of his own fantasies. And yet there it was.
Mackenzie brought out the caveman in him.
Which is why you’re drinking coffee with only a wet dog for company. Right?
He grunted and pushed back his chair, taking his empty mug to the sink. Sometimes, the voice in his head was way too much of a smart-ass.
He spent the afternoon clearing out the bedroom, stopping only in the early evening. He bought himself a pizza for dinner and ate it at home in front of the fire, booting up his laptop to check his email and make sure everything was going well at the studio. They’d hired a freelance sound engineer to cover his absence, but there were a couple of queries from Rex that were easily resolved. Apparently, his world hadn’t fallen apart because he’d absented himself from Sydney for a few days. Go figure.
Perhaps inevitably, his thoughts turned to Mackenzie again as he took the empty pizza box to the kitchen.
She was an interesting woman. An admirable woman. A lot of people would have been defeated by the blow she’d been dealt, but she’d come out fighting. He glanced toward the window. He could see the French doors into her living room from here. He wondered what she was doing. Then he wondered what she’d do if he showed up with a bottle of wine.
He could take Strudel and say she’d been pining for Mr. Smith. Not the most sophisticated approach ever, but it would probably work.
He returned to the living room and reached for his guitar.
Mackenzie made him laugh, and she made him think, and she got him out of his own head. She also made him want things he probably shouldn’t be wanting so soon after his breakup with Edie. He was in no state to start a relationship with someone. Even on a very casual basis.
He picked at the guitar, fiddling with a harmony that had been sitting in the back of his head for a few days now. Just for fun, he dropped it down a key, and suddenly a couple of other ideas he’d had fell into place. He played until the notes ran out, then went over it again, listening and feeling his way through the music.
Before he could think it to death, he grabbed his phone, opened the dictation app and recorded everything he’d come up with. He felt a disproportional degree of satisfaction as he played it back. It was probably nothing, just a funny little harmony that no one would ever hear except himself. But still...
He continued to tinker with the song, making adjustments, coming up with a bridge. He played it through one last time, humming along in parts.
It needed lyrics, of course. He had no idea what they would be. Yet. But they would come, eventually. With the melody providing a backdrop to his days, the verses would slowly form—especially when he wasn’t thinking about the song. That had always been the way songwriting worked for him. When he and Edie had written together, the process had moved faster because she’d always pushed him, forcing the lyrics even when he’d wanted time to let the music settle into his bones. She’d been the one to keep abreast of what was on the charts, casting their songs into a popular mold to produce something commercial and catchy. He could hardly complain about the method—it had earned the band two platinum singles and a bestselling album and a slew of awards after all—but he’d never enjoyed it and he’d never believed in it.
He sat with the realization for a moment, examining it from all sides and understanding that it was a fundamental truth, something that had come straight from his gut. Edie had always been about success first and the music second. That had never been the way he worked, however, and he’d always felt shoehorned into a role that didn’t suit. Didn’t matter how many times they’d come up with good songs—and there was nothing wrong with the band’s repertoire—Oliver had never felt a sense of ownership and connection with that music.
He strummed a few chords of his new composition, enjoying the way the sound bounced off the hard surfaces in the room. Enjoying the thought that this was his song, and he was going to let the lyrics come to him in their own time. Because he could. Because there was no one but him to please now.
It was a liberating thought. The first he’d had since finding the receipt all those months ago.
Writing music was better without Edie.
Hard on the heels of that thought came another: What else might be better without Edie?
His hands stilled on the strings. So much of his current anger and hurt stemmed from the fact that he’d convinced himself he’d been perfectly happy and content in their six-year marriage. But what if, in the same way that he’d always told himself he liked writing songs with Edie, he’d also convinced himself he was happy, too?
He stared into the abyss of the question for a full sixty seconds before standing and putting his guitar in its case. It was late and he was tired. And—possibly—he wasn’t ready to answer such a revealing question just yet.
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, Mackenzie was standing in the dairy aisle of the local supermarket when she looked up to see Oliver enter the store. Ever since their walk she’d been alternating between attempting to come up with a bulletproof excuse to “bump” into him again and chastising herself for being so desperate. She wasn’t entirely sure which side was winning the battle, but the moment she saw Oliver she abandoned the Camembert versus Brie debate she’d been engaged in to focus on him. She watched as he grabbed a shopping basket and exchanged greetings with the woman at the checkout. He wore a red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt with old, soft-looking jeans and a pair of well-used hiking boots. A black T-shirt was visible at his neckline. He hadn’t shaved so his jaw and cheeks were bristly with the golden-chestnut whiskers that had caught her attention during their first meeting.
He looked wild and untamed and a bit dangerous, like a cowboy who had ridden into town from parts unknown. He said something to the woman at the register that made her laugh. When he moved away she followed him with her eyes, a slightly wistful expression on her face.
Mackenzie pressed her lips together. It was galling yet oddly comforting to see someone else swayed by his undeniable hotness. Really, Oliver shouldn’t be allowed out without a warning hanging around his neck. He clearly had no idea how charming he was, and now that he was single he would wreak havoc among the female population wherever he went.
He added a couple of cans of tomatoes to his basket, then glanced up and caught sight of her.
“Mackenzie.” He lifted his hand in greeting, his wide, undeniably genuine smile doing wonderful things for her feminine ego.
Stupid, starved, foolish ego.
He joined her, his easy stride eating up the distance between them. She refused to regret the fact that she was once again without lipstick, her hair covered by a black beanie that made her look even more like a twelve-year-old boy than she usually did. If twelve-year-old boys had crow’s-feet.
“Perfect timing. I was going to stop by later to ask if you wanted to come over for dinner,” he said. “I found a fishing rod in the closet so this morning Strudel and I braved the elements to see what bounty the ocean had to offer.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t the miracle of the loaves and fishes, but we have enough for two adults with good appetites and a couple of canoodling dogs.”
“In that case, dinner sounds great. I can bring a salad if you like.”
“Great idea. I’ll see what I can rustle up for dessert. How do you feel about chocolate mousse?”
“Covetous,” she said.
“Even if it’s store-bought?”
“Absolutely.”
Her gaze was drawn to the V-neck of his T-shirt. A scattering of golden-red hairs peeked over the top. She shifted her focus to his face, oddly disturbed by the sight.
“How’s the sorting going?” she asked, switching her basket from one hand to the other.
“I’ve finally made it to the kitchen.”
“Is this good or bad?”
“Let’s just say Aunt Marion must have attended a lot of Tupperware parties in her time.”
“Ow.”
“On the bright side, the women at the secondhand shop know me by name now.”
“Well, that’s something.”
He glanced toward the door. “I should keep moving. I left Strudel in the car. Always makes me feel like a bad parent.”
“I know what you mean. I’ll see you tonight.”
He didn’t move off immediately. Instead, he reached out and tweaked her beanie.
“Like your hat.” His cognac eyes glinted with mischief as he walked away.
She realized belatedly that she was standing in the aisle staring after him like an excited schoolgirl.
It’s called dignity, my dear. You might want to reacquaint yourself with the concept.
She turned back to the dairy case and grabbed a package of Brie and a round of Camembert. What the hell. She added a block of vintage cheddar for good measure, then worked her way up and down the aisles of the small store, occasionally catching glimpses of Oliver as he did the same. She heard him talking and laughing with the guy behind the deli counter, caught him brooding over the ice-cream freezer and wound up at the checkout three people ahead of him. She was acutely aware of him in her peripheral vision as she waited for the woman to ring up her purchases. She gave him a small, cheery wave as she collected her bags.
“Seven o’clock. Be there or be square,” he said.
“A fate worse than death.”
There was a bounce in her step as she carried her groceries to her car. Not because she thought his asking her over to dinner meant anything—she hadn’t been rusticating out here on the peninsula so long that she’d forgotten the subtleties of socializing with the opposite sex—but because she found him interesting and stimulating and good company. No more, no less.
Rather convincing argument if she did say so herself.