Chapter EIGHT
MACKENZIE SPENT a good hour mulling over her own ridiculousness after she got home, trying to understand herself.
Oliver had kissed her. He’d looked into her eyes and said her name as though it was a mystery and a wonder to him, and then he’d laid his mouth against hers and kissed her. It had been a good kiss, too, full of potential and promise.
And she had backed off so quickly she’d smacked her head against the door.
She’d never backed away from anything in her life. She was a grab-life-by-the-scruff-of-the-neck kind of woman. A carpe diem kind of woman. And she liked sex. Not that she’d had much opportunity to enjoy it lately, all her energies having been focused on her recovery, but that was beside the point. She also liked Oliver. A lot.
She’d spent half the evening ogling his thighs and admiring his handsome face and generally basking in his reflected glory. She’d dressed nicely for him and worried about her limp hair and lack of makeup. Yet when he kissed her she’d been so overwhelmed by the experience that her only panicky thought had been to escape.
She winced as she pulled on her pajamas, thinking about how he must be feeling right now. God, she was such an ass-hat.
She climbed into bed and punched her pillow a few times. She needed to apologize to him, of course. Somehow she would have to make it clear to him that her out-of-proportion reaction was all about her and had nothing to do with him. She’d have to explain that under normal circumstances she would have been all over what he was offering.
The problem was, she was having trouble locating normal right at the moment. Her career was in limbo, her body a work in progress. She’d lost sight of so many of the things that used to be important to her, that used to define her. Maybe that was why she’d reacted so strongly. Maybe some deep, wise part of her brain had understood that she had enough on her plate right now without helping herself to a big slice of Oliver, as well. Maybe that was what her precipitous retreat had been about.
Maybe.
Not entirely convinced, she continued to chew on the subject until her tired brain finally loosened its grip and allowed her to slip into sleep.
She woke several hours later feeling hot and oddly unsettled. She flipped her pillow in search of the cool underside, remnants from her dreams licking at the edges of her mind.
A warm bed. A hot body. A man whispering in her ear. The insistent, wet pull of a mouth at her breasts. The delicate, questing slide of a hand between her legs...
Desire throbbed low in her belly. She realized with drowsy surprise that she was wet with need, her nipples hard against the soft fabric of her pajamas. She may have retreated from Oliver in real life, but in her dreams she’d apparently welcomed him with open arms.
How...confusing.
Still half-asleep, she allowed the images from her dream to wash over her. Warmth turned into heat as she remembered the dream. Oliver’s strong, dexterous hands roving her body. Cupping her breasts. Sliding down her belly.
She stirred against the sheets. Her heart was racing, her breathing shallow. It had been a long time since she’d felt this way, a long time since she’d thought of her body as anything more than a damaged machine she needed to rebuild and repair.
Tentative, she slid her hand onto her stomach. Behind her closed eyelids, she imagined it was Oliver’s hand as her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her pajamas. It had been a while since she’d done this, too, but she wasn’t about to question the urgings of her body. She felt too liquid and needy and ready.
She allowed herself to think about the way Oliver’s face had looked tonight, lined by firelight. She thought about the way the soft, worn denim of his jeans had showcased his long, strong thigh muscles. She thought about the breadth of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw.
She remembered the taste of him, the warm, firm press of his lips against hers. She let her imagination fly as her hand slid lower—and stilled as her fingers found the ridge of scar tissue that ran between her hips and round to her right buttock.
The fantasy unrolling in her mind stalled. Her eyes opened. Suddenly, she was wide-awake.
Funny, but in the scene in her mind, her body was whole. Her hair was long, a sensual sweep over her shoulders, and she was confident and strong and empowered.
That woman didn’t exist anymore. Certainly that body didn’t. If something happened with Oliver, it would be this body he would sleep with, not the one in her imagination. There would be no silken, sexy hair to drape over his body and hers. There would be other issues to contend with, too. Physical limitations. She’d broken her pelvis and her hip, after all, and she still didn’t have a normal range of movement.
She freed her hand from her pajamas, all the urgent heat of her fantasy draining away as she understood—finally—why she’d retreated so strongly, so instinctively from Oliver’s kiss.
She was scared.
Scared that her new body wouldn’t be desirable to a man once he saw it in all its scarred, stitched and stapled glory. Scared that sex would be different, maybe even bad, thanks to her injuries. Scared that she didn’t know how to be sexy in her new body. Or how to be confident or sassy or brave.
Everything in her wanted to reject the admission. She’d built a career, a life, out of being brave and bolshie and ballsy. She didn’t do afraid.
But she knew she would be doing herself a disservice if she pretended otherwise. She needed to face this head-on, the way she’d faced learning to walk again, the way she’d faced so many of the challenges in her postaccident world.
Very deliberately, she retraced the path beneath her pajamas. She found the scar on her belly by touch, following it with her fingertips, absorbing the hard smoothness of it. There was no denying that it was not a pretty, delicate thing. Where once her belly had been flawless and soft, it was now bisected. The section where the ridge of tissue curled over her hip was puckered, an artifact of the healing process that the doctors had assured her would become less obvious with time. In broad daylight, it was nothing short of shocking, a violent slash across her body. It had saved her life, though, this slash. The surgeons had pieced her hip and pelvis back together and removed her damaged spleen and repaired her liver via it. Without it, she would be dead.
The same went for the mess on her shoulder. She ran the fingers of the opposite hand over the scar tissue there, reading the history of her injuries with her fingertips. Without this scar, she wouldn’t have the use of her shoulder and arm. Her life would be infinitely more complex and difficult. Yes, it was messy and ugly, thanks to the postoperative infection that had required an extra surgery to rectify, but the bottom line was that her arm and shoulder worked.
Finally, she lifted her hand to her hair. Her fingers found the scar on her scalp unerringly, tracing the wicked curve of it across the front of her head. This scar had enabled the surgeons to repair her fractured skull and stop her brain from swelling and damaging itself. Without it, she would be lost. Pure and simple, the best part of herself—the very essence of Mackenzie Williams—damaged beyond recognition or recall.
She let her hands rest on her belly again, palms flat. Probably it was only human to be self-conscious about the changes her injuries had wrought in her body. After all, most women had been trained and indoctrinated from a young age to find fault with their own appearance. It was practically a national pastime. But she’d worked hard for this body. She’d fought alongside the doctors to keep it alive. She’d struggled against pain and expectation to become strong again. She’d survived and thrived in this body, and she refused to be ashamed of it.
A surge of defiance curled her hands into fists. If she wound up getting naked with Oliver and he balked at her scars, then so be it. He would have revealed something about himself that it would be important and good to know before she made the mistake of allowing him inside her body. And if he didn’t...well, she’d cheated them both out of what had promised to be an amazing experience when she ran away from him tonight.
Next time, she promised herself. The next time Oliver kissed her, she would hang on to the pleasure and push away her doubts and insecurities. She would see this thing through.
Except, of course, that Oliver is about as likely to kiss you again as fly to the moon on the back of a winged pig.
She closed her eyes as she remembered the expression on his face after she’d retreated from him. A man would have to be pretty damned insensitive or just plain deluded to risk that kind of rejection again—and Oliver was neither of those things.
Which meant if she was ever going to kiss him again, she would have to be the one to initiate it.
She made a sound in the back of her throat. As much as it ran against the grain to admit it, the thought of taking the initiative with Oliver, of being the aggressor, made her feel dizzy with anxiety.
She stared at the ceiling, momentarily filled with despair. Not so long ago, making a move on a man like Oliver would have been an exciting challenge. Right now, it seemed scary and fraught with peril. Everything after the accident had been hard, but she hadn’t expected sex and desire and romance to fall under that heading. Perhaps stupidly, she’d assumed that that part of her life would work as it always had. She was nearly forty, after all. Hardly an ingenue.
Maybe it really is a case of simply not being ready. Maybe you need to give yourself a break. Maybe being nervous and scared and self-conscious is only a stage you need to go through, like all the other stages of rehab.
She sighed and rolled onto her belly. Sometimes, the sensible voice in her head was simply too damn cool and rational and pragmatic.
Burrowing her head into the pillow, she closed her eyes and once again sought the oblivion of sleep.
* * *
OLIVER WOKE with the knowledge that he needed to apologize to Mackenzie at the top of his mind. For five minutes he lay in bed constructing the right words and phrases in his head, then he rose and headed for the shower. The sooner he got his self-appointed mission out of the way, the better.
It wasn’t until he was dressed and in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil that he registered it was still dark outside.
He checked his phone. It was barely six o’clock. Awesome. Now he would have to cool his heels for a couple of hours while he waited for a more civilized time to call on his neighbor.
“Come on, Strudel,” he said, grabbing the flashlight from his tool kit and heading for the back door.
He strode through frost-damp grass to the shed and tucked the flashlight under his arm while he struggled with the lock. It gave grudgingly and he opened the door and played the beam around the dusty interior. He immediately realized how futile his task was—there was no way he could effectively sort through the dark, overcrowded space with only the aid of a flashlight. He’d have to wait until daylight and bring each piece out onto the lawn to assess it properly.
So much for occupying himself with something constructive for a few hours. He shut the door and pushed the rusty bolt home, then contemplated the house. As though pulled by a force beyond his control, his gaze moved over the fence to Mackenzie’s place. Light spilled out of the kitchen window, signaling she was up already, like himself. For a moment he toyed with the idea of throwing convention to the wind and going next door to say his piece despite the early hour. Anything to get past the moment where he had to look into her eyes and acknowledge his own poor judgment.
He teetered on the edge of temptation for a few seconds before sanity prevailed. Arriving on her doorstep at this hour smacked of desperation and preoccupation. Turning off the flashlight, he trudged toward the house.
“Oliver. Is that you?” Mackenzie’s voice traveled clearly over the fence.
He stopped in his tracks, ankle-deep in wet grass. “Mackenzie.”
“You’re up early,” she called.
“So are you.”
He moved toward the fence and stepped up onto the first crossbar. Thanks to the reach of both their exterior lights, he could see her quite clearly. She stood on the other side looking at him, arms tightly crossed over her chest. She wore sunny yellow flannelette pajamas and an oversize navy cardigan, the sleeves rolled up several times to accommodate her small frame. Her hair was flat on one side, spiky on the other and her eyes looked tired.
“Hi,” he said.
Not great as openers went, but it would do.
“Hi.”
“Cold out.”
“It is.” She rubbed her hands over her biceps as though to generate some warmth. “Listen, Oliver. About last night...”
His belly tensed. Here goes...
“Yeah. I was going to come see you about that.”
“You were?” Her cheeks were pink, her chin tilted so she could look him in the eye.
“Yeah. Wanted to clear the air. So things wouldn’t get weird. If I upset you last night... I didn’t mean to leap on you or anything.”
“Oh, you didn’t. I mean, I didn’t feel leaped on. Far from it.”
Her cheeks were very pink now and she seemed to have trouble meeting his gaze—reactions that perfectly mirrored his own. Jesus, since when had being an adult gotten so hard?
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little out of practice with this stuff,” he said. “Which I guess is why I got my signals all wrong. So...sorry about that. Won’t happen again.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “Um, okay.”
There was a beat of awkward silence and her forehead creased into furrows.
“Better go feed Strudel. She usually starts trying to gnaw her own leg off if we’re up too long with no sustenance.”
“Sure. Of course.”
He lifted a hand in farewell. “See you around.”
“Yes. See you.”
He released his grip on the fence and stepped down to the ground, very aware that his armpits were damp with clammy, nervous sweat.
If he never had to have another conversation like that in his lifetime, he would die a happy man.
“Oliver?”
He took a moment to put his game face firmly in place before bracing his foot on the crossbar again and hoisting himself up so he could see her.
She was still frowning, but there was a determined tilt to her chin now.
“I didn’t— Your wires weren’t crossed. Me pulling away like that wasn’t about you.”
He nodded, even though he didn’t really understand what she was getting at. “Okay.”
She stared at him, her expression troubled. He waited for her to say more but she made a helpless gesture with one hand.
“I guess I’m pretty rusty with this stuff, too.”
“Good to know I’m not alone. Gives me hope.”
“Yes. There’s always comfort in numbers, isn’t there?”
They both fell silent. Against his will, his gaze shifted from her upturned face to the shadowy neckline of her pajama top. He hadn’t noticed before, but his vantage point gave him a perfect view of her cleavage.
Maybe it was just him, but it seemed like a really bad time to register that she wasn’t wearing a bra under all that yellow flannel.
“I should go,” he said abruptly, dragging his gaze to her face.
“Okay.”
For the second time he raised a hand in farewell before dropping to the ground. He mouthed a curse as he made his way to the house. He had no idea what their conversation had been about, apart from the fact that he’d apologized and she’d accepted. But he now knew that Mackenzie had the tiniest of freckles on the upper curve of her right breast and that her skin looked smoother than velvet.
You are officially beyond help. You know that, right?
He was. Only last night he’d spent an hour staring at the ceiling, regretting the stupid impulse that had led him to kiss Mackenzie, and yet here he was, eyeing her cleavage even as she let him off the hook for his unwelcome advance.
Shaking his head at himself, he went to make breakfast. Maybe food would bring his brain back online.
He flicked the radio on when he entered the kitchen, listening to a morning talk show as he put eggs on to boil. He was slotting two pieces of bread into the toaster when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and went still. Last night, Edie had caught him off guard because he hadn’t recognized the number she was calling from. Not so this morning. He let his breath out in a rush before taking the call. Might as well get it over with, since she’d only try again later if he didn’t answer this time.
“Edie.”
“Hi. Sorry to call so early. I didn’t wake you, did I?” She sounded guilty and nervous. As she had last night.
“I’m awake. What’s the problem?”
“I’m at the house, but I can’t find that file you were talking about. I’ve looked through both drawers in the filing cabinet.”
“It’s in the top drawer. Right at the back. Marked Insurance.”
“I looked. It’s not there.”
He sighed. Edie was a self-styled incompetent when it came to business matters and he’d taken care of all the administrative aspects of their life together—the mortgage, the bills, any residual band business. He hadn’t minded doing it, but he wasn’t about to pander to her laziness now.
“Then I guess you’ll have to look again.”
It was her turn to sigh. When she spoke, her voice was so quiet he almost didn’t hear her.
“For what it’s worth, I miss you. I miss us. I miss Strudel and going to the bake house on Saturdays for bagels and lattes. I miss listening to you play your guitar.”
The element in the toaster glowed red. Without thinking about it, he reached out and held his hand over the slots, absorbing the heat.
“Do you miss the lying?” It was a genuine question, but he was a little surprised to hear the lack of rancor in his own voice. He hoped it was a sign that her power to hurt and anger him was fading.
“You think I enjoyed that?” She sounded wounded.
“Part of you must have, Edie.”
She’d kept it up for nearly six years, after all.
“I hated lying to you. I hated myself for it. Every time I promised myself it would be the last.”
The toast popped up, golden-brown.
“Tell me something. Do you love him?” he asked.
There was the smallest of hesitations. He braced himself for more excuses and prevarications.
“Yes.”
Honesty. A refreshing change.
“Did you ever love me?”
“Of course, Ollie. Always. How can you doubt that?”
He made a rude noise. It was a stupid question and she was smart enough to know it.
“If I’d never met Nick, if he and I didn’t have this...thing between us, you would have been it for me, Ollie. If it’s any consolation to you, I know I’m going to regret losing you.” She made a sound that could have been a self-deprecating laugh. “Hell, I already do. This thing with Nick...I know it won’t last. It’s too damaged. And I know I’ll never meet anyone like you again.”
She sounded sad and broken, but he didn’t have room in his heart to feel any sympathy for her. She’d destroyed six years of his life. He was working on moving past it, but he knew he’d never forgive her. She’d abused his trust too comprehensively.
His toast was going to be cold.
“I need to go,” he said.
“Okay. If I need anything else, is it okay if I call?”
He didn’t need to think about his answer. “No.”
He wanted to put all this behind him. No way was he going to let her keep dragging him backward.
“Okay.”
He hung up. The toast was hard, utterly unappetizing, and he pulled it out of the toaster and walked to the back door. He flung it outside for the birds, then toasted two fresh slices that he slathered with butter and Vegemite then sat at the kitchen table.
He felt...calm. Not angry. Not resentful. Certainly not wounded.
What a freaking relief.
It was startling after carrying around that solid burden of righteous emotions. He’d become so accustomed to their weight, to the way they alternately motivated him and depressed the hell out of him. This...this felt more normal. More like the Oliver he recognized.
At the same time, this calmness seemed too new and—dare he say it?—too temporary. He decided not to examine the situation too closely lest he jinx himself and welcome back the anger.
He was rinsing his plate at the sink when he heard the scrape of metal on concrete. Curious, he walked into the living room to look out the side window. Dressed in her workout gear, Mackenzie was clearing the gravel from the paved area in front of her house.
As she transferred a load to the wheelbarrow she’d positioned nearby, he remembered the nasty job it had been cleaning up this place—and he hadn’t been flooded the way she had. He’d ached for two days after—shoveling gravel was hard work. It had taken her days to recover from their late-night battle with the water, and he could only imagine how exhausted she’d be today after hours of spadework.
“Stubborn idiot.”
He knew her well enough now to know she would have convinced herself she could handle it. It would be a point of pride for her, a way of proving something to herself.
Not your problem.
It wasn’t. He had more than his fair share of work to tackle on this side of the fence. The kitchen was only half-sorted, and there were still various cupboards, the attic and the rear shed to clear out.
The scrape of metal set his teeth on edge as Mackenzie hefted another shovelful. He watched as she tipped it into the wheelbarrow then paused to wipe her forehead and survey the remaining gravel. After a few seconds, she squared her shoulders and set to it again, the plucky little engine that could.
He shook his head, annoyed with himself and her. She wasn’t his responsibility. Far from it. Yet there was no way he was going to be able to listen to her toiling away, potentially exhausting herself, without doing something to help.
Which probably made him a misguided sap of the worst order.
So be it.
More than a little bemused at himself, he went to change into his work clothes.