“I’m sorry, Natalie. I don’t doubt his qualifications professionally, but personally, I’m just not sure Mel signing up this year is a good idea. He’s got a hell of an attitude, from what I’ve heard, and Mel is quite sensitive.”

Nat pinched the bridge of her nose with one hand, and with the other tried not to crush the cell phone at her ear. Mel’s mum, Sandra, was the last of the parents whose daughter had played rugby last year or had shown interest at the beginning of the year.

“If you and Mel come along on Saturday, you’ll see how positive he is with the girls. Maybe you’ll change your mind.” So Nat better have a come-to-Jesus talk part two with Isaac about toning down his attitude around the girls’ parents.

“I’ll think about it,” Sandra said.

“Great!” Nat forced some false chipperness into her tone. “Really hope to see you there.”

After disconnecting, Nat scanned her list of names and the checks, crosses, and question marks next to them. Thursday afternoon, and so far she’d got a more positive result from five parents but an overwhelming number of Xs and I’ll think about its. To get another ten girls on the field in two days’ time, she needed a minor miracle.

“Any luck?” Olivia wandered into the kitchen where Nat sat at their dining table. She headed for the pantry and a container of cookies.

“Mel’s mum is going to think about it.”

Olivia crinkled her nose. “Whatever. Have you called Rangi-Marie Brown’s mum? If Rangi-Marie comes, her friends’ll come, too. But I don’t think she will because Isaac’s her cousin or second cousin or something.”

“All the more reason to support him.”

Nat had seen Rangi-Marie around the school a couple of times, most notably in the high school’s summer track and field event where the girl—tall and athletic with a killer smile like her extended family—had dominated by coming first in a number of events.

Olivia selected a cookie, carried it to the table, and sat down. “I heard her telling her friends that he went all caveman on her and threatened to kill her boyfriend if he laid a finger on her. She hates him.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t hate him.”

“You do,” Olivia said, and before Nat could object, her daughter added, “Well, you used to hate him after Dad died. I don’t think you do anymore.”

The stomach pang turned into a knot. Things were black and white, often to the extreme, in Olivia’s world. Your dad was alive, and then he was dead. You either liked someone or you hated them. You were either right, or you were completely wrong. There were no shades of gray, no middle ground, and no way for Olivia to understand the tangled strands of Nat’s feelings about Isaac—not when Nat couldn’t understand or unravel them herself.

“No, I don’t hate Isaac anymore. And if there’s any chance of us keeping him as your coach, I need to go and talk to Rangi-Marie in person.”

“She’s got an after-school job at Kauri Whare,” Olivia said. “Another reason why she won’t want Isaac as her coach. Not when he’s already her boss.”

Convincing a teenager to do something they didn’t want to with logic and reasoning? Again, piece of cake. Not. “Are you coming to be my wingman? I might need some backup.”

Olivia shook her head. “Can’t,” she said around a mouthful of cookie. “I’ve got homework due tomorrow. You’ll be fine, Mum. Have fun.”

Right. Because dealing with another branch of the Ngata family tree was Nat’s idea of a good time.

Twenty minutes later, Nat walked inside Kauri Whare. Rangi-Marie and an older woman were behind the sales counter, the older woman ringing up a customer’s purchases. A packed tour bus had just left the parking lot when Nat arrived, and the showroom only had a couple of people still browsing. Nat approached the counter when the customer moved away.

“Hi,” she said to the older woman, with a quick smile at Rangi-Marie. “I’m wondering if I can steal Rangi-Marie away for a quick chat?”

The teenager’s eyelashes slitted over her dark eyes as she sized up Nat. Suspecting, probably, what she was there for. Word got around in Bounty Bay.

The older woman’s face creased into a huge smile and she hurried around the counter.

“Oh, kia ora, Natalie. Do you remember me? I’m Raewyn, one of Isaac’s aunties—so we’re practically whānau.”

Raewyn wrapped her arms around Nat and squeezed her tight, pulling away after a beat to kiss Nat’s cheek before letting her go. It’d been a long time since Nat had experienced the warmth and inclusion of the Ngata family and their many aunties, uncles, cousins, and second cousins. When Jackson had been alive they’d gone to a number of barbecues and hangi with Isaac and Sam’s parents, often with other relatives dropping by unannounced and staying to enjoy the food and friendship. But whānau—family? Nuh-uh. That implied a relationship that just didn’t exist between her and Livvy and Isaac.

“I, uh—”

Raewyn chuckled, and squeezed Nat’s arm. “Course you don’t, do you? There are so many Ngatas in Bounty Bay it must be hard to keep us all straight.” She turned and crooked a finger at Rangi-Marie. “C’mon then, girl. Don’t keep Mrs. Fisher waiting. You can take your break now and make her a nice cuppa while you’re at it.”

Rangi-Marie’s gaze seemed to say that spending her break with Nat was a pretty crap deal, but the girl came out from behind the counter.

“This way,” she said without making further eye contact with Nat, and walked toward the same Staff Only door that led to Isaac’s office.

And Isaac.

Pull up your big-girl panties, Nat ordered herself, and followed her through into the corridor. She did let out a sigh of relief, though, as they passed by Isaac’s empty office.

“Tea?” Rangi-Marie asked as they walked into the staff room. “Or one of Isaac’s fancy coffees?” The girl angled her chin toward the espresso machine in the staff room’s little kitchenette.

“Nothing for me,” Nat said. “I won’t keep you long.”

“This is about the rugby team, isn’t it?” Rangi-Marie slumped onto one of the chairs surrounding a newspaper and magazine strewn dining table and folded her arms. “You’re helping him coach.”

Him was said in the same tone as one would say Satan.

“I am.” Nat slid into a chair opposite the girl. “We’re really down on numbers and could use you at practice Saturday morning.”

“I’m not playing this year.”

There was a note of finality in Rangi-Marie’s voice, but also an unhappy undertone. Rangi-Marie’s name had cropped up in her conversations with some of the other girls’ mums. She was one of the strongest and most dedicated girls in the team, playing since she’d first started at Bounty Bay High three years ago. There was talk of an opportunity for the girl to take part in a rugby exchange program, where she’d train in France for six months. An opportunity she’d blow if she quit now.

“Why?” Nat asked.

The girl’s gaze shot left. “I don’t want to.”

A long beat passed, as if she were hunting for a plausible excuse.

“I’ve got loads of school stuff on this year. I’m too busy,” she added.

Nat leaned forward and gentled her voice. “Or is it because Isaac is coaching this season?”

“Any idea how much it sucks to have a former All Black as a cousin? At least my last name isn’t Ngata, but everyone knows we’re related and everyone knows how screwed up he is. It was okay when Ms. Pierce was coaching, but with Isaac taking over, everyone is going to have massive expectations of us—of me—to win.”

“They’re going to have massive expectations of him, too, and of my daughter, Olivia. But no one will try harder or care more about making sure you girls are trained and ready to play.” Nat said it with absolute conviction, because she now believed it was true. Given a chance, Isaac would give these girls everything he had to give, because she knew he, too, loved to win.

“Whatever.” Rangi-Marie rocked back on her chair and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “And please don’t say ‘it’s not all about winning,’ because it is, and we won’t.”

At least the girl was thinking in terms of we. “You’ll never know if you could win, unless you came along to practice and gave him a chance.”

Rangi-Marie’s lips twisted and she kept her gaze locked upward. “He’s my boss, and he’s a grumpy pain in the nono—so why would I want to spend even more time with him?”

Nat forced a smile off her face at the Māori word for ‘bum’ comment and pressed her lips together until she’d regained her composure.

“Because I think he needs this,” she said finally. “And you definitely do. You have the chance for some amazing opportunities, like going to France to train for six months. How awesome would that be?”

“Yeah. It would be pretty cool.”

“And Isaac won’t be such a grumpy pain in the nono if he has a certain family member on board. We haven’t got enough girls for a team, and if you came, your friends and their mums would see he wasn’t so big and scary and come, too.”

The girl snorted and lowered her chair back on all four legs. “Scary?” she said. “The girl’s aren’t scared of him, and the mums…”

Rangi-Marie dug into her skirt pocket and tugged out her cell phone. She tapped the screen a few times and then turned it to show Nat. On the screen was a photo of Sam and Isaac and a few other men playing volleyball on Bounty Bay beach. Both brothers were shirtless and the phone had caught Isaac lunging sideways for the ball, his chest and ab muscles—and Lord, there were a lot of muscles—ripped and gleaming bronze in the sunshine.

“This is from last Christmas,” Rangi-Marie continued. “Show the mums this photo and they’ll be dragging their daughters down to training just so they can drool over the coach. Which is kind of ewww, because he’s like, ancient, and my cousin, but whatever works.”

“He won’t be coaching with his shirt off.” Blame it on the muscle visual causing Nat’s brain to short-circuit the connection with her tongue. “I know right now the worst thing you can imagine is dealing with Isaac when things are tense between you, but trust me, life will deal you out a crappy hand at times, and if you buckle, if you don’t fight for what you love and grab hold of opportunities when they arise, they will be regrets you live with forever.”

Rangi-Marie’s dark eyes met Nat’s across the table. “You’re saying I should play this year, even though being coached by Isaac will suck?”

“Most of my life I had people telling me what I could and couldn’t do, and how I should be satisfied with what little I had.” Nat reached out and squeezed the girl’s hand, which rested on the table. “You have oceans of possibilities and a family who have your back no matter what choices you make. Coming to practice or not on Saturday is a choice—your choice—but it’s one that’ll directly influence your future.”

Rangi-Marie huffed out a sigh, her fist bunching under Nat’s hand. “You still don’t have enough players.”

“That’s true,” Nat said. “But can we count on one more?”

“Yeah.” She slid her hand out from under Nat’s and folded her arms again. “But Isaac’s gonna make training a living hell for everyone.”

Everyone, but most of all Nat. Every excruciating minute of it.

* * *

Friday evenings after work Isaac had a set routine. Get home, get changed out of his button-down shirt and work pants into his oldest jeans and a T-shirt, get a beer, and get his tired ass stretched out on his living room sofa.

Mission accomplished.

He was about to crack the seal on his beer when his phone buzzed. He glanced at his brother’s name on the screen and hit talk.

“What’s up?”

“Got a minute?” Sam asked, with a background noise of laughter and rumble of conversation.

His brother entertaining the masses at the local pub during happy hour, no doubt.

“Yep.”

“You sure? Not too busy manscaping your chest hair and taking selfies in the mirror?”

What the—? “Has someone slipped LSD into your beer? What are you on about?”

Sam’s chuckle rumbled in Isaac’s ear. “You haven’t seen it?”

“Seen what?”

“Hang up and check your email, but don’t kill the messenger, okay?”

Isaac didn’t bother with any more sibling niceties and disconnected, quickly opening his email app and scanning until he saw Sam’s appear. He tapped it and read:

A mate stopped in to see me after you’d gone and dropped this off (see attached photo). Said his daughter came home with it from school. Bro, great publicity idea. ROTFLMAO.

Spidery prickles raced up Isaac’s spine and across his scalp as he tapped to open the attachment. It was a photo of a printed flyer, the headline in huge font.

Meet the new girls’ rugby coach, Isaac Ngata.

Below the text were two color photos. One was a publicity shot taken of him for an underwear advertising campaign that Isaac still, to this day, cringed about. The other was a shot of him playing beach volleyball last Christmas with his brother and cousins. Heat flooding in a lava-like tide down his body, he skimmed the text below the photos, which was a basic invitation to join a ‘former All Black who’ll take the girls’ rugby team all the way to the finals blah-blah-blah’ and ended with Natalie’s name and phone number if you required more details.

Nat had been passing this shit out to drum up more players by tomorrow morning?

Isaac swore and rolled off the couch, beer forgotten.

Twenty minutes later after he’d printed off a copy of the flyer and fired up his truck, he pulled into Natalie’s driveway. The slam of his truck door had Natalie’s head popping out from around the farthest corner of the house, her mouth parting in a soft O shape as she spotted him.

She stepped out from behind the house, brandishing a paintbrush in her hand. “What are you doing here?”

Her voice came out in breathy little gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her paint-splattered T-shirt. Either the expression on his face gave away his mood, or that he bore down on her like a dump truck, or maybe even that he hadn’t visited Jackson and Natalie’s house since the accident—any of those things could explain the wariness in her wide green eyes.

He stopped in front of her, close enough to see the tiny flecks of pale green paint speckling her face. Close enough to catch the trace of her perfume under the paint fumes. The last bright rays of afternoon sun streamed through the trees lining her driveway and dappled golden blotches on her bare arms. Goose bumps rose on her skin, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear that’d escaped from the messy knot on her head.

“I mean, hi,” she added in a friendlier tone, but she kept the brush in place like a shield.

He dragged the folded A4 sheet out of his jeans pocket and opened it carefully, shaking out the creases and then holding it out toward her at face level.

“This is your idea of helping?” he asked.

She skimmed the page, mouth pinched shut, her gaze going from wide, to wider, to almost popping out.

“I don’t see the problem,” she said. “It clearly lists the details of the next training session and your, um, qualifications to measure up as the girls’ coach…”

Her cheeks sucked in, her eyes doing that sparkly glistening thing that made a man’s heart rate speed up.

“But what will the girls’ parents be measuring?” he asked. “The size of my junk in those black boxer shorts?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t notice.”

She darted another glance at the paper, the tinge of high color deepening on her cheekbones calling her out. Shut it down, he ordered himself. Keep it about having embarrassing photos—the beach one he was sure came from one of his relatives—distributed around Bounty Bay to recruit players. Just don’t go anywhere else with Nat, just don’t—

His mouth dropped open and his tongue started flapping. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d think you’re attracted to me.”

Nat went hands on hips, then squawked when the brush connected with her jeans. Her eyes tapered into slits, as if he were to blame for the stripe of wet paint on her thigh.

“Well, you should know better, and this conversation is over.” She spun a one-eighty and stomped back along the driveway.

Which wasn’t exactly an admission or denial, more of a challenge thrown down between them. This conversation definitely wasn’t over.

Isaac stuffed the paper back into his jeans pocket and took two strides forward, then paused as the clang of warning bells sounded in his head. He never walked away from a challenge, not on a rugby field, nor off it either. But this wasn’t a game where he had to prove to himself he could win over and over, that he could be the best if he worked hard enough, wanted it badly enough.

This was Natalie.

And no matter how hard he worked, how much he wanted her—and he wasn’t admitting that he did want her—if there was an attraction between them, it couldn’t be acted on.

He sucked in a deep breath. He thought back to earlier in the year when he’d done his friend a favor by chaperoning a high school dance so Owen could propose to Gracie.

“Make sure there’s room for the Holy Ghost between the kids when they’re dancing,” one of the teachers had jokingly advised while he’d skulked around the school hall.

His nape pricked, the tingles sweeping down his spine as he remembered how close he’d been to Nat behind the changing rooms. She’d touched him, and the sensation of her fingertips on his skin had sizzled straight to his dick—hey, he was a guy—but the pleasurable sensation had frozen at the realization there was a six-foot, ninety-kilo ghost planted squarely between them. A ghost named Jackson.

A ghost who wouldn’t approve of Isaac pushing the boundaries with his wife. He should get as far away from Natalie as possible, starting with returning to his truck and driving home to his empty house. Beer o’clock, maybe followed by a cold shower.

Instead he strode around the corner of the house into the backyard. Natalie had returned the brush to the tray and was scrubbing a rag along her hip. She looked up with a frown as he gave her a wide berth and stopped in front of the section of wall she’d been working on.

“Wrong time of year for painting your house,” he said.

“Yeah. A really bad time with the crappy weather we’ve been having.”

He didn’t miss the relief coloring her voice at his topic change or another sideways glance as she continued to dab at her jeans. With a crinkle of her paint-speckled nose, she tossed the rag down by the paint tray and half turned toward him, folding her arms tight across her chest.

“I started prep work back in February, but with everything going on…” She shrugged. “It’ll get done when it gets done. The house has lasted seven years without new paint. It can wait a few more months.”

Seven years ago Isaac, Jackson, and Sam got together over a holiday weekend and, with much natural competitiveness spurring on the three of them, had Jackson’s house repainted by Monday lunchtime. Natalie had asked why they didn’t just pay to have the house repainted. As if. No self-respecting Kiwi male would pay someone to do work around his property when he and his mates were capable of doing it themselves.

Apparently, some of that attitude had rubbed off on Natalie. He knew Jackson had provided well for his wife and daughter in his will, though it was common knowledge that Nat had earmarked most of Jackson’s legacy for Olivia and a substantial amount was set up in trusts for rugby scholarships and charities. But the woman was stubbornly self-reliant.

“I’ll come after training tomorrow and give you a hand,” he said. “We’ll get this back wall done and start on the other side.”

“That’s not necessary,” Nat said. “But thank you for the offer.”

Should’ve seen that coming a mile off. He mirrored her body language and gave her his best don’t fuck with me stare.

Which worked with everyone other than Natalie. She’d gotten her mojo back in the past few minutes and stood hipshot, returning her own version of a don’t fuck with me stare.

“It wasn’t an offer. It was a statement of intent. I’ll be here after training to help you. Unless you have a valid reason why a friend shouldn’t help out a friend when they need it?”

“We’re not friends.”

She was right. “No. There’s that whole attraction thing we’re not talking about.”

Yep, he was going there. Again.

Because against all better judgment he wanted her to admit he wasn’t the only one who felt this inexplicable pull from deep in the gut. He wanted to know he wasn’t the only one who was tempted by a taste of forbidden fruit. It was as simple and complex as that.

“Fine. Let’s talk about it, then.”

She closed the short distance between them, and the faded trace of her perfume got stronger. God, but she smelled good. The kind of good that if she’d been any other woman he might’ve hauled her into his arms to discover if she tasted as amazing as she smelled.

“You,” Natalie said, back to the hands-on-hips stance, “are a handsome man—an attractive man. That, I agree with. The same way I agree that the Hemsworth brothers are attractive men. Doesn’t mean that I’m attracted to them, though, and it doesn’t mean that I’m attracted to you.”

“That you chose to include half-naked photos of me on that flyer means something.”

“It means I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to ensure Olivia gets to play rugby this year.” Then her brow crinkled and her gaze shuttered for a moment. “Though the photos, um, may not have been one of my better ideas.”

Wait. He scanned through his memories of the Christmas volleyball game—and Rangi-Marie and some of his other younger relatives taking photos. Huh. Not at all suspicious. Surely a woman who blushed looking at his underwear advert would be unlikely to opt to deal with potential personal questions from the girls’ parents? But a woman who didn’t want to throw the real culprit under the bus—a teenage culprit both he and Nat knew they needed on the team—seemed a more likely scenario.

“Because people might get the wrong idea, thinking I’m just a pretty face with a hot body who’s hoping to tap some of the girls’ mums if they bring their daughters to practice tomorrow?”

Nat rolled her eyes. “Some of those women wouldn’t need a printed invitation to offer to assist you in any way you needed.”

“Really.”

She shrugged and pulled a face. “There are couple of solo mum potentials for you to pick from, but the rest of us married mothers will have to be satisfied just looking at your pretty face and hot body.”

His gut clenched at her emphasis on the word married. “You still consider yourself married?”

Nat’s gaze zipped down to her left hand and Isaac’s gaze followed. Her long, slender fingers were splayed on her hip bone, with only the faintest change of color in her tan on her third, ringless finger. She obviously hadn’t worn her wedding band for a while.

“Some days,” she said quietly, the previous sass vanishing from her tone. “Something will happen in my day and for a split second I catch myself thinking to make a mental note of it to tell Jackson. Then I remember he’s gone and I’m lost somewhere in no-man’s land where I’m not married but not…interested in pursuing a romantic relationship either.”

Her gaze flicked up from her hand and landed square on his mouth, lingering there for a moment before meeting his eyes once more.

“Romance is overrated,” he said.

Overrated, overcomplicated, and full of ways to fuck you over.

“Yeah.” She offered him a small smile. “And it’s not like I have men queuing up at my door. They seem to know they could never compete with my Jackson.”

Isaac took a step back from her, shoving his fists into his jacket pockets. He wasn’t just her Jackson, though. There were parts of her husband that’d never belonged to Nat, never even known by Nat. And Isaac couldn’t—wouldn’t—hurt her more.

“They’re some big boots to fill,” he said.

He needed to leave, needed space to fill his lungs to capacity instead of this struggle to breathe. Needed to continue to hold his tongue under lock and key, and to keep his damn hands to himself.

“I’m going to finish painting your house. It’s the right thing to do.” Isaac took another step backward. “He would’ve wanted me to help you, so please let me.”

“All right, then,” Natalie said.

He dipped his head. “See you tomorrow at practice.”

He spun on his heel and walked back to his truck. He’d lost many things after the accident, but his ability to decipher a woman’s interested signals wasn’t damaged. Nat was attracted to him, but she didn’t want to be. She objected to it and rejected those feelings—that, he understood.

Jackson’s ghost was a possessive bastard that wouldn’t hesitate to use guilt and grief to manipulate both of them.