Chapter Nine
Seven Years Ago
“I’m envisioning a yurt.”
Pete scrunched up his face. “A yurt? This is your great idea that kept you up half the night, seriously?”
“Yes! Think about it,” I said. “A main central room with a big pole in the middle and the roof goes up to a skylight at the top. It’ll be awesome.”
In the daylight, his block of land was a green haven with towering gums and a bunya pine. Below them were some banksia. Down the back, where the ground was more shadowy and moist, grew some more tropical plants like swamp lilies, bird of paradise, and bromeliads.
He scratched at his stubble. “I’m not sure I want to live in a yurt. Aren’t they made out of goatskins or something?”
“We’ll use wood,” I said. “No goats will be harmed in the making of this building.”
“That’s good news. Trees are much easier to catch.”
“Kitchen, dining, and lounge there in the open-space room in the middle.” I waved an arm around in demonstration. “Then off to either side, wings with the bedrooms, bathrooms, and whatever. A verandah running along the back of the house for hanging out on.”
“And we’re building this out of wood?” He cocked his head, staring out at the land too. Obviously not yet sold on my complete winner of an idea. The fool.
“Yes.”
He picked up a stick, drawing a rough diagram in the dirt beside the ashes of last night’s campfire. On days like this, it was way too hot to hang out in his living shed. Especially when there was a breeze blowing outside. We’d already been to the beach and had lunch with his latest. Monica, Melissa, something like that. But I could easily see us heading back there if the heat kept up. Damn my father for not putting in a pool. Just because he didn’t want to look after it all year round solely so I could use it for six weeks. Such a selfish man.
“You’re going to put in a pool down the back, right?” I asked.
A nod.
“Good.”
“I was thinking of maybe bringing in an old Queenslander,” he said. “Renovate it like your dad did. Probably be a hell of a lot easier.”
“But my idea’s better.”
He blinked. “But I’m the one that has to do all the work.”
“But it’s our dream.”
“It’s your dream, kid. I just want to get out of this shed.”
I gave him my best sad face with just a dash of disappointment thrown in.
He sighed. “I’ll think about it. No promises.”
“Okay.” I grinned. “I’ll do some sketches of it for you.”
“I mean it. No promises.”
Sunday Morning . . . Now
When I wheeled out my suitcase, he was seated at the kitchen counter, brooding over a cup of coffee this time. Give me strength. Heathcliff had carried on less. I wished Pete had stayed in his room. It would have been the nice thing to do, to not drag this out any further.
But no.
He’d apparently just showered, his hair wet and slicked back. Wearing fresh cargo shorts and a T-shirt. Some old band-tour thing. The soft old cotton fit him far too well. No matter; I could do this. I’d even put on a happy sundress with grass and ladybugs on it, because that was how little he affected my moods, life, and everything in general. Shanti and Dad would already be on their way to the airport for their early-morning flight to Bali. There was nothing else I needed to do. Nothing slowing me down.
Straight out the door, into my car, and on the road. That was the plan. Hell. I intended to set new land-speed records for a woman dragging a loaded suitcase. Someone should time me.
Still, first things first. I cleared my throat, going for dignified, but probably failing. “I was going to text you,” I said, nodding to him as he sat with his coffee. “We forgot to use protection last night.”
His eyes widened.
“I’m on the pill and get tested regularly. I assume you do too?”
“Ah, yeah,” he said, looking a little shocked. “I do.”
Good to know.
“Shit.” He shook his head. “I didn’t even think . . .”
“Me neither. Didn’t occur to me until it was running down my leg.”
His brows drew in to form one unimpressed line. “You were going to text me about that?”
“What? You’d prefer a telegram?”
“I’d prefer an adult conversation.”
“So would I, but apparently we’re past that,” I said, hand tightening on the handle of my suitcase. “If we were ever there to begin with, which I highly doubt.”
He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, but for some reason thumped it back down on the counter before taking a drop. His seat was pushed back and he walked toward me. Out of pure survival instinct, I held up my hand, took a step back. The man didn’t stop, however. Instead, he walked straight into my hand, my palm pressing against this chest.
“You’ve been crying.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Adele,” he said, voice horribly gentle.
“Alright, maybe I have. But it’s none of your business.”
“I think it is.”
“Let’s agree to disagree.” I straightened my shoulders. “Time for me to go.”
“No.”
“See you next time, Pete. It’s been real.” And I tried to step around him, but the bastard grabbed my shoulders. Built like he was, pushing against his chest didn’t achieve shit, even with two hands. I’d have kicked him in the shins if the case hadn’t been in the way.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Not happening.”
“Listen to me—”
“Go fuck yourself, Pete.” My hands beat against his chest, refusing to surrender. It was all building up again, not that it had ever really gone away. The pain and rage and hurt he caused. All of the dumb-ass feelings I should have let go of years ago. They crowded the tip of my tongue, ready to spill, out of my control. “Honestly, I’m so sick of all your bullshit. Your existential angst or whatever the fuck your problem is. You’re such a cunt, do you know that? You wanted me last night. You started it. But I wind up feeling like shit and I’m done, do you hear me?”
He kicked the suitcase out of the way, pulling me in closer. Not stopping until he held me against him. I just ignored the tears, hoping they’d go away. Too upset to care either way. The idiot could think what he liked.
“I’m fucking done,” I repeated, choking up just a little, dammit. “I’m going home and—”
“Please don’t tell me the ‘every available man’ thing again,” he said, face against the top of my head, voice rumbling in his chest. “I’m not sure I can take it.”
“I don’t give a shit what you can handle, you dickhead. And stop rocking me—I’m not a fucking baby.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Don’t pacify me, asshole.”
He didn’t bother to answer and I didn’t bother to speak again. Guess I’d run out of insults for now and my throat hurt. I huddled against him, crying my heart out. No matter how I tried to calm down and get a handle on things it just kept rising inside of me. More sobs, hiccups, and pain. I wanted to just be angry, but it kept coming out as tears.
At some stage during my meltdown, he picked me up and carried me over to the couch, sitting me on his lap. Still holding on tight. And slowly, finally, the tears stopped and all was silent.
Wow. That’d been . . . extreme.
I knew someone should say something, but I didn’t know who should talk first. Pretty sure he was faster than me, so crawling away and making a run for the door was in all likelihood out of the question. I fished a tissue out of my pocket and blew my nose. Such an attractive sound. Also, his shirt had a big wet patch on the front. Feelings were such an inconvenience. Maybe I should get a lobotomy. I don’t think I’d ever been so angry and miserable at the same time. Now that the storm was spent, however, I wasn’t quite sure what to do.
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually been called a cunt by a woman before,” he said.
“No? It was probably time.”
“Hm.”
I shifted in his lap, giving all of the signals to be let go. But the arms around me didn’t move an inch. “Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“Um. I need water.”
Easy as pie, he lifted me up, heading toward the kitchen.
“Or I could walk.”
He didn’t bother to answer. Instead, sitting me on the counter while he filled a glass with water and presented it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, proceeding to down the whole thing.
The man leaned back against the stainless-steel fridge, arms crossed. “I don’t usually stick around for the fights.”
“You could have just let me leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” he said, gaze stuck to my face.
I just waited.
“Adele, I wasn’t hitting the bag because I regretted having sex with you.”
“Why, then?”
“My existential angst, as you put it, was due to me not feeling bad about what happened between us.”
I blinked. “Please explain.”
“There are a lot of very good reasons why we shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, gaze hooded. “Problem is, I don’t really seem to care.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Huh.” Weird. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You hated yourself for not hating yourself?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” he said. “I want you to stay a bit longer. Can you?”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
He pushed off from the fridge, coming toward me. Not good. Things felt much safer, more in control, with him on his side of the kitchen. “We need to figure this thing out between us. That’s not going to happen if you get in your car and leave now.”
My grip tightened on the glass.
“What can I do to convince you?”
“I don’t know . . .”
He took the glass out of my hand, setting it aside. Then his hands curved over my knees, fingers touching me so softly, caressing. I watched it all with open suspicion, legs kept firmly shut. If only my skin didn’t like him so much. A mild allergy to him right now would be quite helpful. Nothing overly itchy or ugly, just enough to make me want to keep away from him. Give me time to think.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, thumbs slipping beneath the skirt of my dress to skim my thighs. “I was pretty rough with you last night. A lot rougher than I normally am.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.”
And those fingers beneath my skirt, they were sneaking steadily upward. It was strange, watching him put the moves on me. I’d seen him do some subtle stuff to girlfriends over the years. Like taking forever to put sunscreen on their backs. The occasional kiss on the neck or resting a hand on the leg while driving. Light foreplay. Tender stuff. Touches suitable for public spaces and prying eyes such as mine.
“Talk to me,” he said. “Terrifies me when you go quiet and I have no idea what’s going on inside your head.”
I sighed. “Pete.”
His hands stopped their adventuring beneath my skirt and one slipped behind my neck, drawing me down for a kiss on the forehead. “Please, stay.”
“Why?”
He stared into my eyes for so long it made me wonder what was going on inside of his head too.
“Why should I stay, Pete?”
“So we can figure out what this is. Because you’re important to me and I don’t want to lose you for another seven years.” His grip on my legs firmed. “That’s why, Adele.”
“It’s not just about sex?”
“Look . . . what we did last night? That was unprecedented,” he said. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more.”
“You were a virgin? Should have said something, I would have tried to be more gentle.”
“Ha-ha.”
While I did have another week of holidays, I didn’t know what to do. Pete wasn’t safe. Not in my current apparently fragile state. Sex shouldn’t be so complicated, and feelings had never been involved to this degree. It made things dangerous.
“Adele?”
“You know what you did hurt? My heart.”
He winced. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
At this, he seemed lost. Guess I’d never doubted his words before, not about something this important. He held my hands in his, expression thoughtful. “You said you were tired when you came in late last night and it’s only six in the morning now, so I don’t imagine you got much sleep.”
“Not much,” I agreed.
“No. Me neither.” His hands gripped my hips, setting me down in front of him. “How about if you come and have a nap with me. That way at least, if you do go later, you won’t be falling asleep at the wheel and have an accident.”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me look after you. Please.”
I gave a short nod.
He took my hand, leading me toward the hallway to his bedroom. I guess the man had a point. I was on the verge of the mightiest of yawns. Even my bones felt tired and hung over. Despite only having the one drink the night before at the wedding. Apparently, the Norse have a word for uneasiness after debauchery. Perhaps I had that. Even with no alcohol to speak of, I had definitely been debauched. Frankly, last night I’d been so debauched I’d be surprised if I had a single bauch left to speak of. The lingering ache between my legs said no.
Also, maybe I was emotionally wrung out after the crying jag. It made sense.
His bedroom was spacious, with a high ceiling and the walls painted a dark green. A king-size bed sat unmade, white sheets in disarray. Looked like I hadn’t been the only one tossing and turning. A painting of ibis birds and strangler figs hung on the wall. It was nice.
“Come on,” he said, leading me onto the mattress. He moved into the middle and lay down, pulling me down beside him. Close beside him. Pillows were carefully arranged, then his arms slid beneath my head and over my middle.
I was spooning with Pete in his bed. How unexpected.
“This okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He pressed his mouth to the bare skin of my shoulder. “Sleep, Adele. We’ll sort it out later.”
I’d like to say I couldn’t settle, that having him holding me just felt wrong. But, of course, it didn’t. Even with daylight streaming in the open French doors, I was asleep in no time.
I woke up alone, the bedroom door closed. The alarm clock on the bedside table said it was four in the afternoon. Bloody hell, I’d slept for ten whole hours. Must have been exhausted. Pete’s scent lingered on the sheets and it was tempting to just lie there a while longer. My dress was of course a crumpled ruin. The ladybugs nowhere near as cheerful as they had been. Not that it had helped my mood this morning. Some things were beyond being fixed, even by a dress with pockets.
I followed the scent of food out into the main room. Pete stood in the kitchen, washing off a wooden cutting board in the sink. Things were definitely happening in the oven. Good things.
“Smells like a Sunday roast,” I said.
“And it should be ready soon.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Yeah,” he said, wiping off his hands on a tea towel. “Only woke up a couple of hours ago. Figured you’d need to eat before you leave.”
I stopped.
“If you leave.”
“I’m hungry. Good thinking.”
He nodded. “Not that I want you to go—let me make that clear. But I also checked your car for oil and water, just in case. Easy to overheat in summer out here. Plus, you might want someone to look at the tires when you get back. The front ones are looking a little worn.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I will.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, not really sure what to do with my limbs. The way he watched me brought my nerves straight back to the surface. God, I could do with just chilling out. Relaxing. This situation and all of the uncertainties were doing my head in. When the man you’ve been in love with for pretty much forever finally starts paying attention to you in the way you want, apparently it can be both good and bad. I was only used to there being unresolved sexual tension on my part. But being on the receiving end of this do-me vibe . . . it was something else.
Flattering, distracting, overwhelming. I don’t know.
“What do you really want here, Pete?”
“I already told you.” He stepped closer, and then closer still. Until he was gently undoing the barrier of my crossed arms and holding my hands. “Stay a bit longer, Adele.”
I didn’t usually have this much trouble breathing.
“We’ll see what happens.”
“You know what’ll happen,” I said, voice most dubious. “We’ll wind up having sex again. You’ll freak out and maybe decide this time that trading bodily fluids with me was the worst mistake of your life. Then I’ll have to abuse you again and make a run for it. Honestly, it’s exhausting.”
“It does sound involved.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He tried to hold back a smile. Jerk. “What if we try putting the existential angst and you abusing me on hold, and just enjoy each other’s company?”
“You’re really hung up on the existential angst thing, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never been accused of having it before. I think it makes me sound deep, don’t you?”
He leaned in, lips soft against my cheek. And being this close to him made me a little dizzy. The feel of his breath on my face, his body right there. It got me high. Thinking in a straight line was next to impossible.
“You’re being very nice,” I said.
“I’m not allowed to be nice?”
“Depends. Is it the kind of nice where you’re hoping it leads to sex?”
He snorted. “It’s the kind of nice where I realize I’ve been an ass to you since you arrived and I need to make that up to you.”
I said nothing.
“You don’t have a very high opinion of me right now, do you?”
“I know how you operate, buddy. I know what you’re like with women.” I moved back a little, all the better to look him in the eye. Mostly, his expression still read amused, the curve of his mouth and all. But there just might have been a hint of worry in his gaze. Good. “You’re very, very nice to them. It’s a balancing act, the way you keep them physically close, but still keep them mentally and emotionally at arm’s length. Then slap the label ‘casual’ on the whole thing to keep things safe.”
His gaze narrowed. “That’s what I do, huh?”
“You know you do. If you can’t even be honest with me, then we have nothing to talk about.”
“Hang on.” He tightened his hold on my hands, bringing them to his mouth, then holding them against his chest. Face serious, he stared me down. “Okay, Adele, let’s say you’re right. That shit wouldn’t work with you anyway. Apparently you know me too damn well.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“That we take some time and get to know each other as adults.”
I thought it over. “My feelings for you aren’t casual. They never have been.”
“I know,” he said, voice subdued. “But I don’t know where this is going either.”
Fair enough. We might have known each other a long time, but adding sex to the relationship was new. No one could give guarantees at this stage. Not if they were being honest. But the fear and worry kept on churning inside of me.
It was a lot to think over. “Feed me and we’ll see.”
Our early dinner was served on the back deck in the shade. With the sun still high in the sky, sunglasses were a must. Roast pork with homemade apple sauce, potatoes, carrots, and bok choy. I ate with the single-minded determination of someone not only avoiding conversation but also starving.
“What did you think?” he asked when I took the last bite.
“You’ll make someone a fine wife one day,” I said, saluting him with my glass of iced water.
He smiled. “I resent you trying to label me with your gender norms.”
“Remember when you were living in the shed and all you had was that crappy old barbeque?” I said. “You’d still be grilling fish and pineapple kebabs and corn on the cob and . . . God, I don’t know what else. It was gourmet something every other night of the week.”
“I like good food.”
“And Dad wondered why I hardly ever ate at home.”
“Sorry, beautiful,” he said. “But your father can’t cook for shit.”
We both went quiet for a moment. A mixture of shock over his use of such an endearment combined with the mention of Dad, perhaps.
“He thought picking up a vegetarian pizza constituted me eating my vegetables,” I said. “Pretty sure it was just so I could say yes when Mom called to inquire as to my general well-being.”
“Might have worked if you hadn’t picked off half the toppings.”
I made a face. “Only the capsicum and mushrooms. That stuff is awful.”
“I remember trying to teach you to cook.”
“I’m not too bad,” I said. “Not as good as you, but I manage.”
“Or do you still eat breakfast cereal for dinner?” The side of his mouth curled up and I kind of wished I could see his eyes behind the sunglasses. “Tell the truth.”
I laughed. “Sometimes.”
He just shook his head.
“Who taught you?” I asked him. Not his father, I’d bet.
“Ah. Well . . .” He turned away, looking out at the view. “When Mom got diagnosed with cancer, she was sick for a long time, and we were pretty much living on frozen meals. Horrible shit. Tough meat and sloppy vegetables. Microwaved pies and sausage rolls was another of Dad’s favorites. They were atrocious. Chrissie and I pretty much lived on cheese slices and tomato sauce.”
“Together?”
“Not saying it wasn’t messy.” He grinned. “Anyway, next door to us lived this Italian nonna. She was always baking, cooking up these amazing things. So of course Chrissie and I start hanging around, begging for scraps like orphans. I don’t think there’s a nonna alive who can resist feeding children.”
“She sounds nice.”
“Yeah.”
“And she taught you?”
He lifted one shoulder. “When I kept hanging around, she put me to work. After Mom passed, Dad didn’t give a shit where we were as long as we stayed out of his way. Chrissie would just read or go to her friend’s place across the road. But I was hopeless at sitting still. Some days, I’d go off on my bike. But other times, I’d help out in her kitchen. Found that I liked it. Not that Dad would let me cook at home—too much hassle, I’d make a mess. Probably didn’t even know what I was doing, and I’d burn the house down. But I swore that when I was older, no way was I ever eating shit like that again.”
“Your dad’s a jerk.”
“That he is.”
A whipbird called from a nearby tree and we shared a smile. A little more of the old intimacy and easiness sneaking back in. If only it didn’t feel like home here with him. It would make resisting so much easier. And while my brain was pretty sure I should resist him, my vagina was all down with having lots more sex with the man. Lots and lots. Of course, the wisest course of action would be to protect my heart and get out of town. Go home to the city and my boring job. Not that I hadn’t missed my friends. Hazel in particular would be waiting for an update. But leaving the Sunshine Coast had always torn at my heartstrings. For weeks, I’d sit around all mopey and glum. It used to drive Mom nuts. Sydney had its perks, but here there was just more room to breathe, less traffic and chaos. And more Pete.
“You cooked, I’ll clean.” I rose, starting to gather the plates. Happily, he hadn’t asked me about leaving again. A good thing, since I still didn’t have an answer.
“We can both do it.”
All of the dishes and utensils were carried back into the kitchen. Pete found a container for the leftovers while I rinsed off the plates ready for the dishwasher. It was scarily close to domestic bliss. Like old times when we’d hang out together, not talking about anything of particularly great importance. Just enjoying each other’s company, as he’d said. Every now and then, we’d brush against each other. About what you’d expect working in a confined space. Yet those touches seemed loaded. A little thrilling and a lot important, somehow.
“There’s some ice cream if you’d like,” he said when we were finished. “I think I’ve got burnt fig or honey and almond.”
“Sounds fancy. But I’m full.”
“Well, you want to watch some TV for a while or go for a swim? What do you feel like?” He stood all casual like, thick arms crossed over his chest. “I mean, traffic would probably still be bad on the highway now. Everyone heading home from the beach after the weekend. You might as well wait a little longer.”
“I guess so.”
His brow furrowed and he scratched at his cheek. “Of course, then there’s driving at night . . .”
“What wrong with driving at night?”
“It’s just, you know, if anything happens and you’re alone out there in the dark somewhere.”
“I do have a phone.”
“Right. Sure. But are you going down the coastal road or inland?”
“Inland,” I said.
He winced. “Some of those country areas. Who knows if you’d even get service?”
I gave him a look most dubious.
“It’s your decision, of course.”
“Thanks,” I said drily.
“I just want you to be safe.”
“And naked?”
“What? No, no, no.” He shook his head. “I didn’t say that, did I?”
I tipped my chin in doubt.
“It’s the truth. Any thoughts of nakedness are owed to your dirty mind, Adele. Not mine,” he said. “I’m just standing here, respectfully being concerned for your welfare while you’re fully clothed, because that’s the kind of man I am.”
“It is, huh?”
I wandered out of the kitchen, trying to think things through. While being thoroughly distracted by the way he was watching me, walking behind me. He hung back, but he followed. It was like there was a connection stretching between us, keeping us linked. Neither one of us wanted to break it. Yet there my suitcase sat, waiting by the door. Still waiting.
Shit. Dammit. I couldn’t do it. The thought of leaving just seemed cowardly and wrong. Truth was, I wanted the sex and the complications and everything. Who was I kidding? I wanted it all with him. Always had, probably always would.
“Alright, I’ll stay,” I said. “Just for another day or two, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Only because you’re being so pathetic and needy. It’s sad, really.”
“Whatever works.” He shrugged. “I’m willing to squeeze out a tear for a few days extra.”
“Hmm. Let’s just take it slow.”
His easy smile spread heat through me from top to toe. I was so screwed.