Nothing to do with Grady, then? She certainly hoped not. Because even if she fell head over heels in love with him, what were the chances they could make it work? She carried another man’s baby.
Backing the four-wheel drive round to face down the drive, she asked her passenger, ‘Are you really putting your house on the market?’
Grady stretched his legs as far as they’d go under the console—not far at all. ‘You’ve avoided the dinner question.’
And he’d avoided the house question. ‘I should be making you dinner as a thank-you for taking those cases to the yard. But I’m guessing sharing a pot of yoghurt and a banana wouldn’t cut it for you.’ She eased on down to the road.
‘We didn’t used to thank each other for every little thing we did for the other.’
‘We knew where we stood with each other back then.’ Why had she said that? Brought the elephant into the car? ‘Forget I said that.’
‘I will, on one condition. That you tell me whenever there’s a stack of boxes to be loaded onto the ute for delivery. They weigh a lot for someone who’s carrying a baby.’ Grady’s tone was still light and friendly but steel backed it.
‘Dad’s home tonight. He’ll be doing the orchard jobs until his next trip.’ Don’t ask why Mum can’t do it. I’m not ready to talk about that yet.
Thankfully he changed tack. Read her mind? Nah, it was a minefield in there and he looked relatively unscathed. ‘Do you usually eat yoghurt every meal? I saw you scoffing some before you started work. I’d have thought you’d be into the fresh vegetables and salads, all the healthy stuff.’
‘Anyone point out that it’s winter and salad ingredients are hard to come by? When I do find them they’re tasteless.’
‘So carbonara it is.’ So sure of himself. So—so friendly and ordinary. Ordinary in a ‘we used to be lovers and now don’t know what we are’ sort of way.
‘How can I turn down such an eloquent invitation?’ Passing her cottage, she continued towards Pohara Beach and Grady’s place, every metre of the way wondering if she’d just made a monumental blunder.
You’re only going to eat a meal with the man. Not jump his bones.
Her vehicle jerked to the right. Grady reached over to grip the steering-wheel and straighten their direction. ‘Sash?’ There he went, one little word all full of heat, care and—sex.
Panic flared hard and fast. Her lungs worked overtime. ‘I think I’ll give the pasta a miss.’ Coward. A total fraidy-cat.
‘Your call.’
No pressure, then. Cool. He’d probably already decided he’d made a mistake by inviting her to share his meal. He had more sense than her at the moment. But she had babymones brain, remember? That was the best excuse for just about every darned mistake she made. Excuse? She needed an excuse to get out of spending an hour in Grady’s house with him? Wouldn’t it be better that she went and showed how little his return affected her? Show that the past was well and truly the past, that she didn’t care enough to get all in a twitter whenever he was near?
Then Grady added, ‘What does Flipper think about yoghurt for dinner when she could be having carbonara?’
Big pressure. ‘Low blow, O’Neil.’ But the panic had receded, replaced with soft warmth.
‘Yep.’
Did he have to sound so smug? That alone should have her kicking him out of the vehicle and heading for home. She turned into his drive and stopped, looked around at the familiar and yet different yard. The lid snapped off the memory box. She shoved it back down tight. ‘Looks like whoever lived here last didn’t know much about lawnmowers.’
‘Or hammering boards back on the fence. Or unblocking drains. Or cleaning the oven.’
‘Got your work cut out, then.’ Curiosity rose above the need to drop Grady and go. ‘Is there a lot of damage around the place?’
Grady pushed his door wide. ‘Mostly superficial but time-consuming. The family who rented it for ten years only came for holidays. Guess they didn’t want to waste time doing any work around the place.’ When he stood up she could no longer see his head or half his chest. Though those well-defined thighs were filling her vision and tickling up her senses a treat, sending her stomach into another riot—this time with desire. Then she heard him ask very casually, ‘Come inside and I’ll show you what I’ve got planned for the place.’
‘As long as you remember my name is Sasha.’
CHAPTER FIVE
GRADY INTERNALISED HIS GRIN. Sash was rattled. That had to be good. If she didn’t care two dots about him and them then she wouldn’t give a rat’s backside what he called her. But he’d hold back on overusing the Sash word, would endeavour to call her by her full name most of the time. Because first of all he needed to know her situation.
If she was head over heels in love with that baby’s father then he would be out of the bay and on his way back to Auckland quicker than it took for the paint to dry on these walls. He might want her back in his arms but he’d never break up her relationship for his own needs. But if those often sad eyes were anything to go by, he doubted Sasha was in love. Unless it was unrequited love. His heart turned over for her. For him.
She’d followed him inside and now stood in the open-plan living/dining/kitchen space, looking around as if searching for something.
He went for casual. ‘I’ll put a pot of water on to boil for the spaghetti before anything else.’
She didn’t comment, merely walked across to the long wooden table and ran her hand over the now badly worn finish. If he’d been staying he’d have sanded it back to the wood and revarnished it. Sasha’s look was wistful, snagging him in places he didn’t want to be snagged. He could see the memories in her eyes, and felt his throat clogging as images he’d refused to think about over the last few days came roaring to the fore. Dad was in most of them.
‘He loved it here, didn’t he?’ She knew he’d get who she was talking about.
‘His favourite place to be. For weeks before Christmas he’d be packing his gear in readiness for coming over the hill. Then he’d have to unpack because he’d need something. For Dad summer was Takaka. Was this house. Was the beach at the end of the lawn. His boat, the fishing, scalloping, barbecues.’
And I’m selling it.
I shouldn’t have invited Sash in. I’ve mostly managed to avoid this since I arrived.
Yet two minutes inside and Sash went for the jugular without even trying. This house was full of wonderful memories of his family that even after all this time he struggled with looking through. Like photos in an album, those memories now flipped over before his eyes. Dad grinning as he held up a nine-kilo snapper. Dad smirking as he tipped his scallop haul out on the lawn. Dad cuddling his daughters in their wet swimsuits. Sash in her bright yellow bikini helping Dad shuck those scallops. Sash backing the big boat into the water.
‘The water’s boiling.’ Sash leaned her butt against the table and crossed her ankles.
Concentrate. He blinked, swallowed, turned away from the understanding and sympathy in those heart-stopping eyes. Banged the pan on an element to cook the bacon; added the spaghetti to the water. Concentrated on cooking. Ignored the old grief threatening to engulf him.
‘Are these the colours you’ve chosen for the repaint?’
Sasha had moved away from the table and now waved some colour swatches in the air.
‘I’m going for neutral: Spanish White and Whipped Cream. Should appeal to more punters than if I let my inner being out.’ His lungs squeezed out the air they were holding. Sasha had become more beautiful than ever. Her pregnancy made her face glow even while exhaustion dragged her down. Her body was curvier than before, and he itched to hold her, cup her butt in his hands, feel her breasts pressed against his chest.
A soft chuckle brought him to his senses, made him force aside those fanciful pictures as she said, ‘I can’t imagine painting this room in your favourite rugby team’s colours would appeal to many.’
Sasha was grinning at him. And that brought his libido up to speed. Stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Set his nerve endings to tingling. Would it be rude to demand she leave now before he followed through on the need rushing through his body? Knowing he couldn’t touch her didn’t stop his body reacting in the only way it had ever known.
‘Who is your favourite team at the moment, by the way?’ she asked in a voice that sounded calm and unaffected. How could that be when he was burning up with need?
‘Still the red and blacks. I’ve followed them from afar.’ Another memory flipped over. The ceiling of this room filled with helium balloons, red and black for his team. His mates and their girlfriends hanging around, beers in hand, as the rugby game unfolded that one winter holiday he had ever had here. Their team had won and Dad had handed out more beers and laughed till he’d cried at the whopping score.
Chop, chop. Toss the bacon into the melted butter. So much had gone down during those shocking weeks after Dad had died. So much that he hadn’t been able to deal with. Things he’d cruised through by pretending he was handling them well. Making the biggest blunder of his life.
Hiss. Boiling water spilled over the side of the pot. He snatched the lid up, let the bubbling die down. Get a grip, man. Any moment now Sasha was going to charge out of here and call for the paddy wagon to take him away as he was a danger to himself.