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“I was hoping you could give me some guidance on where the best place is to grab supplies and whatnot,” he said.
He hadn’t shaved for a few days and his whiskers glinted in the sunlight, a mixture of dark brown, bronze and gold.
She tore her gaze away and concentrated on his question. “There aren’t many shops to choose from in town. One of everything, pretty much, which takes out the guesswork.”
Her legs were starting to tremble. She needed a protein drink and a shower and half an hour on her bed. She took a step backward to signal that she didn’t intend to stand on the doorstep chitchatting with him, golden stubble or no golden stubble.
“Figured that would be the case. It’s been years since I was here. But it doesn’t look as though much has changed.”
Nausea rolled through her, tightening her stomach and making her mouth water. She gripped the door frame. Any second now she was going to either throw up or wind up on her ass, and she wasn’t about to do either in front of a complete stranger.
“Listen, I have to go.” It came out more tersely than she’d intended, but there wasn’t much she could do about that.
He looked a little shocked, but before he could say anything, a long, furry body rushed past her and onto the porch. For the first time she registered that he had a dog, too—a miniature schnauzer by the look of her. A miniature schnauzer that Mr. Smith was very pleased to meet, judging by all the tail-wagging and bottom-sniffing that was going on.
“Smitty. Inside,” she said sharply.
“It’s okay. He’s just saying hello, aren’t you, mate?” Oliver smiled indulgently and bent to scratch Mr. Smith between the shoulder blades.
Her stomach rolled again. She swallowed and leaned forward to grab her dog’s collar. He was so involved with his new friend that she had to use considerable strength to yank him into the house, the effort only increasing the nausea burning at the back of her throat.
“I don’t have time for this.”
She wasn’t sure who she was talking to—her new neighbor, her shaking body, her overeager dog. It didn’t matter. The most important
thing was that she was about to throw up.
One hand restraining Mr. Smith, she took a step backward and shut the door. In the split second before it cut her new neighbor from view, she saw his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline with surprise. One hand pressed to her mouth, she raced to the bathroom. She almost made it, the spasms hitting as she stepped over the threshold. Bracing her hands on her knees, her stomach released its contents all over the tiled floor.
For long moments afterward, she remained where she was, knees weak, a sour taste in her mouth. An emphatic reminder that her injured body had its limits. Finally she got down on her hands and knees and cleaned up.
At least she hadn’t thrown up on Mr. Sunshine. There was that small mercy to be grateful for. No doubt he thought she was incredibly rude all but slamming the door in his face.
She shrugged. There wasn’t much she could do about that, and it wasn’t the end of the world. They were hardly going to become bosom buddies, after all. She’d moved to the beach house for one reason and one reason only—to recover. She didn’t care who moved in next door or what he looked like or what he thought of her.
She only wanted her life back. And she would bloody well do her damnedest to get it.
* * *
OLIVER HAD TO THINK about it, but he was pretty sure that no one had ever slammed a door in his face before. Not even an angry ex-girlfriend. So much for easing the concerns of his elderly neighbor.
Not that there was anything elderly about Mackenzie Williams. If he had to guess, he’d say she was around the same age as him—thirty-nine—and judging by her firm, lean body, there was nothing remotely doddery about her. Nothing soft or warm or welcoming about her, either, from the cool, clear blue of her eyes and small, straight nose to her very short brown hair.
From the second she’d opened the door she’d wanted him gone—he’d felt the force of her will like a hand shoving him away. More fool him for trying to do the right thing in the first place. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, not where she was concerned.
He’d met a lot of women like Mackenzie over the years. Edie had gravitated to that type of woman—aspirational middle-class, with European luxury cars in their driveways, addresses in the “right” part of town, foreheads injected with Botox, fashionably skinny bodies and husbands who earned the big money in banking or law. The only wonder was that Mackenzie had taken time out from her no-doubt hectic social schedule to rusticate in the wilds of the Mornington Peninsula. Hardly the kind of place he’d expect to find an upwardly mobile, hard-edged woman like her.
He paused climbing the steps to his porch, aware that there was a considerable degree of vitriol in his thoughts. Perhaps a disproportionately large degree, given the length of his acquaintance with Mackenzie Williams. They had been talking for all of two minutes before she’d slammed the door, after all. Hardly enough time to drum up a high level of ire.
Before his life had turned out to be about as substantial as an empty cereal packet, he’d considered himself a pretty easygoing kind of guy. Not particularly prone to temper tantrums, reasonably long fuse, pretty quick with a laugh when something tickled his funny bone.
Lately, though... Lately he’d noticed a tendency to see only the darkness, the ugliness in people and the world. And his fuse had shortened considerably. Six months ago, Mackenzie’s little stunt would have made him laugh and worry about her blood pressure. Today, it filled him with the urge to do something childish like put Led Zeppelin on the stereo and turn up the volume to bleeding-eardrum level so that it rattled her windows.
He released his breath on an exasperated exhalation. It didn’t take a psychologists’ convention to work out where the impulse stemmed from and who his anger was really directed at.
Edie.
Except she was a thousand miles away and he hadn’t spoken to her for more than three months.
