All They Need Page 8

  She pushed herself to her feet and he held out the glass of wine. She shook her head immediately. “I can’t.”

  “Somewhere else to be?”

  “Not exactly…”

  “Giving wine up for Lent?”

  She smiled slightly. “No.”

  “Then have a drink with me. It’s my first night in Summerlea and, while I don’t have anything against swilling a whole bottle of wine on my own, as a rule I prefer company.”

  She hesitated for a moment longer before taking the glass. “Thank you.”

  “Have a seat,” he said, waving toward the array of pillows and rolled-up bedding he’d fashioned into a couch of sorts. “I can offer you a pillow, or a rolled-up sleeping bag and sleeping pad. Nothing but the best.”

  She looked as though she wanted to say no again—no doubt she’d planned to simply stand there and gulp down her wine before making a bolt for the door—but after another one of those maddening hesitations she crossed to the fire and knelt to the right of the hearth, her wine in one hand. He’d set the chopping board on top of an old crate he’d found in the kitchen and he crouched there now and cut the brie into bite-size wedges.

  “You should know I have victuals as well as wine,” he said, sliding the chopping board toward her. “This is a quality establishment.”

  “I can’t eat your dinner.”

  “Trust me. There’s plenty. My eyes are bigger than my belly. Always have been.”

  He started peeling lids off deli containers until the peppers, olives and ham were arrayed in front of her. He added the bread, crackers and cashew nuts then reached for his wineglass. Holding it high, he offered a toast.

  “To Summerlea, and camping out, and finger food.” He leaned forward to clink his glass against hers.

  She frowned, but didn’t say anything. He waited until she’d taken a mouthful before nudging the cheese toward her.

  “Eat something. I dare you.”

  Her gaze shot to his face, startled, and he raised his eyebrows. After a few seconds she grabbed an olive, popped it into her mouth and bit down almost defiantly.

  He felt a ridiculous surge of triumph. She was staying. For now.

  He tried to think of something to say that would put her at ease. His gaze fell on the lanterns. “So did you do much camping when you were younger?”

  “Yes. Every summer, pretty much. It was the only way we could afford a family vacation.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Dad likes to fish, so we always had to be near water of some kind. Lake Eildon, Eden, Merimbula, Wilson’s Promontory.”

  “Did you like it?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “You know, mostly I did. At the time I thought I didn’t. But in hindsight, those holidays were some of the best times we ever had as a family.”

  “Did you sit around the campfire holding hands and singing ‘Kumbaya’?”

  “Why? Are you about to break into song?”

  He laughed. “Hardly.” He tore off a hunk of bread and passed it to her before tearing a second hunk for himself. “I always wanted to go camping when I was a kid but Mom hates sleeping rough. Which is pretty funny, given how much she loves gardening. She always says that if there’s no hot and cold running water, she’s not interested.”

  “Mostly, I agree with her. But I’m prepared to make an exception every now and then. There are some parts of the world you can’t see without roughing it.”

  She was starting to lose the tense, wary look around her eyes. Flynn settled against the rolled-up sleeping bag. The fire was really throwing out some heat now. Or maybe it was the wine warming his belly. Either way, he could feel the week’s worries slipping away.

  “Tell me, have you ever had to deal with a blackberry thicket?” he asked.

  “Yep. Got the scars to prove it, too.”

  “I’ve got a huge one on the western boundary. About five meters long by two meters thick.”

  She whistled. “Impressive.”

  “I know received wisdom is to poison them, but I’m not a fan of using chemicals in the garden if I can avoid it.”

  “You’re thinking of digging it out?”

  “I guess I am, since that’s the only alternative.”

  She grimaced. “Horrible job. I did it once. It’s not just a matter of cutting it back, you have to dig the roots out—and you have to dig deep, too. Anything you miss will sprout again in spring. Took me months to get on top of mine.”

  “Yeah, I’m anticipating a battle. I’m trying to work out whether I should tackle it first or prune the orchard.”

  “Blackberries, definitely. Those bad boys will take over if you let them go. I tell you what, I’ll drop my brush-cutter off for you tomorrow. That’ll break the back of it above ground for you, at the very least.”

  “That’d be great, thanks. But only if it won’t be leaving you high and dry.”

  She waved a hand to indicate she wasn’t fussed, then helped herself to some ham. She resettled with her legs stretched out to the side, her tumbler of wine within easy reach. The firelight struck auburn notes in her dark hair, and the heat had put a bloom in her cheeks. Of its own accord, his gaze slid below her neck to where her fuzzy blue sweater covered her full, round breasts.

  He dragged his gaze away. He hadn’t asked her in for a drink so he could stare at her breasts—even if they were very, very nice.

  “So, have you got any ideas for how you’re going to renovate the house yet?” she asked.

  “Not a single one.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “You’re such a gardener.”

  “Guilty as charged. I have a friend who’s an interior designer. I might let her loose on it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Won’t Hayley have something to say about that?”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised that she assumed he and Hayley were still a couple. After all, five weeks ago they’d arrived arm-in-arm to stay in one of Mel’s cottages together. But he was, and it took him a moment to formulate a reply.

  “Hayley and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” She took a big gulp of her wine, her swallow audible. Her free hand smoothed down her thigh before gripping her leg above her knee. Tightly, if her white knuckles were anything to go by.

  “It’s okay, Mel. I didn’t invite you in so I could jump your bones.” He’d meant it half as a joke, half as reassurance, but she only grew more tense.

  “I should go,” she said abruptly. She set her glass on the hearth and stood. She seemed impossibly tall viewed from his prone position, with her features limned by firelight and her curls a halo around her face and shoulders.

  “Okay,” he said, more than a little baffled by how quickly their conversation had shifted. He swallowed the last of his wine, then stood and led her to the door. The cold night air was a shock after the coziness of the living room.

  “Thanks for the drink,” she said as she moved past him to the porch.

  “Thanks for bringing the lanterns. And for being my first visitor.”

  She rolled a shoulder, brushing off his gratitude. “Have a good night.”

  She disappeared into the darkness. He stood in the doorway listening to her retreating footsteps. After a while there was nothing but silence, then he heard the faint, distant sound of a car starting. He shut the door and returned to the living room, where he threw more wood on the fire and poured himself another glass of wine. Then he stretched out, his head supported by the sleeping bag.

  He couldn’t work her out. Every time he saw her she seemed to be walking on eggshells—when she wasn’t backing away at a million miles an hour. He’d practically had to hold her at gunpoint to get her to accept a glass of wine.

  Yet she’d gone out of her way to bring him the lanterns tonight, and he bet if he arrived at her place at three in the morning, he’d find the key to Tea Cutter Cottage beneath her doormat.

  He thought about how she�
�d looked, standing above him a few minutes ago outlined by firelight, and acknowledged to himself—at last—that he found her attractive. Very attractive.

  He always had.

  And maybe he’d lied when he’d said he hadn’t invited her in to jump her bones.

  If he closed his eyes, he could still remember in vivid detail how she’d looked rising out of the fountain at the Hollands’ that night, her gown glued to every curve and hollow of her body. Over a year and a half had passed, but that moment was still etched in his memory as though it was yesterday.

  That didn’t mean he was going to do anything about it. No matter how sexy her tall, athletic body was. No matter how compelling he found her soft gray eyes and wide, mobile mouth.

  Someone had hurt Mel Porter. Quite badly, if he was any judge. She was vulnerable. Maybe even a little broken.

  He was the very last thing she needed in her life. As he’d proven so thoroughly with Hayley, he was not a good bet in the romance department right now. He had too much on his plate, too much uncertainty in his world, and he didn’t want to set up expectations that he wasn’t going to fulfill again. At best, he was good for some no-strings sex and some laughs, but Mel was not fling material. Not by a long shot.

  He took a long swallow of wine and told himself it was a good thing she’d gone home.

  By the time he’d finished his third glass, he had almost convinced himself it was true, too.

  MEL CHASTISED HERSELF the whole drive home. She’d known taking the lanterns to Flynn’s place had been a bad idea. From the moment she’d spotted them in her garden shed this afternoon she’d been at war with herself, going back and forth over whether she should drop by Summerlea and offer them to Flynn or not.

  She’d been worried the gesture would come across as sucky or ingratiating, as though she was desperate for Flynn to like her. In the end she’d convinced herself that if she dropped them off and didn’t try to parlay the brief contact into anything further, there was no way he could misconstrue her intentions as anything other than what they were—a friendly, neighborly gesture.

  Then he’d asked her to show him how to light the lanterns, and the next thing she’d known she had a glass of wine in one hand and a piece of brie in the other.

  Not what she’d anticipated, although she’d be lying if she pretended that she hadn’t enjoyed their conversation—until the moment he’d revealed he and Hayley had broken up.

  A hot flush of embarrassment washed over Mel as she remembered the way she’d bolted for the door after he’d made that crack about jumping her bones. With the benefit of hindsight it was clear to her that he’d seen her tension and had been trying to put her at ease—and she’d responded by behaving like a scared rabbit.

  Very sophisticated and adult. God, she was an idiot. She should have listened to her first instincts and simply stayed away from Summerlea and Flynn Randall.

  She threw her keys onto the kitchen counter as she entered the house and crossed to the sink. Pouring herself a glass of water, she drank deeply. The empty glass thunked loudly against the counter as she set it down with too much force. She stared out the window past the dim reflection of her own features.

  The world outside was dark and still. In contrast, she was buzzing with adrenaline, her head filled with mixed-up thoughts and half-acknowledged emotions.

  She’d read the self-help books. She knew this was all standard fare for a woman recovering from psychological abuse. Knew, too, that it would take years for her to regain her confidence fully. If she ever did. It was a day-by-day battle to recover herself. Hour by hour.

  Weariness washed over her. She was so sick of feeling anxious and uncertain. So sick of always doubting herself and second-guessing her every move.

  Once upon a time, she’d been fearless. She’d been brave and confident and bold. She’d set off for London with two pairs of jeans, a pair of boots, half a dozen T-shirts and less than a thousand dollars in her bank account. She’d thrown herself into the adventure of travel—picked fruit, pulled beers, cleaned houses, packed boxes—done whatever it took to make enough money to live and move onto the next new place. She’d made great friends, had amazing experiences. Then she’d met Owen and fallen in love. The ultimate adventure. Or so she’d thought.

  She’d come home and become Mrs. Melanie Hunter, and bit by bit, Mel Porter had slowly ceased to be, thanks to a concerted campaign by her husband to try to turn her into something other than what she was.

  I want her back. I want to be that brave and confident again. I want to laugh without looking over my shoulder to see who is judging me. I want to just be.

  She’d been trying. She’d been silencing the voice in her head whenever it started in on her—the voice that sometimes sounded like Owen, and sometimes like his mother. Mel had been doing her best to reconnect with her family and her old friends. She’d even been making a point of doing something impulsive every now and then, the way she used to before second-guessing herself had become a way of life.

  She had no idea if any of it was making a difference, but she didn’t know what else to do, either.

  Her gaze shifted, focusing on the ghostlike reflection in the window instead of the yard outside. The woman staring back at her looked so sad and lost that she felt an instinctive surge of compassion for her.

  You’ll get there. Don’t worry. You’ll muddle your way through.

  Turning away, she flicked off the light and walked to her bedroom. The familiar bedtime routine of washing her face and brushing her teeth was infinitely soothing, a form of behavioral valium, and she climbed into bed and pulled the quilt high around her shoulders.

  Rather than give her whirling thoughts more oxygen, she very deliberately called up an image of her orchard-to-be.

  Her brow furrowed with concentration, she began to plan her design. After a few minutes, her brow smoothed out.

  Not long after that, she slipped into the forgetfulness and comfort of sleep.

  THE FIRST THING Mel remembered the next morning was that she’d promised her brush-cutter to Flynn so he could tackle his blackberries.

  She groaned, covering her face with her hands.

  Everything in her rebelled at the thought of facing him again after her undignified retreat last night. There was no way he didn’t know why she’d left—she might as well have hung a sign over her head with the words I’m sexually aware of you glowing in hot pink neon, the way she’d scrambled for the exit the moment he’d mentioned he was single.

  He probably doesn’t expect to see you, anyway. He probably thinks you made an off-the-cuff offer and won’t be surprised if you don’t follow through.

  She seized on the idea the moment it registered. People made offers all the time that they didn’t follow through on. Come over for dinner sometime, we’ll have to catch up, blah, blah. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she simply…forgot to take her brush-cutter over to Summerlea.

  Except, of course, that it would make her a big old yellow-bellied scaredy-cat. A cowardly custard who made excuses for herself instead of facing up to the world. Last night, she’d stood at her kitchen sink and grieved for the bold, adventurous, confident woman she’d once been. The only way she was going to get her back was to start challenging herself, pushing herself to move past all the little safety mechanisms she’d built into her life to protect herself and please her ex-husband.

  She threw off the sheets and rolled out of bed. Then she showered and breakfasted and went out to collect the brush-cutter from the shed. She checked the oil, filled it with fuel and switched the bump-feed line head for the brush-cutting blade. Then she put all the necessary accessories together in a recyclable bag and loaded it into her car. She was about to head over to Summerlea when both sets of her guests appeared to hand in their keys and extend their thanks for a relaxing stay. She directed them to local cafés with reputations for good breakfasts and handed out winery trail maps and a guide to the Tyabb antiques market in case they wanted to see
a little more of the area before heading home. Then she girded her loins and drove over to Summerlea.

  She collected the brush-cutter and accessories and did battle with the rusty gate latch before marching up the path. Her boots sounded very heavy and loud on the porch as she crossed to the front door.

  She knocked, the sound echoing inside the house. Flynn didn’t answer immediately and she rested the brush-cutter on the porch and knocked again. When nothing but silence greeted her, she walked around the house to double-check that his car was still there. It was.

  He was obviously in the garden somewhere, even though it was still early. She could leave the equipment on the porch for him to find later. It was the perfect win-win—she would have fulfilled her obligation without having to look him in the eyes after last night’s cut and run.

  Sure, why not do that, you big old wuss? Then you could swing by the supermarket on the way home and grab enough canned food and bottled water so that you don’t have to leave the house for the next six months.

  She sighed. This being-brave, reclaiming-her-old-self business was hard work. Hoisting the cutter over her shoulder, she headed into the garden.

  He’d mentioned the blackberry thicket was on the western boundary, so she headed there first. She walked along the sweep of lawn and onto a meandering forest path. She heard Flynn before she saw him, a colorful string of swear words floating to her on the breeze.

  She found him in a small clearing that was dominated by a huge, bristling wall of blackberry bushes. The scattering of cut canes at his feet suggested he’d already launched his assault, but for the moment he was standing with his head bowed, a pair of hedge shears and thick gardening gloves at his feet as he examined a scratch on the back of his bare hand.

  She took a deep breath. “Hi.”

  His head snapped around, the frown sliding from his face when he saw her. “Hey.”

  Even though her toes were curled inside her boots with self-consciousness, it was impossible not to feel warmed by the welcome in his eyes.