Well, what had that remote smile of hers meant? That she was finished with him? Well, no. Not happening until he was ready. So he was going to charm her into not finishing with him—while simultaneously stepping away from the too-deep chasm that was yawning at his feet.
Simple, right?
Yeah, simple. Sure.
Oh, for the love of God, man up!
He let his finger land on the buzzer. Waited, drumming his fingers on the wall.
By God, she’d better be at home after spinning him that line about work. She’d better not be out somewhere, with someone, doing something. Or he would—Would—Well, he’d…explode! Or…or something.
‘Hello?’ Her voice, husky and gorgeous—and for a moment his breath caught.
Get a grip. Get a damned grip!
‘It’s me,’ he said, and winced—because that aggressive tone of voice was not charming.
Long pause. Followed by an arctic, ‘Yes?’
‘Can I come up?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to see you.’
‘You saw me last night. That will have to tide you over until I can spare the time.’
Pause. Pages being riffled. What the hell—? Was she checking her schedule?
‘Probably Tuesday.’
Yes, she’d been checking her schedule! Scott felt his temper start to simmer.
‘No,’ he said, and there was absolutely nothing charming about that snapped-out word.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Past arctic and heading towards ice age.
‘Let me come up and explain.’
‘The contract doesn’t require explanation.’
The freaking contract. They didn’t need a contract to have sex. He hadn’t asked for a damned contract, had he? She’d forced it on him.
‘All right, I won’t explain,’ he said through clenched teeth. He made a mammoth effort to rein in his slipping temper. Charm. Charm, charm, charm. ‘So…since I’m obviously not coming up, why don’t you come down and keep me company while I have a cup of coffee at the cafe across at the marina? Ten minutes and you can get back to work.’
Long, long moment. He heard the breath she sucked in. Waited for the breath out—waited, waited…
And then the breath whooshed out and she said, albeit grudgingly, ‘All right.’
Not exactly effusive, but Scott closed his eyes in relief.
Five minutes later she was there, wearing a maxi-dress in sky-blue and a pair of flat silver sandals, her hair swinging in a ponytail. Delectable Sunday-morning fare.
His temper disappeared as if by magic just at the sight of her. He wanted to kiss her so badly he automatically leaned in—but Kate flinched backwards.
‘No kissing, remember?’ she said.
‘Sorry, Kate,’ he said, trying to look chastened but not quite managing it. He was just so happy to see her. God, what was happening to him?
They walked in silence to the cafe. Ordered coffee at the counter. A long black for him; a macchiato for Kate. Took their cups to one of the tables closest to the jetty.
‘About last night…’ Scott said, diving in.
Kate stirred sugar into her coffee. ‘I thought you weren’t going to explain.’
He ignored that. ‘It just got a little…a little…heavy. Talking about children—’
‘A subject you raised.’
‘And about… Well, about all that stuff.’ Shaky little laugh. ‘Love.’ Grimace. ‘And…and stuff. I didn’t sign up for deep and meaningful. Neither of us did. So I’m not sure how all that came spewing out.’
‘It happens,’ Kate said. ‘It’s normal.’
‘No, it’s not. Not for me. It’s not what we—’
‘Signed up for,’ she cut in dryly. ‘Got it. No need to labour the point. And no need to explain, remember?’
‘Anyway, I thought we needed a breather—that’s all,’ he mumbled, and hurriedly picked up his coffee, took a sip, burned his tongue and refused to show it. Because people in control didn’t burn their tongues on coffee. And he was. In control. Definitely.
‘And yet here you are, the very next morning. That’s a breather, is it?’
‘I just—I wanted to—’
‘Explain. Yep. Got it.’
Kate looked at him—the epitome of inscrutability. She drew in a breath. Seemed on the verge of speaking. But then something behind him caught her attention and her eyes widened.
‘Isn’t that…? Yes, surely…’
But it was a murmur directed at herself, not him.
She refocused on Scott. ‘That’s Brodie, isn’t it? He really is as gorgeous as his photo.’
BRODIE.
Gorgeous Brodie.
Instinctively Scott hated that combination of words coming out of Kate’s mouth.
But then the reality of her words hit.
Brodie. Here.
They were about to come face to face. If he could make himself turn around.
But for that first moment he was robbed of the ability to breathe, let alone move, as eight years of feelings rushed at him.
That one hot moment. The sense of betrayal. The bitterness. Shame at what he’d done. Regret at what he’d lost. And…loneliness. A confusing, potent, noxious mix he just couldn’t seem to control the way he’d since learned to control everything else.
Kate was watching him. Any minute now she’d ask him what was wrong. It was a wake-up call to get it together—because he did not want to be asked.
He took a breath, pushed the feelings away, forced himself to turn.
Recognition in a split second. Brodie’s walk. Unmistakable. A loose-limbed, relaxed amble. He was as beach-blond as he’d always been. Tanned. Wearing sunglasses. Boat shoes, jeans, pale blue shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows. And a tattoo—an anchor—on the underside of one forearm.
Scott remembered that tattoo. He’d been impressed by it. And a little bit jealous. Because Knights didn’t get tattoos—and yet when he’d seen Brodie’s he’d wanted to be the kind of guy who did. Not that he couldn’t have had one—then or now. But deep down he’d always known it wasn’t his thing. It was the rebelliousness of a tattoo that had appealed to him, not the reality of ink in his skin. Everything about breezy, laidback Brodie had appealed to Scott—who was the exact opposite.
He knew the instant Brodie recognised him from the slight hitch in his stride. The sunglasses were whipped off, the eyes widened, a smile started…then stopped. Replaced by wariness. Then the sunglasses were shoved into the pocket of his shirt—Brodie was not the kind of guy to hide behind sunglasses or anything else—and Brodie walked on, heading straight for them. He stopped at their table.
‘Scott,’ he said.
‘Brodie.’