Page 33 of Sexy as Sin
“You’re in Oz now. Everybody wears shorts. I’ll bring you some tomorrow. Also some thongs.” She was taking off his shoes and socks and adding the socks to the laundry bag. He should object, but he couldn’t manage it. He also couldn’t exactly take off his shoes at the moment, so there you were.
He hoped she didn’t mean underwear. She’d look fantastic in a thong. He wasn’t too keen on wearing one himself, though. Double standard much? Yeah. Too bad.
“Wait,” she said. “Not thongs. Hard to crutch in a thong.” Oh. Shoes. Flip-flops. That was a relief. “Something else, then. Something easy to get on, but that will stay on your feet if you want to go outside.”
He closed his eyes. Too much effort to keep them open. Five minutes, he promised himself, and the pills would start to work. Just five minutes. He knew it would be fifteen. He told himself five anyway.
She said, “I’m going to start bringing in groceries, but I’m checking on you, and if you’re not better, I don’t care what you say, I’m ringing somebody.” She left the room, and he thought dimly,You could’ve kissed me first. Like my mermaid,then focused on breathing out the pain. He heard the front door opening and closing again and again, the sound of water running somewhere, and a faint melodic sound like music was playing, or like she was singing. Sounded good. He breathed some more and might have fallen asleep again, because when he finally did his log roll and got himself up to sitting, there was a glass of something on his end table with a bent straw sticking out. It was orange. He took a sip. Smoothie. Mango and orange juice and ice, or something like that. Nice. Non-chalky. Didn’t make him sick.
She was such a good cook.
He was drinking it when she came to the door. “Good,” she said. “Are you better?”
“Yeah. You look... very pretty. As usual.” His voice sounded only a little rusty now, and he tried not to be embarrassed about earlier and couldn’t quite manage it. He needed a suit. A hairbrush. A haircut.Normally, he had one every three weeks, because his hair was too thick and grew too fast. He was overdue, he was messy and imperfect in all sorts of ways, and he wasn’t liking it at all.
“I didn’t dress up,” she seemed to need to point out. “Didn’t want to flash the Woolie’s carpark, is why, getting your groceries into the van. No skirts. No nearly inappropriate necklines. No misbehaving straps. I also didn’t wear makeup.”
He smiled. He couldn’t help it. “You still look pretty. Sorry if I’m not supposed to think so.”
Her face changed, and he knew she was thinking about the other night, but all she said was, “Anyway, I need to know whether you can eat a hearty veggie soup with a bit of spice in, or whether you’d like something simpler. Chicken and noodles in broth, maybe.”
“I can probably eat it. The pill’s working. Getting here was a little rough,” he tried to explain. “Too much activity, apparently. Never mind. It’s nice that you were worried.”
She smiled, finally. “Not nice for me, mate. I’m glad you’re alive, though. And by the way? This is a great house.”
“It is?”
She stared at him like he was stupid, which he definitely felt. “It’s a bloody paradise. Crikey, I’d like to be so rich that I didn’t even notice. Wait. I wouldn’t, not really. I was just thinking I wouldn’t.” She’d started laughing again, like her moods automatically reset to sunny. “There you are, then. That’s me. I wouldn’t, and I didn’t wear makeup or a dress, either, because I’m stubborn.”
“Yeah.” He gave her a smile that felt a lot less wobbly. “I like that, too. And that guy’s an idiot, for the record. You can do better.”
Her smile was the sun coming out. It was rainbows and unicorns. “Yeah?”
He smiled right back at her. “Yeah. And any man who doesn’t bring you flowers or want to come home to you is a fool.”
She stood there a minute, hesitating. He waited, and she didn’t come over and kiss him, so he put the whole thing into the “Keep Trying” file and said, “The truth is, I didn’t notice the house because I was under the weather. I’m good now, though. Let’s go take a look at it, and then I’ll watch you cook. I have a feeling it’ll be worthwhile. I could even learn something.” He grabbed the crutches, tried not to feel helpless when he saw her doing some definite hovering, and got himself up off the bed and balanced. It was easier barefoot, so that was good. It hurt, and that was life. “Did I mention I’m happy to see you? Looking good, and about to cook me dinner. I am a lucky man. Let’s go see my house.”
“You have a pool and spa tub out there,” she told him, talking because it was better than screeching, “Brett! Take care!” as he got up. She went on, knew she was babbling, and couldn’t help it. The relief when he’d finally turned his head...
He was too bloody nice a man to die, that was all. Anybody would think so. She said, “You could step right out of bed and go for a swim with a view. It’s as good as Rafe’s house, and I didn’t think that was possible. Maybe better, because—that view. You’ve got something special here. You’ve gotpeace.”
“That’s good,” he said, “although we won’t explore the swimming idea. I had a dream where we were underwater, and that’s close enough for me. Show me the rest.”
“You had a dream? About me?”
“When you were talking to me, I think. Saying my name.” He looked rattled for once, like he didn’t have dreams, or like he didn’t talk about dreams. That must be it, because everybody had dreams. She’d bet he also didn’t talk about fears, or grief, or loneliness, or anything else that was hidden down there. Any harsh, jagged feelings had been wrapped long ago in layer after layer of smoothness, like the pearl that an oyster created to cover an irritating grain of sand. She knew something about loneliness, but she couldn’t imagine never talking toanybodyabout the things that mattered. Who held him when he couldn’t go on anymore? Who told him it would be all right, that she had him in her arms and she always would?
He’s guarded as hell, and he’s about two hundred years old, soul-wise,Rafe had said. On the other hand, you could accumulate a lot of wisdom in two hundred years. He was rumpled again, too, which she liked, his thick, dark hair a bit mussed. She’d bet that never happened, either, and tried not to feel lucky. The poor bloke was in a bad way. It wasn’t his fault that the vulnerability made her want to kiss him more than ever.
By the time they got out to the verandah in front and were looking at the view, though, at trees and hillsides soft green in the mellow glow of the late-afternoon sun, he was lagging. She said, “I just realized that you don’t care. You’re hurting, and anyway—this isn’t special to you. It’s your life. I’m feeling like the country mouse. Let’s go in so you can sit down and rest.”
He headed indoors after her, moving well on the crutches despite his fatigue. That would be because his arms and shoulders were so strong. She shouldn’t be noticing that, but she was noticing anyway. He said, “It’s good to walk. I’m supposed to do as much as I can. Good to see things through other people’s eyes, too, see what they respond to.”
“Oh. It’s work.” Just like that, she was off-balance again.
He sighed. Faintly, but she felt awkward all the same. What did that mean? “No,” he said. “And that chair. Yeah. That’s my spot. I can get into it, I can hopefully get out of it, and I can put my feet up without feeling like an invalid.”
He was exhausted. He also wasn’t actually her dream man, however this felt to her susceptible heart. At the moment, he was her client. Why was that so hard to remember?
