Page 87 of Sexy as Sin
He said, his voice warm, deep, and possibly a little shaken, “This is where you make a joke and assert your independence. I’m waiting for it.”
Her sigh came from somewhere down deep. “Don’t have the energy. If you’re going to be that kind of lover, mate, I...” She wasn’t sure where to go with that.
“Yeah,” he said. “Ditto. And you have a beautiful body.” He rolled off her at last, but kept a hand on her bottom, rubbing over it. “This is one of my favorite parts, but it’s a tough contest. And you finally said the words. I’m just going to lie here and let that soak in.”
She should roll over herself, but it was easier to say it when he couldn’t see her. “Do you want to know why I did?”
A pause, then, “Yeah. I sure do.”
She didn’t want to say this from down here after all. She turned onto her side, put her hand on his chest, and said, “Because I realized, sometime before I started freezing to death, that Nia was wrong. You did let me be your hero. My aunt said something about people not changing, about being the same person they were at twenty, and I thought—No. He’s not. You told me about Claire, and about how much it hurt. You told me about your dad, and about how, both times, you felt you’d failed. And when you were lying under that rock with your leg broken, you wanted me to hold your hand.”
He groaned, and she laughed and said, “No worries. It worked. And I don’t hate that you’re my hero, either, every single time. Even when you’re on crutches, my boofhead boyfriend is trying to shove you around, and the hero bit doesn’t quite work. I love that you tried.”
“Except today.” She could tell the words had been pulled from him. “I walked away and left you.”
“Yeah, mate.” She had her hand on his side. “You did. That hurt too much.”
When he started to shake, she wasn’t prepared for it. She grabbed his shoulder and asked, “What?”
He tried to answer, she thought, but he couldn’t. His body was shaking too hard. All she could do was wrap her arms around him, so she did. It hurther,like the pain was going straight from his body into hers, but she knew it hurt him more. He had a forearm over his face. Hiding. She let him keep it there, and she held him and let him shake as long as he needed to. As long as it took.
Finally, he was still. Spent. And, maybe, at peace. He lowered his arm from his face at last and said, his voice quiet, choked, “I don’t know how I got you. But please stay.”
She thought,How can I?A conversation for another day. Instead, she said, “You know—I’m not the best. I’m not the most. Nia had the sharpest brain you’d ever seen, she’s a lawyer, and she’s a stunner. That’s not me. I have a temper, I’m impulsive, and I can get obsessed and forget to take care of life things. I’ll also never be rich, my maths skills are rubbish, and I don’t always want to talk things over. And that’s just off the top of my head.”
He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, so her head was on his shoulder. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, and her body jerked back despite herself. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe neither one of us has to be the best, or the most. I’ve figured that was the road my whole life, but maybe it isn’t what matters after all, not for this. Because one thing’s for damn sure. You’re my everything.”
Brett’s life was like being a ping-pong ball, Willow thought. How could he stand to live from place to place like this, with no center? In the Army or the Diplomatic Corps, you moved, but you always had ahome.He left clothes and toiletries in every house, he’d explained to her, so he didn’t always even travel with a suitcase, but the whole thing just seemed... odd.
Except, perhaps, thathewas the center. “Wherever you go,” her aunt Fiona liked to say, “there you are.” It was certainly true of Brett. However different the company, he was exactly the same bloke. Polite, interested, listening more than he talked. And all his attention right there.
Last night, they’d been trying to roll tortilla-like bread in messy fillings using only their right hands, laughing at how rubbish they were at it, in the unpretentious surroundings of the Abyssinian Kitchen. Willow’s taste buds had nearly exploded at the flavors of Ethiopian food, the chiles and spices, the simmered legumes and fermented-wheat flatbread. Brett hadn’t even minded when she’d spent a rapturous twenty minutes chatting with the owner, because how could she pass up a chance like that?
This afternoon, thanks to another private jet—and, yes, Brettdidown a fractional share in a company that provided a fleet of them, andalsoyes, he’d told her it was “more practical, because I don’t waste as much time in airports”—she was driving another Batmobile, a little more confidently this time, beside a river, and smelling something much less pleasant. Sweet and sickly, like an animal had died under your house, and you’d tried to counteract it with one of those too-strong plug-in air fresheners. The smell, Brett had informed her, of a pulp mill.
“You get used to it,” he said when she commented. “It’s worse today because there’s an inversion, where the air gets stuck over the valley. The smell’s worse in summer. It’s hot and dry, too. It looks much better in winter.”
It didn’t look all that fab to Willow even with the snow covering the hills, but then, she didn’t like low spots much. They made her feel trapped.
Brett hadn’t said anything since that, though. Surely that was odd, when you were in a fella’s hometown, about to meet his family. She hesitated, then went ahead and asked. “Are you being quiet because it’s your birthday, and you’re onemoreyear older than me? Or because you’re worried about me meeting your mum? Or... what?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Although old.” She could tell that had made him smile, though she didn’t dare look. The road had been scattered with bits of gravel, but it was still unnervingly slippery, and she kept getting an image of crashing through the guardrail and bang into a river that would be infinitely colder than the one in Brisbane, although probably containing fewer bull sharks.
Oh. Wait.She asked, “Was it this river, or someplace else, that your dad died?” Yes, she’d gone ahead and asked. How else would she know?
“This one,” he said. “A little farther down. It was a long time ago.”
Which didn’t mean that it wasn’t still a shock to see it, every time he came back. She’d bet he didn’t look when he drove by, and that he held his breath a little even going over a bridge. No point talking about it, though, since she got it. She followed his directions instead, and pulled up outside a medium-small dark-blue ranch-style house on a street of entirely similar houses.
While he got down from the car with the aid of his cane, she was pulling their bags from the back. He was so clearly biting his tongue to keep from saying, “Don’t do that. I’ll get them,” because he absolutely couldn’t, that she had to laugh inside. “Let me guess,” she said. “You told your mum she could live anywhere, and how about some gorgeous spot with a beach or a ski field or”—she waved a hand—“a palace, maybe. Monaco. London. Possibly Disneyland. Andshesaid, ‘Why would I want to move away from my mates?’ And thenyousaid, ‘Let me build you a better house here, then, up on the hill, that has everything you want,’ and she said the same thing. And it bothers you every time.”
He said, “Could be,” and that was all, because the door of the house had banged closed, and a woman was pulling on a down parka not too different from Willow’s and heading down the steps, with a big white dog behind her. Her hair was cut short and was grayer than Aunt Fiona’s, and she had more wrinkles, but the strong body wasn’t so different, and neither was the smile.
“Hey, baby,” she called. “Happy birthday.” The dog was wagging its furry tail and uttering a few joyful barks, and as the two of them got closer, his mum’s arms went out like it was an automatic reflex.
Willow could see the exact moment she saw the cane. Her arms went down again, and she asked, “What did you do to yourself? Can I hug?”
“You can hug.” For once, his face wasn’t wearing that mask, and Willow got a glimpse of the little boy he’d been. Serious and determined, surely, working hard at mastering whatever was in front of him, but she’d bet he’d been so sweet. “Just don’t knock me off my feet, I guess. Broke my leg, is what I did, but it was almost four weeks ago, it’s fastened together again, and I’m healing more every day. I didn’t tell you because you’d have worried, and there was nothing to worry about. This is Willow. My mom, Joan. The dog’s named King, and he’s friendly.” Since he was thumping the animal in question right now, and Willow was patting its flank, that was obvious.
