Page 60 of Just Say Christmas
Her thoughts were too scattered.Pull yourself together.For once,nothingabout her life was “together.” Not her private life, anyway. Her public life was the same as always. Dull. Dutiful. Organized.
Her private life, though? That was a different story. Right now, for instance, she was wearing a pair of jeans—not even Alex-approved jeans, because those were in the washing basket, but the ones she’d had before, which were quite a bit lower in the waist and heaps more faded, because they hadn’t even been dark blue to start with, which was . . . possibly quite a few years ago.
She’dthoughthers looked sexier, especially because she was thin enough that skinnydarkjeans made her look like she was balancing on a couple of sticks. The low waist was sexier, wasn’t it? Why was it out of style, then? It was more comfortable too, as it didn’t cut into your waist, although that never seemed to matter to anyone but her. Alex, in any case, had held them up as if they were infested with parasites, on the day when he’d gone through her wardrobe, and said, “Oh, honey. No. Please. 2007 called, and it wants its jeans back.”
He’d thrown them in the bin, but when he’d left, she’d taken them out again. Which was lucky, because shehadn’tdone the washing, and it was the Horribly Wrong Jeans or her navy-blue skort. Which Alex had also binned, and which she’dalsofished out. Anyway, why? Skorts were practical, and extremely useful.
When she’d mentioned that, Alex had put his hand on his hip and said, as if he were auditioning forQueer Eye for the Clueless,“Let me try to explain this using words of one syllable.Shortskorts are fine. They’re brilliant, actually, especially if they have a bit of interest to them, and they aren’t trying to be anything else. You can wear them short, with your gorgeous legs, so why not? With a loose shirt tucked into them, a pretty print, and some floatiness to them—yes, please. Navy blue, though, and practically to your knee, like your mum donated them to the needy ten years ago because they were too unfashionable forher?No.”
“I don’t have a mum,” she’d said. “Buggered off when I was a baby.”
“Explains so much,” Alex had said. “And my dad doesn’t like me. Sorry, darling, the pity vote excuses none of your crimes against fashion.”
Never mind. She’d kept the skort. Alex had helped her buy a mini one, but she hadn’t had the nerve to wear it yet. She definitely wasn’t going to wear it while she played the cello. She’d shown that much thigh last night, and . . .
She’d kept the jeans too. She had a T-shirt bra on, and she even knew that she was meant to wear it under a T-shirt. Which she was doing.
Isaiah opened the door. He still didn’t smile, but he said, “Hi, Victoria. Come in, please,” as if he’d rehearsed it, and her heart went out to him. Saying the right things could be like learning to speak a foreign language. He eyed her cello case. “What’s that for?”
“I’m the surprise musical accompaniment. If it’s going to actually be a surprise, though, I need to set it down somewhere downstairs. Is there a place that will be out of the way?”
“Yes,” Isaiah said. “You can put it in here.” He opened a door Victoria hadn’t been behind before. The first room off the passage, its walls were painted a pale blue-gray. A light fixture shaped like a star hung from the ceiling, with sconces in the shape of crescent moons on two walls. A low bench with a cushioned top and drawers beneath it ran along the wall beneath the windows, with white shelving above the window seat rising to the ceiling on either end.
It was an absolutely serene spot, and absolutely empty. It might feel relaxing and not just empty, if not for the thumping and bumping coming from next door. They were moving the furniture back into place in Casey’s room, then.
Kane would be there. Also Luke and Nyree, but mostly . . . Kane.
“This will be perfect for the cello,” she said, opening the case and laying the instrument carefully on its side against one wall. “It’s a nice room.”
“It’s for a baby, I’m pretty sure,” Isaiah said. “Except they aren’t having a baby after all, so maybe not.”
“Oh.” She didn’t pursue that. No time, and anyway—not her business. “So. Nyree got done with the painting at last, eh. I hope we get to see your ceiling too. I’ve never seen the finished product. Is it brilliant? I’m guessing it may be.”
“Yeh.” Isaiah smiled, teeth and happiness and all, and she smiled back. “Nyree looked at photos to get the galaxies right. I didn’t think she would, because people aren’t usually scientific, but she did.”
“She’s good at looking,” Victoria said, following him up the stairs. “She’s good atseeing.Seeing’s a talent all its own. You may be good at seeing yourself, I’m guessing. Paying attention to what’s around you.”
“I’m not very good at paying attention to people,” Isaiah said. “But I’m good at paying attention to important things.”
Victoria wanted to give him—not a cuddle, no, but possibly a fist-bump. Something minimally intrusive, personal-space-wise, but acknowledging their mutual understanding. Of course, by the time she’d thought of it, they were in the huge glass-walled room that was the reason this house would never look like her own suburban rancher, and amidst a crowd.
A craggy man who was never going to be anybody but Finn Douglas—one of her adolescent fantasies come to life, possibly because he was a fair bit taller than she was, always looked oddly kind after the match despite the granite exterior, and wasn’t handsome—had a kid with a head of ginger curls in one enormous arm and was chatting to Rhys. Finn was strength and conditioning coach for the Blues now, she remembered, and he looked like—well, like an advertisement for strength and conditioning. The ginger-haired woman unpacking plastic containers from a carrier bag, who looked like she’d be having another baby in approximately a week, or possibly like the baby was supposed to have arrived a weekago,was probably his wife, since an equally redheaded little girl was standing on a stool and helping her, and there couldn’t be too many families in the world with that much ginger. Marko was in the kitchen too, looking hard, dark, and vaguely scary, taking bottles of lemonade from more bags and sticking them into the fridge like a superhero doing the day job. A group of kids was playing cards at the coffee table, and Tom, who’d been at the Waiheke house, was playing with them. Probably more comfortable there than with the coaches, she’d guess. A slightly older couple that Victoria didn’t know were in the lounge, but there was no Nyree, no Luke, and absolutely no Kane.
“Hi, Vic,” Marko said, turning from his lemonade duties. “How’re you going.”
“Oh, you know,” she said. “Good.” He still made her nervous. The doorbell rang again, and she said, “I’ll get it,” automatically, and then realized that it wasn’t her house.
She wasdefinitelynervous.
Never mind. Isaiah was running down the stairs like a thundering herd of elephants, his hand banging against the wall as he went. He came back up a minute later and told his father—whoops, uncle—“Uncle Hayden’s here, which is everybody except Mum.” Whoever Uncle Hayden was, Isaiah had come upstairs without him, which made Victoria smile a little despite the nerves. She so got Isaiah.
“I’ll go collect her,” Rhys said, and took off himself. He ran down the stairs too, but lightly, despite his size. Rugby players weren’t just amazing because they could run forwards. They were amazing because they could runbackwards.
They were amazing because they were so physical. The opposite of her life, and exactly what she needed in it. Which was going to get difficult, if she didn’t put a lid on howmuchshe needed it.
It wasn’t girly things. It went so much deeper than girly things, possibly to the essence of being female.
Casey came up behind Isaiah and said, “Except that Nyree isn’t up here yet. When is she coming? I’ve been waitingforever.”
