Читать книгу Dreaming Of You - Margaret Way, Beth Kery - Страница 15
ОглавлениеTHE hunger in Jaz’s face as she stared out over the valley made Connor’s gut clench.
This was her home. She might not be ready to admit that to herself yet, but the truth was as clear to him as the nose on her face…and the fullness of her lips.
He tried to drag his mind from her lips, from thoughts of kissing her. Jaz had made her position clear—there would be no him and her again.
He didn’t know why that should make him scowl. It was what he wanted too.
No, he wanted to kiss her. He was honest enough to admit that much. But she was right. There was no future for them.
But now that she was back in Clara Falls, she shouldn’t have to leave in twelve months’ time. Not if she didn’t want to.
He thought back to Mac—the cheek kisser; Mac of the tattoo parlour. He rolled his shoulders. ‘You’re good with kids.’ Did she plan to have children of her own?
She turned back. He could tell she was trying to hold back a grin. ‘You sound surprised.’
‘Guess I’ve never really thought about it before.’ He paused. ‘You and Mac seem close.’
Her lips twisted. She all but cocked an eyebrow. ‘We are. He and his wife Bonnie are my best friends.’
He felt like a transparent fool. He rushed on before she could chide him for getting too personal. ‘What are your plans for when you return to your real life in the city?’
She blinked and he shrugged, suddenly and strangely self-conscious—like Mel in her attempts to make new friends. ‘You said that returning to run the bookshop was a temporary glitch.’
‘It is.’
She eased back on her hands, shifted so she no longer sat on her knees, so she could stretch the long length of her legs out in front of her. Without thinking, he reached out to swipe the leaves from her trouser legs.
She stiffened. He pulled his hand back with a muttered, ‘Sorry.’
‘Not a problem.’
Her voice came out all tight and strangled. Oh, yeah, there was a problem all right. The same problem there had always been between them— that heat. But it hadn’t solved things between them eight years ago and it wouldn’t solve anything now.
He just had to remember not to touch her.
‘Your plans?’ he prompted when she didn’t unstiffen.
‘Oh, yes.’ She relaxed. She waved to Melly on the slippery dip. She didn’t look at him; she stared out at the view—it was a spectacular view. He didn’t know if her nonchalance was feigned or not, but it helped ease the tenseness inside him a little— enough for him to catch his breath.
He made himself stare out at the view too. It was spectacular.
Not as spectacular—
Don’t go there.
‘I mean to open an art gallery.’
He stared at her. Every muscle in his body tensed up again. ‘An art gallery?’ An ache stretched through him. He ignored it. ‘But don’t you run a tattoo parlour?’
‘And a bookshop,’ she reminded him.
She smiled. Not at him but at something she saw in the middle distance. ‘Mac and I financed the tattoo parlour together, but Mac is the one in charge of its day-today running. I’m more of a…guest artist.’
The thought made him smile.
‘I’m pretty much a silent partner these days.’
‘Perhaps that’s what you need at the bookshop— a partner?’
She swung around. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Then, ‘No.’ She gave a decisive shake of her head. ‘The bookshop is all I have left of my mother.’
‘And you don’t want to share?’
Her eyes became hooded. ‘It’s my responsibility, that’s all.’ She turned back to the view.
‘So the art gallery, that would be your real baby?’
She lifted one shoulder. ‘I guess.’
‘Where are planning to set it up?’
‘I’d only just started looking for premises when Mum—’
She broke off. His heart burned in sympathy.
‘I found wonderful premises at Bondi Beach.’
Despite the brightness of her voice, her pain slid in beneath his skin like a splinter of polished hardwood. He wanted to reach for her, only he knew she wouldn’t accept his comfort.
He clenched his hands. ‘Bondi?’ He tried to match her brightness.
‘Yes, but I’m afraid the rent went well beyond my budget.’
‘I bet.’ It suddenly occurred to him that the rents in the Blue Mountains weren’t anywhere near as exorbitant as those in the city.
‘An art gallery…’ He couldn’t finish the sentence. All the brightness had drained from his voice. He could see her running this hypothetical gallery, could almost taste her enthusiasm and drive. He could see her paintings hanging on the walls. He could—
‘Which brings me to another point.’ She turned. Her eyes burned in her face as she fixed him with a glare. ‘You!’
He stared back. Somewhere in the background he heard Melly’s laughter, registered that she was safe and happy at the moment. ‘Me?’ What had he done?
She dragged her duffel bag towards her. The bag she’d refused to leave in the car. The one she hadn’t allowed him to carry for her on their walk. She’d treated it as if it contained something precious. He’d thought it must hold her tattooing gear. He blinked when she slapped something down on his knees.
A sketch pad!
Bile rose up through him when she pushed a pencil into his hand. ‘Draw, Connor.’
Panic gripped him.
She opened the sketch pad. ‘Draw,’ she ordered again.
She reached over and shook his hand, the one that held the pencil, and he went cold all over.
‘No!’
He tried to rise, but she grabbed hold of his arm and wouldn’t let it go.
‘I don’t draw any more,’ he ground out, trying to beat back the darkness that threatened him.
‘Nonsense!’
‘For pity’s sake, Jaz, I—’
‘You’re scared.’
It was a taunt, a challenge. It made him grit his teeth together in frustration. His fingers around the pencil felt as fat and useless as sausages. ‘I gave it up,’ he ground out.
‘Then it’s time you took it back up again.’
Anger shot through him. ‘You want to see how bad I’ve become, is that what this is about?’ Did she want some kind of sick triumph over him?
Her eyes travelled across his face. Her chin lifted. ‘If that’s what it takes.’
Then her eyes became gentle and it was like a punch to the gut. ‘Please?’ she whispered.
All he could smell was the sweet scent of wattle.
He gripped the pencil so hard it should’ve snapped. If she wanted him to draw, then he’d draw. Maybe when she saw how ham-fisted he’d become she’d finally leave him in peace. ‘What do you want me to draw?’
‘That tree.’ She pointed.
Connor studied it for a moment—its scale, the dimensions. They settled automatically into his mind. That quick summing up, it was one of the things that made him such a good builder. But he didn’t deceive himself. He had no hope of being a halfway decent artist any more.
It didn’t mean he wanted Jaz forcing that evidence in front of him. She sat beside him, arms folded, and an air of expectation hung about her. He knew he could shake her off with ease and simply walk away, but such an action would betray the importance he placed on this simple act of drawing.
He dragged a hand down his face. Failure now meant the death of something good deep down inside him. If Jaz sensed how much it meant—and he had the distinct impression she knew exactly what it meant—he had no intention of revealing it by storming away from her. He’d face failure with grace.
Maybe, when this vain attempt was over, the restlessness that plagued him on bright, still days would disappear. His lips twisted. They said there was a silver lining in every cloud, didn’t they?
Just when he sensed Jaz’s impatience had become too much for her, he set pencil to paper.
And failed.
He couldn’t draw any more. The lines he made were too heavy, the sense of balance and perspective all wrong…no flow. He tried to tell himself he’d expected it, but darkness pressed against the backs of his eyes. Jaz peered across at what he’d done and he had to fight the urge to hunch over it and hide it from her sight.
She tore the page from the sketch pad, screwed it into a ball and set it on the ground beside her. Sourness filled his mouth. He’d tried to tell her.
‘Draw the playground.’
He gaped at her.
She shrugged. ‘Well…what are you waiting for?’ She waved to Melly again.
Was she being deliberately obtuse? He stared at the playground, with all its primary colours. The shriek of Melly’s laughter filled the air, and that ache pressed against him harder. In a former life he’d have painted that in such brilliant colours it would steal one’s breath.
But that was then.
He set pencil to paper again but his fingers refused to follow the dictates of his brain. He’d turned his back on art to become a carpenter. It only seemed right that his fingers had turned into blocks of wood. Nevertheless, he kept trying because he knew Jaz didn’t want to triumph over him. She wanted him to draw again—to know its joys, its freedoms once more…to bow to its demands and feel whole.
When she discovered he could no longer draw, she would mourn that loss as deeply as he did.
When he finally put the pencil down, she peeled the page from the sketch pad…and that drawing followed the same fate as its predecessor—screwed up and set down beside her.
‘Draw that rock with the clump of grass growing around it.’
He had to turn ninety degrees but it didn’t matter. A different position did not bring any latent talent to the fore.
She screwed that picture up too when he was finished with it. Frustration started to oust his sense of defeat. ‘Look, Jaz, I—’
‘Draw the skyway.’
It meant turning another ninety degrees. ‘What’s the point?’ he burst out. ‘I—’
She pushed him—physically. Anger balled in the pit of his stomach.
‘Stop your whining,’ she snapped.
His hands clenched. ‘You push me again…’
‘And you’ll what?’ she taunted.
He flung the sketch pad aside. ‘I’ve had enough!’
‘Well, I haven’t!’ She retrieved the sketch pad and slapped it back on his knees. ‘Draw the skyway, Connor!’
Draw the skyway? He wished he were out on that darn skyway right now!
His fingers flew across the page. The sooner this was over, the better. He didn’t glance at the drawing when he’d finished. He just tossed the sketch pad at Jaz, not caring if she caught it or not.
She did catch it. And she stared at it for a long, long time. Bile rose from his stomach to burn his throat.
‘Better,’ she finally said. She didn’t tear it from the sketch pad. She didn’t screw it up into a ball.
‘Don’t humour me, Jaz.’ The words scraped out of his throat, raw with emotion, but he didn’t care. He could deal with defeat but he would not stand for her pity.
In answer, she gave him one of the balled rejects. ‘Look at it.’
He was too tired to argue. He smoothed it out and grimaced. It was the picture of the playground. It was dreadful, horrible…a travesty.
‘No,’ she said when he went to ball it up again. ‘Look at it.’
He looked at it.
‘Now look at this.’ She stood up and held his drawing of the skyway in front of her.
Everything inside him stilled. It was flawed, vitally flawed in a lot of respects, and yet… He’d captured something there—a sense of freedom and escape. Jaz was right. It was better.
Was it enough of an improvement to count, though?
He glanced up into her face. She pursed her lips and surveyed where he sat. ‘This is all wrong.’ She tapped a finger against her chin for a moment, then her face cleared. She seized her duffel bag. ‘Come with me.’
She led him to a nearby stand of trees. He followed her. His heart thudded in his chest, part of him wanted to turn tail and run, but he followed.
‘Sit there.’
She pointed to the base of a tree. Its position would still give him a good, clear view of Melly playing. Melly waved. He waved back.
He settled himself against the tree.
‘Good.’ She handed him the sketch pad and pencil again. She pulled a second sketch pad and more pencils from her bag and settled herself on the ground to his left, legs crossed. She looked so familiar, hunched over like that, Connor thought he’d been transported back eight years in time.
She glanced across at him. ‘Bend your knees like you used to do…as if you’re sitting against that old tree at our lookout.’
Our lookout. Richardson’s Peak—out of the way and rarely visited. They’d always called it their lookout. He tried to hold back the memories.
Jaz touched a hand to the ground. ‘See, I’m sitting on the nearby rock.’
It wasn’t rock. It was grass, but Connor gave in, adjusted his back and legs, and let the memories flood through him. ‘What do you want me to draw?’
‘The view.’
Panoramas had always been his speciality, but he wasn’t quite sure where to start now.
He wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t a waste of time.
‘Close your eyes.’
She whispered the command. She closed her eyes so he closed his eyes too. It might shut out the ache that gripped him whenever he looked at her.
It didn’t, but her voice washed over him, soft and low, soothing him. ‘Remember what it was like at the lookout?’ she murmured. ‘The grand vista spread out in front of us and the calls of the birds…the scent of eucalyptus in the air…’
All Connor could smell was wattle, and he loved it, dragged it into his lungs greedily.
‘Remember how the sun glinted off the leaves, how it warmed us in our sheltered little spot, even when the wind played havoc with everything else around us?’
His skin grew warm, his fingers relaxed around the pencil.
‘Now draw,’ she whispered.
He opened his eyes and drew.
On the few occasions he glanced across at her, he found her hunched over her sketch pad, her fingers moving with the same slow deliberation he remembered from his dreams.
Time passed. Connor had no idea how long they drew but, when he finally set aside his pencil, he glanced up to find the shadows had lengthened and Jaz waiting for him. He searched the picnic ground for Melly.
‘Just over there.’ Jaz nodded and he found Melly sitting on the grass with her new friends.
‘Finished?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘May I see?’
She asked in the same shy way she’d have asked eight years ago. He smiled. He felt tired and alive and…free. ‘If you want.’
She was by his side in a second. She turned back to the first page in the sketch pad. He’d lost count of how many pictures he’d drawn. His fingers had flown as if they’d had to make up for the past eight years of shackled inactivity.
Jaz sighed and chuckled and teased him, just like she used to do. She pointed to one of the drawings and laughed. ‘Is that supposed to be a bird?’
‘I was trying to give the impression of time flying.’
‘It needs work,’ she said with a grin.
He returned her grin. ‘So do my slippery dips.’
‘Yep, they do.’
The laughter in her voice lifted him.
‘But look at how you’ve captured the way the light shines through the trees here. It’s beautiful.’
She turned her face to meet his gaze fully and light trembled in her eyes. ‘You can draw again, Connor.’
Her exultation reached out and wrapped around him. He could draw again.
He couldn’t help himself. He cupped one hand around the back of her head, threaded his fingers through her hair and drew her lips down to his and kissed her—warm, firm…brief. Then he released her because he knew he couldn’t take too much of that. ‘Thank you. If you hadn’t badgered me…’ He gestured to the sketch pad.
She drew back, her eyes wide and dazed. ‘You’re welcome, but—’ she moistened her lips ‘—I didn’t do much.’
Didn’t do much.
‘You had it in you all the time. You just had to let it out, that’s all.’ She reached up, touched her fingers to her lips. She pulled them away again when she realised he watched her. Her breathing had quickened, grown shallow. She lifted her chin and glared at him. ‘If you ever turn your back on your gift again, it will desert you. For ever!’
He knew she was right.
He knew he wanted to kiss her again.
As if she’d read that thought in his face, Jaz drew back. ‘It’s getting late. We’d better start thinking about making tracks.’
She didn’t want him to kiss her.
He remembered all the reasons why he shouldn’t kiss her.
‘You’re right.’
He tried to tell himself it was for the best.
Jaz found Connor sitting on the sales counter munching what looked like a Danish pastry when she let herself into the bookshop at eight o’clock on Monday morning.
‘Hey, Jaz.’
She blinked. ‘Hello.’
What was he doing here? Shouldn’t he be upstairs working on her flat? The absence of hammering and sawing suddenly registered. Her heart gave a funny little leap. ‘Is my flat ready?’
‘We’re completing the final touches today and tomorrow, and then it’ll be ready for the painters and carpet layers.’
She’d already decided to paint it herself. It’d give her something to do. Funnily enough, though, considering how she’d expected her time in Clara Falls to drag, this last week had flown.
She’d have the carpet laid in double-quick time. She wasn’t spending winter in the mountains on bare floorboards. Once her furniture was delivered from Connor’s, she could paint and decorate the flat in her own good time.
She edged around behind the counter to place her handbag in one of the drawers and tried to keep Connor’s scent from addling her brain. Handbag taken care of, she edged back out again—his scent too evocative, too tempting. It reminded her of that kiss. That brief thank you of a kiss that had seared her senses.
Forget about the kiss.
‘Did you want me for something?’
His eyes darkened at her words and her mouth went dry. He slid off the counter and moved towards her—a hunter stalking its prey. He wore such a look of naked intensity that… Good Lord! He didn’t mean to kiss her again, did he? She wanted to turn and flee but her legs wouldn’t work. He reached out…took her hand…and…
And plonked a paper bag into it.
‘I thought you might like one.’
Like one…? She glanced into the bag. A pastry— he’d given her a pastry. In fact, he’d handed her a whole bag full of them. ‘There’s at least a dozen pastries in here.’
‘Couldn’t remember what filling you preferred.’
She almost called him a liar. Then remembered her manners. And her common sense. Who knew how much he’d forgotten in eight years?
But once upon a time he’d teased her about her apple pie tastes.
She wished she could forget.
Her hand inched into the bag for an apple Danish. She pulled it back at the last moment. ‘I don’t want a pastry!’
She wanted Connor and his disturbing presence and soul-aching scent out of her shop. She tossed the bag of Danishes onto the counter with an insouciance that would’ve made Mr Sears blanch. ‘Why are you here, Connor? What do you want?’
‘I want to thank you.’
‘For?’
‘For your advice to me about Melly. For making me draw again.’
He’d already thanked her for that—with a kiss!
She didn’t want that kind of thanks, thank you very much. Her heart thud-thudded at the thought of a repeat performance, calling her a liar.
‘I think I’ve made a start on winning back Mel’s trust.’
‘If Saturday’s evidence is anything to go by, I think you’re right.’ And she was glad for him.
Glad for Melly, she amended.
Okay—she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, slid her hands into the pockets of her trousers—she was glad for both of them, but she was gladder for Melly.
‘Look, Jaz, I’ve been thinking…’
Her mouth went dry. Something in his tone… ‘About?’
‘What if you didn’t leave Clara Falls at the end of this twelve months?’
Her jaw dropped.
He raised both hands. ‘Now hear me out before you start arguing.’
She supposed she’d have to because she appeared to have lost all power of speech.
‘What if you opened your art gallery in the mountains? It has two advantages over the city. One— lower rents. And two—you’d get the passing tourist trade.’ He spread his arms in that way. ‘Surely that has to be good.’
Of course it was good, but—
‘There’s an even bigger tourist trade in Sydney,’ she pointed out.
‘And you’ll only attract them if you find premises on or around the harbour.’
She could never afford that.
‘What’s more, if you settle around here you’ll be close to the bookshop if you’re needed, and it’s an easy commute to the city on the days you’re needed in at the tattoo parlour.’
He spread his arms again. ‘If you think about it, it makes perfect sense.’
‘No, it doesn’t!’
He didn’t look the least fazed by her outburst. ‘Sure it does. And, Jaz, Clara Falls needs people like you.’
She gaped at him then. ‘It’s official—Connor Reed has rocks in his head.’ She stalked through the shop to the kitchenette. ‘People like me?’ She snorted. ‘Get real!’
‘People who aren’t afraid of hard work,’ Connor said right behind her. ‘People who care.’
‘You’re pinning the wrong traits on the wrong girl.’ She seized the jug and filled it.
He leant his hip against the sink. ‘I don’t think so. In fact, I know I’m not.’
She would not look into those autumn-tinted eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, she lifted a mug in his direction in a silent question. Common courtesy demanded she at least offer him coffee. After all, he had supplied the pastries.
‘Love one,’ he said with that infuriating cheerfulness that set her teeth on edge.
He didn’t speak while she made the coffees. She handed him one and made the mistake of glancing into those eyes. Things inside her heated up and melted down, turned to mush.
No mush, she ordered.
That didn’t work so she dragged her gaze away to stare out of the window.
‘Clara Falls needs you, Jaz.’
‘But I don’t need Clara Falls.’
He remained silent for so long that she finally turned and met his gaze. The gentleness in his eyes made her swallow.
‘That’s where I think you’re wrong. I think you need Clara Falls as much as you ever did. I think you’re still searching for the same security, the same acceptance now as you did when you were a teenager.’
Very carefully, she set her coffee down because throwing it all over Connor would be very poor form…and dangerous. The coffee was hot. Very hot. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You might not want to admit it, but you know I’m right.’
‘Garbage! You’re the guy with rocks in his head, remember?’
‘Frieda knew it too. It’s why she wanted you to come back.’
Her mother’s name was like a punch to the solar plexus. She wanted to swing away but there wasn’t much swinging room in the kitchenette, and to leave meant walking—squeezing—past Connor. If he tried to prevent her from leaving, it would bring them slam-bang up against each other—chest-to-chest, thigh-to-thigh. She wasn’t risking that.
She tossed her head. ‘How do you know what my mother thought?’
He glanced down into his coffee and it hit her then. ‘You…the pair of you talked about me… behind my back?’
‘We’d have been happy to do it to your face, Jaz, if you’d ever bothered to come back.’
Guilt swamped her. And regret. How could she have put her mother through so much? Frieda had only ever wanted Jaz’s happiness. Jaz had returned that love by refusing to set foot back in Clara Falls. She’d returned that love by breaking her mother’s heart.
Connor swore at whatever he saw in her face. He set his mug down and took a step towards her. Jaz seized her coffee, held it in a gesture that warned him he’d wear it if he took another step. ‘Don’t even think about it!’ If he touched her, she’d cry. She would not cry in front of him.
He settled back against the sink.
‘I know I am responsible for my mother’s death, Connor. Rubbing my nose in that fact, though, hardly seems the friendly thing to do.’
Frown lines dug furrows into his forehead, drew his eyebrows down low over his eyes. ‘What the hell…! You are not responsible for Frieda’s suicide.’
He believed that, she could tell. She lifted her chin. He could believe what he liked. She knew the truth.
He straightened. ‘Jaz, I—’
‘I don’t particularly want to talk about this, Connor. And, frankly, no offence intended, but nothing you say will make the slightest scrap of difference.’
‘How big are you going to let that chip on your shoulder grow before you let it bury you?’
‘Chip?’ Her mouth opened and closed but no other words would emerge.
‘Fine, we won’t talk about your mother, but we will talk about Clara Falls and the possibility of you staying on.’
‘There is no possibility. It’s not going to happen so just give it a rest.’
‘You’re not giving yourself or the town the slightest chance on this, Jaz. How fair is that?’
Fair? This had nothing to do with fair. This had to do with putting the past behind her.
‘Have you come back to save your mother’s shop? Or to damn it?’
How could he even ask her that?
‘You need to start getting involved in the local community if you mean to save it. Even if you are only here for twelve months.’
She didn’t have to do any such thing.
‘The book fair is a start.’
He knew about—?
‘You’ve done a great job on the posters.’
Oh, yes.
‘But you need to let the local people see that you’re not still the rebel Goth girl.’
Darn it! He had a point. She didn’t want to admit it but he did have a point.
‘You need to show people that you’re all grown up, that you’re a confident and capable businesswoman now.’
Was that how he saw her?
She dragged her hands back through her hair to help her think, but as Connor followed that action she wished she’d left her hands exactly where they were. Memories pounded at her. She remembered the way he used to run his fingers through her hair, the way he’d massaged her scalp, how it had soothed and seduced at the same time. And being a confident and capable businesswoman didn’t seem any defence at all.
‘The annual Harvest Ball is next Saturday night. I dare you to come as my date.’
He folded his arms. His eyes twinkled. He looked good enough to eat. She tried to focus her mind on what he’d said rather than…other things. ‘Why?’ Why did he want to take her to the ball?
‘It’ll reintroduce you to the local community, for a start, but also…it occurred to me that while it’s all well and good for me to preach to you about staying here in Clara Falls and making it a better place, I should be doing that too. I think it’s time Mr Sears had some competition for that councillor’s spot, don’t you?’
She stared at him. ‘You’re going to run for town councillor?’
‘Yep.’
Being seen with her, taking her to the ball, would make a definite statement about what he believed in, about the kind of town he wanted Clara Falls to be. Going to the ball would help her quash nasty rumours about drugs and whatnot too.
‘Our going to the ball…’ she moistened her lips ‘…that would be business, right?’
She’d made her position clear on Saturday during the picnic. He’d agreed—history didn’t repeat. For some reason, though, she needed to double-check.
‘That’s right.’ He frowned. ‘What else would it be?’
‘N…nothing.’
The picture of Frieda she’d started on the bookshop’s wall grew large in her mind. The darn picture she couldn’t seem to finish. Have you come back to save your mother’s shop? Or to damn it?
She wanted to save it. She had to save it.
She shot out her hand. ‘I’ll take you up on that dare.’
He clasped her hand in warm work-roughened fingers. Then he bent down and kissed her cheek, drenched her in his scent and his heat. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven next Saturday evening.’
‘Well—’ she reclaimed her hand, smoothed down the front of her trousers ‘—I guess that’s settled, then. Oh! Except I’m going to need more of my things.’ Something formal to wear for a start and her strappy heels.
‘Why don’t I run you around to my place after work this afternoon and you can pick out what you need?’
‘Are you sure?’ She wasn’t a hundred per cent certain what she meant by that only…she remembered the way he hadn’t wanted her at his home last week. She added a quick, ‘You’re not busy?’
‘No. And I’ve arranged for Carmen to mind Mel for a couple of hours this afternoon.’
Had he been so certain she’d say yes?
You did say yes.
She moistened her lips again. ‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that.’
She didn’t bother trying to stifle the curiosity that balled inside her. She just hoped it didn’t show. It didn’t make any sense, but she was dying to know where Connor lived now. Not that it had anything to do with her, of course.
Of course it didn’t.
‘I’ll pick you up about five-fifteen this afternoon.’
Then he was gone.
Jaz reached up and touched her cheek. The imprint of his lips still burned there. A business arrangement, she told herself. That was all this was— a business arrangement.
Jaz slipped into the car the moment Connor pulled it to a halt outside the bookshop. At precisely five-fifteen.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
That was the sum total of their conversation.
Until he swung the car into the drive of Rose Cottage approximately three minutes later and turned off the ignition. ‘Here we are,’ he finally said.
She gaped at him. She turned back to stare at the house. ‘You bought Rose Cottage?’
Most old towns had a Rose Cottage, and as a teenager Jaz had coveted this one. Single-storey sandstone, wide verandas, established gardens, roses lining the drive, picket fence—it had been her ideal of the perfect family home.
It still was.
And now it belonged to Connor? A low whistle left her. Business must be booming if he could afford this. ‘You bought Rose Cottage,’ she repeated. He’d known how she’d felt about it.
‘That’s right.’ His face had shuttered, closed.
Had he bought it because of her or in spite of her?
‘Your things are in there.’
She dragged her gaze from the house to follow the line of his finger to an enormous garage.
He wasn’t going to invite her inside the house?
She glanced into his face and her anticipation faded. He had no intention of inviting her inside, of giving her the grand tour. She swallowed back a lump of disappointment…and a bigger lump of hurt. The disappointment she could explain. She did what she could to ignore the hurt.
‘Shall we go find what you need?’
‘Yes, thank you, that would be lovely.’
She followed him into the garage, blinked when he flicked a switch and flooded the cavernous space with stark white light. Her things stood on the left and hardly took up any space at all. ‘All I need is—’
She stopped short. Then veered off in the opposite direction.
‘Jaz, your stuff is over here!’
She heard him, but she couldn’t heed his unspoken command. She couldn’t stop.
Her feet did slow, though, as she moved along the aisle of handmade wood-turned furniture that stood there—writing desks, coffee tables, chests. She marvelled at their craftsmanship, at the attention paid to detail, at the absolute perfection of each piece.
‘You made these?’
‘Yes.’
The word left him, clipped and short.
He didn’t need to explain. Jaz understood immediately. This was what he’d thrown himself into when he’d given up his drawing and painting.
‘Connor, you didn’t give up your art. You just… redirected it.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘These pieces are amazing, beautiful.’ She knelt down in front of a wine rack, reached out and trailed her fingers across the wood. ‘You’ve been selling some of these pieces to boutiques in Sydney, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I came across a piece similar to this a couple of years back.’ She forced herself upright. If she’d known then that Connor had made it she’d have moved heaven and earth to buy it.
‘I went into that shop in my lunch hour every day for a week just to look at it.’
His face lost some of its hardness. ‘Did you buy it?’
‘No.’ It had been beyond her budget. ‘I couldn’t justify the expense at the time.’
She sensed his disappointment, though she couldn’t say how—the set of his shoulders or his lips, perhaps?
‘Mind you,’ she started conversationally, ‘it did take a whole week of lecturing myself to be sensible…and if it had been that gorgeous bookcase—’ she motioned across to the next piece ‘—I’d have been lost…and horrendously in debt. Which is why I’m going to back away from it now, nice and slow.’
Finally he smiled back at her.
‘My things!’ She suddenly remembered why they were here. ‘I’ll just grab them and get out of your hair.’
He didn’t urge her to take her time. He didn’t offer to show her any of the other marvels lined up in the garage. She told herself she was a fool for hoping that he would.
