Calamity Jena (Invertary 4)

“If I believe that, then I also believe in Santa.”

“You mean he’s not real?” Claire held her cheeks in shock.

“Get out of here.” Matt shooed them away. “And don’t forget to visit Dad this week. Mum says he’s having some better days.”

A sad look passed over them. “We’re going tomorrow,” Claire said.

“Good.”

They turned to face their car. “Love you, Mattie,” they both sang at the same time.

He found himself grinning when he went back into Jena’s house.

5

Jena was washing dishes when Matt came back into the kitchen. She knew he was there because the air tingled, sending shivers up her spine. She glanced at him, wondering for the millionth time what she’d gotten herself into.

His black shirt was pulled tight over muscle. His jeans sat low on his hips and clung to thick thighs. Black hair, usually short a

nd neat, looked like he’d ran his fingers through it. He had one of those square jaws you usually only found chiselled on marble sculptures—or on underwear models. Deep-set blue eyes made him appear continuously broody. Even if the guy had been a total airhead, the eyes would have made it look like he was thinking hard.

“Where am I sleeping?” That deep brogue of his made her mouth water.

“I’ll show you.” She dried her hands on a purple dishtowel.

She manoeuvred past him and into the hall, aware that he was close behind her. She pushed open the heavy wooden door to the living room. She’d stripped about twenty layers of paint off it by hand—and felt every single minute of the work. It’d cost her a manicure, but it was worth it every time she ran her hand over the warm surface.

“The couch pulls out into a bed. It’s not very big, but you’ll be fine for the night.”

Abby had given her the couch. It had originally been grey, but Jena had made a cover for it from a vibrant blue chunky cord material she’d found on sale at Kirsty’s mum’s shop. There was also an oversized beanbag made from a paisley patterned material in pinks, blues and purples. Apart from that, the only other furniture in the room was a tiny end table she’d found in a skip and sanded to perfection, before painting it the same shade of pink that was in the beanbag. There was a silver standing lamp beside the couch and a small silver TV fixed to the wall above the fireplace. Jena had like the simple lines of the fireplace, but had painted it white to freshen it up. The part that would house a fire had long since been boarded up, so she’d placed a vase of flowers in the space. Pink and purple ones Abby had let her pick from her garden. She’d made the floor-length curtains out of the same material as the beanbag and painted the walls a lovely shade of lavender, and the trim white. Overall the feeling was one of warmth and comfort.

When she turned towards Matt, his eyes were wide with shock. “Who did this?” He motioned to the room.

It took Jena a few seconds to realise he meant the décor. “I did.”

He slowly walked around the room, his steps echoing over her polished wooden floors. He ran a hand over the stripped and stained window ledge, before examining the lavender-coloured walls.

“You did a good job, Jena.”

She couldn’t help it—she felt her heart swell at the praise. “You sound surprised.”

He grinned at her. It was panty melting. “Yeah, I am. You don’t strike me as the DIY type.”

“I can learn. I had to.” She shrugged. Why did people always look at her and see a bimbo who was incapable of reading a book? “Besides, this room wasn’t too difficult. I just stripped everything in it. And years of making dance costumes means I’m a dab hand with a sewing machine.”

He frowned at her. “Don’t put yourself down. This is a lot of work. You didn’t just strip everything. You gave it a new lease of life. And you did a great job.”

Jena felt her cheeks burn. It was hard to look him in the eye. “Glad you appreciate it. This room happened before I ran out of money. You won’t see this again, so soak it up while you can.” She gave him a wide grin as he stared at her, as though assessing. “I’ll get the bedding.”

She turned, heading for the stairs and the only other room in the house that was finished—her bedroom. When she returned, Matt stood in front of the wide bay windows texting someone. A muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched, piquing Jena’s curiosity.

“Trouble?” she asked.

There was a pause, as though he was unsure whether to answer or not. “My dad. He’s having a few good days. I need to make time to go see him.”

“Good days?”

His gaze turned to the darkened windows. “Alzheimer’s. Late stage.”