‘No telly?’ she asked as he fiddled with the coffee machine.
‘Don’t need one, never watch it.’
‘What about sport?’ She knew he was an enthusiast.
‘Prefer to participate than spectate.’ He winked.
‘Oh, come on, what about the big games?’
‘There’s always a pub or mate’s place.’ He shrugged.
Somehow she doubted he went to either much. It was obvious from the table that he put in huge hours of work here—the walls were covered with plans, with notes written in a masculine scrawl all over them. In the far corner of the room a boxing bag hung and gloves were tossed on the floor. She turned her back on that. At one point along the wall a collection of books lay in a messy heap on the floor—clearly once a tower of serious-looking tomes that had been toppled. The only things on the walls were some building plans tacked up near the computer table. There were no clues to his past but perhaps the lack of photos and personal items was the biggest clue of all.
‘Where does your mum live?’ she couldn’t resist asking as he poured the coffee thick and black.
‘In sunny Nelson.’
‘That where you grew up?’
He shook his head. ‘She moved there a few years ago.’
‘Does she work?’
He took a big sip of what had to be burning-hot coffee. ‘Yeah.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘I can’t stop her.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s a cleaner,’ he answered, carefully neutral.
Lena said nothing, and in less than three seconds he was answering her unasked question anyway.
‘I hate it.’ Gruff, low, rough. ‘I paid off her mortgage but she refuses to take more money from me and cleaning is what she’s always done. Dad left her with nothing and even before he left he just did jack all in his shed all day. She always worked a zillion jobs and as soon as I was old enough I worked, too, to help her out. But now she insists on working even though she doesn’t have to.’
‘Maybe she likes her independence,’ said Lena, frankly full of admiration for the woman. No prizes for guessing where Seth had got his fighting spirit from, either. ‘Not many people would actually enjoy a life with nothing to do but shop or do lunch anyway.’
He looked sceptical. ‘You reckon?’
‘Seriously,’ Lena said, fully meaning it. ‘Getting up for work gives you a kind of dignity. A purpose. You couldn’t live a life of leisure, could you?’
He shook his head.
‘So why think she would?’
‘Because she’s worked hard enough,’ he said crossly. ‘If she wants to be busy, she could work for a charity or something. She doesn’t have to be on her hands and knees.’ His hands lifted in a frustrated movement. ‘I’ve never been able to—’
She watched him sharply turn away. ‘To what?’
‘Give her what she needs.’
Lena was touched. And troubled. Because was that his responsibility? With every child and parent there were expectations—Lena well knew that. There were burdens, too—on both sides—but maybe they were greater for an only child and for a solo parent. She felt frustration within him, sensed the hurt there. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, giving him a cuddle more of companionship than carnal thrill. ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to burden you. She had an unhappy time with the divorce, right? Maybe she needs to feel like she can manage on her own now.’ Lena could so relate to that. ‘She’s your mother, Seth. And you love nothing more than your independence.’
He slowly turned, his arms lifting to return her hug, and she felt his reluctant smile. ‘I just want her to be happy.’
‘Do you think she isn’t?’ she asked softly.
‘No, she always says she’s great.’
‘Then maybe you should relax and let her do what she needs to do.’ Lena snuggled into his tightening embrace. ‘She’s her own person, Seth. Like you. And no one can take on the total responsibility of another person’s happiness. It’s a balance, you know? Team effort.’
She felt him sigh and shake his head a fraction. ‘Lena in sweetheart, supportive mode. No wonder all those boys want you to oil their chests.’
She rolled her eyes, refusing to take his light joke any more seriously than he intended.
They hung out on the sofa, with the coffee and toast and his iPad—surfing the news, checking out the social network sites. She had all day and all night to talk with him—about the team or any other sport, music, buildings, construction, food, travel tales, to laugh at random stories about stars behaving badly. There was no guilt, no pressure. And despite knowing she was going to regret it, she dived into the bliss headfirst.
She’d put one of his tee shirts on. Seth didn’t mind. He probably should have warned her he was keeping her captive for the weekend, then she could have brought some clothes. Still, her not having them did have its benefits.
He caught her eyeing the punchbag swinging from a hook in the corner with disfavour.
‘You really hate boxing?’ He laughed as he watched her nose wrinkle.
‘I like most sports, probably more than many people do. But boxing is just a step too far for me. It’s not really a sport, is it?’
‘Hmm.’ He walked over to pick up his gloves. ‘You’ve never got so angry you felt like hitting something?’
She frowned. ‘I don’t see how boxing can help with anger issues. Doesn’t it just teach troubled kids how to hurt people?’
‘No,’ he said patiently. ‘It teaches discipline, control and builds confidence.’
‘So does yoga.’
He ran his palm down the punchbag and sighed. ‘Okay, it’s also a fantastic physical and mental release. One-to-one combat, the ultimate individual challenge. No team-mate to back you up, no one else to blame if you crash out. Just you against your opponent. So you have to learn self-reliance, self-discipline and have self-belief.’ He held out the gloves. ‘Dare you. You might find you like it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Go up against the bag, just once.’
She grimaced but wriggled the gloves on. They were too big but it didn’t matter. S
he took aim and the frankly pathetic punch didn’t make it swing even a millimetre.
She giggled. ‘Nope, not doing it for me.’
He moved in behind her, showed her the way to move her arm. ‘Focus. Visualise. Go for it.’
He stood back again and watched her second effort—even worse. ‘Okay.’ He changed tack. ‘Turn around and try to hit me.’
She turned but didn’t follow through. ‘Never in a million years.’
‘Go on, I’m sure I’ll have taken worse.’
Her green eyes widened. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘Well, no,’ he drawled. ‘I’m not going to let you do that.’
Her stance snapped straighter as she sparked. ‘You’re not going to let me?’
Oh, he’d tweaked her nerve. Good. ‘Try to hit my hands.’ He waggled his palms in front of her.
Her searing gaze narrowed.
‘One to one, you see,’ he teased. ‘Just you and your opponent.’
She struck out. Missed him, of course, because he was fast. It was one of his strengths.
‘That the best you got?’ he taunted.
‘Oh, don’t start with the wind-me-up-to-get-me-going rubbish.’
‘Why not?’ he taunted. ‘It’s always worked before.’
She was half laughing but half-serious, too. So was he.
‘Come on.’ He moved closer. ‘Come and get me.’
She jabbed a couple more times. He let her connect to his chest once.
That made her frown thunderous. ‘Don’t go easy on me.’
‘Okay, then try harder.’
She moved fast on him then, a series of wild-thrown punches. Getting better. Breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, she kept at it, trying to get him good. As she’d asked, he didn’t make it easy for her. But he praised when she hit him square, issued instructions to help her. Her small fists smacked loudly on his palms, not doing damage, but a nice workout for her. He knew it. Smugness made him slow for a second—so did the fact that her tee-shirt-and-knicker combo was turning him on. And at that exact moment, the wench kicked him.