Faking It to Making It
Because what would happen post-wedding? Not just with Nate but his friends? She liked Mae. Genuinely adored Gabe’s fiancée, Paige. Would she see them again? Should she?
She knew Nate wouldn’t try to stop her. But could she, knowing they ran in the same circles as Nate? Something gave her the feeling that going cold turkey would be for the best. A little something that tightened around her heart every time she thought about it.
As if he felt her impending gloom Ernest came padding in and she threw him the crust of her ham sandwich which she’d saved. He sniffed the air, smelled that it wasn’t an Oreo and padded away, his claws slipping on the part of the floor which was now down to raw wood.
The blessed kitchen floor, she thought, dragging herself from the chair. Another reason she loved doing the work herself. Keeping busy had always meant not having time to think about all the things missing from her life.
No mum, a barely there dad, soon no Nate...
She donned her gloves, grabbed a hunk of vinyl and ripped for all she was worth.
* * *
Nate knocked on Saskia’s front door.
He couldn’t stand still, rolling his shoulders and shifting from foot to foot. It was ridiculous; he couldn’t remember being this unsure about dropping in unannounced on a woman since he was seventeen-years-old and all fired up to ask Lily von Krum’s police commander father if he could take Lily to the Scotch College formal.
Women liked him. Always had. He couldn’t remember a time when women hadn’t stopped in the street to gush over his baby blues.
But Saskia was different in myriad tiny little ways he found himself struggling to pin down even while they hummed around him like a field of fireflies. She wasn’t easy, but neither did she go out of her way to be hard. She was just...who she was. And the equanimity at the heart of her still gave him a kick.
A kick in the pants to yank himself out of his own rut and be more a part of the real world—which was why he was standing at her door.
He’d moved to knock again when a scrambling from inside stopped him. The door bumped, then swung open to reveal a mass of kinky curls atop Saskia’s dark head, her knuckles white as she gripped her dog by the collar, his wiry body shaking with glee.
“Hey, buddy,” Nate said, stepping in to help.
“Nate?” she said, looking up in surprise at the sound of his voice. Then, “Your suit!”
Which was when Nate realised he probably ought to have made a detour to change.
“Dime a dozen,” he lied, not about to tell her it was his lucky suit. Not date-lucky—he rarely had a problem there. More like deal-of-the-century-lucky. Too late now. He gave the dog a rub. Crinkly doggie hair came off in droves.
“Ernest! Be gone!” she said, and like that the dog was off.
Nate stood, as did she. In overalls three sizes too large. Her feet were bare, bar the chipped paint on her nails, and her hair had been dragged off her face by a headband with a feather poking out of the top.
Her eyes slid down his torso with a thoroughness that sent a surge through his bloodstream. But when she blew a curl from her forehead with a quick stream of air from the side of her mouth it hit him hard, right in the solar plexus. She looked...like she always looked. Soft, vibrant, her wardrobe choice more than a little off centre. And yet there was no denying his certainty that she was one of the most gorgeous women he’d ever known.
He reached out and flicked the feather. She crossed her eyes at it before sliding it from her hair, her cheeks pinkening.
“Ernest found it outside,” she said, playing with the fronds. “He gave it to me as a gift.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I really can’t shop, Nate. Not right now. I’m in the middle of something.”
“I’m not here to ask you to shop,” he said, moving past her since she hadn’t asked him in. “I’m here to help.”
Her hand still on the door handle, she blinked at him as if she didn’t even know what the word meant.
“Help,” he repeated, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto a pale green cabinet in the entrance hall, noting it was new. As was the heavy round mirror above it. He rolled up his sleeves. “As in pull vinyl. Or lay tiles. Or re-roof the joint. Whatever you need.” When she continued staring at him as if he was talking Swahili, he said, “Have you never had a man offer his services before?”
At that she shook her head. And he believed her. In that moment he wished she had a little black book—just so he could track down every man who’d ever hurt her, used her, abused her, taken all she had to offer without taking the time to let her know she was appreciated, that she was something special. What he wanted to do to them was possibly excessive, but then if a man didn’t aim high, then what was the point of aiming at all.