Sweet Thing Page 12

  I didn’t have a clue, considering I had nothing but good memories of mine and our happy times in the kitchen. But I had to offer some comfort, otherwise this date was heading south fast.

  ‘I’m guessing your father rules the roost, so maybe she’s doing the best she can, trying to keep the peace in her marriage and not piss him off?’

  Respect shimmered in her eyes as she gazed up at me from beneath long lashes. ‘Dad is the boss and what he says goes, but she wouldn’t have to tell him.’

  ‘If she’s anything like you, I can’t see her sneaking behind his back. You’re far too principled for that and she probably is too.’

  ‘Stop sounding so logical,’ she said, her admonishment tempered with a smile. ‘Anyway, enough of my depressing family.’ Her smile faded and she squirmed a little, appearing uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know much about your family beyond the fact your parents died when you were young.’

  I stiffened, my thigh flexing involuntarily beneath her palm, and she stroked my leg, offering comfort. If she only knew...it would take a lifetime of placating to ease the pain any thought of my parents elicited.

  ‘Is that all Remy told you?’

  She nodded. ‘Said your mum died when he was fifteen, your dad when he was twenty.’ Pity darkened her eyes. ‘That means you would’ve been ten when you lost your mum...must’ve been tough.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  Mum had been my champion, my rock, my buffer. She kept Dad away from me, sensing his hatred even though he never did anything overt towards me in front of her.

  And I blamed the old prick every day for ultimately driving her to her death. Because of me.

  ‘Tell me about her.’ Abby spoke softly, her tone laced with gentle persuasion, like discovering more about my family background would somehow give her a handle on me.

  Yeah, like that would happen.

  But I’d prompted her to discuss her family—the least I could do was give her a snapshot of mine.

  ‘Dad didn’t have much time for me, so Mum and I were close. She taught me how to cook. How to choose a good mango. How to core apples for a classic turnover until my fingers ached...’ Bittersweet happiness filled me at the memories. ‘She was French. Very elegant. Very classy. Wore make-up and perfume every day, even when dropping me off at kinder. Everyone idolised her.’

  Except Dad. I’d never known the real reason their marriage soured until I’d heard the hurtful accusations he’d flung at her the day she’d died. But he’d definitely been in the minority, because everyone loved Mum.

  ‘She sounds wonderful,’ Abby offered with a smile. ‘Was that why you looked a little freaked out when you helped fill that massive order? Did being in the kitchen again dredge up memories of her for you?’

  Surprised by her insight, I nodded. ‘She was wonderful. And every time I set foot in a kitchen, even at home, I feel it right here.’ I thumped a fist over my heart, wishing the simple action could dislodge the permanent ache there whenever I thought of Mum and how much I missed her.

  Before I could think up something to change the subject, Abby continued. ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘He was a prick.’ The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them and if she heard the venom behind them, she didn’t say.

  Her hand resumed stroking my thigh. ‘How so?’

  ‘He hated my guts.’

  Her lips parted in surprise. ‘But you were a child. How could a father hate his own child?’

  I couldn’t tell her the truth. Not when I’d never told anyone, including Remy. So I settled for a watered-down version.

  ‘Their marriage hit a rocky patch. I was the spitting image of Mum. Guess that made me dislikeable.’

  Her nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘I’m not in the habit of slandering people I’ve never met but your dad sounds like a real piece of work.’

  ‘Understatement of the year,’ I muttered, annoyed that her quick defence meant so much.

  This date had been about proving our differences, not growing closer because of shared confidences. I needed to get back on track, fast.

  ‘Anyway, Remy is the only family I have and he more than makes up for the past.’

  I could see the turmoil in her eyes, like she wanted to prod further. Instead, she said, ‘Tell me how many women you’ve taken on ferry dates before.’

  Surprised and pleased at her change of subject, I grinned. ‘As of today, only one.’

  She made a cute scoffing sound.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I believe you’ve been a bad boy since you hit your teens and I imagine you’ve had a string of girlfriends.’ She poked me in the chest. ‘So don’t try to deny it.’

  ‘I’m not denying anything.’ I held up my hands, like I had nothing to hide. ‘I just haven’t taken any of them on a ferry.’

  ‘Lucky me,’ she said, batting her eyelashes with exaggerated coquettishness.

  ‘I’m the lucky one,’ I murmured, wondering what she’d do if she could see half the thoughts whirling through my head. ‘I know what this fling is about for you. A way to move forward. A way to ditch your past once and for all.’

  I squeezed her shoulders. ‘I’m lucky you picked me to do it.’

  An odd expression flitted across her face. Regret? Anger? Hope? But it disappeared faster than I could analyse it.

  She snuggled into me as the ferry chugged its way across the water. We made desultory small talk, about the Harbour Bridge, Luna Park and the mega cruise ships sailing through the Heads. Nonsensical stuff that I didn’t give a crap about, but safe conversation. Safe from the possibility of emotions or feelings or deeper truths.

  Like how much I wanted her to enjoy this simple date and possibly see the real me. The me beneath the tattoos and smart-ass attitude. The me who could fall for a girl like her given half a chance.

  But there was a world of difference between us and if there was one thing I’d learned from Father, it was that I couldn’t be a relationship kind of guy.

  I couldn’t be selfless, not after spending too many years feeling worthless. When he’d died, I’d vowed to use every ounce of bitterness and resentment and hurt to concentrate on being a guy worthy of success. A guy worthy of recognition. A guy worthy of every good thing in life.

  Being involved with a woman like Abby would ensure I wouldn’t be number one any more. I wouldn’t only care about myself and not give a damn about her. I’d need to let her in, let her see the deepest part of me where a smidgeon of that scared, worthless kid still resided.

  I wasn’t prepared to do that.

  ‘We’re here,’ I said unnecessarily, as the ferry docked and passengers started disembarking.

  ‘Good, I’m starving.’

  She held my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world as we placed our order at the outdoor fish ’n’ chip pop-up café, squeezing it when we confessed a mutual hankering for grilled barramundi and extra chicken salt on our chips.

  If only it were that simple, that similar taste in food could be the foundation of something more permanent between us.

  Because that was the kicker amid all my ruminations. While I didn’t want a full-blown relationship that required giving too much of my private self, I wouldn’t mind continuing our arrangement for however long I was in Sydney.

  But Abby had clearly stipulated a short-term fling at the start. Besides, she deserved more. I’d seen the way she’d started looking at me, and while I liked it I couldn’t shake the feeling that Abby developing real feelings for me would only end in heartache.

  I carried the paper-wrapped parcel as we strolled towards the beach, in time to watch the sun dip behind the horizon in a blaze of mauve and indigo.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, slipping her hand out of mine to bound to the sand. ‘I know you’re a master of many talents, but orga
nising a sunset like that is too much even for you.’

  ‘Anything for you,’ I murmured under my breath, grateful she couldn’t hear me.

  Sure, I’d wanted her to enjoy this date, to see the simple pleasures I liked, but I’d also wanted to prove a point to myself. That we were nothing alike and she’d probably prefer a Michelin-starred dining experience to this.

  But seeing her obvious joy when she unwrapped the paper, snagged a piece of fish in one hand and stuffed hot, salty chips into her mouth with the other made me want her more.

  ‘This is divine,’ she mumbled, her mouth half-full, and I laughed. The kind of laugh I hadn’t done in a long time. A laugh filled with genuine happiness of being in this moment with this woman.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ She wiped her mouth with a tissue she’d fished from her handbag. ‘Let me guess, I’m not like your previous stick-insect model girlfriends who only ate salad.’

  ‘A fact I’m eternally grateful for.’ I offered her more chips, pleased when she took another handful. ‘What’s with you and my old girlfriends? Jealous?’

  ‘Pfft.’ She crammed the chips into her mouth to refrain from answering and I grinned.

  ‘It’s okay to like me, you know. Thousands have in the past.’

  Her eyebrows shot heavenward. ‘Thousands? Eww, that’s just nasty.’

  I laughed, enjoying the banter we traded. ‘Well, I may be exaggerating a little.’

  ‘Phew.’ She swiped at her brow. ‘I can deal with hundreds. Thousands? Not so much.’

  ‘Interesting that you see me as some shallow playboy.’ I leaned my hands back, propped on outstretched arms on the sand. ‘Truth is, I’m not a relationship kind of guy, but that doesn’t mean I sleep with every woman that walks.’

  ‘Just the ones that drop their panties at your feet,’ she deadpanned, her eyes alight with mischief.

  I loved seeing her like this: playful and lighthearted.

  ‘The only panties I’m interested in dropping these days are yours.’ I deliberately stared at her breasts before sweeping lower to linger where those sensible cotton panties would be.

  ‘Stop that,’ she hissed, wriggling on the sand a little.

  ‘Why, am I making you horny?’

  Her gaze flew to mine, her lips parted in shock.

  ‘It’s okay to admit it, you know.’ I crooked a finger at her. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m half-hard every time I’m around you, and most times when I’m not, just thinking about you.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, so softly I barely heard it as her gaze dropped to my groin.

  Predictably, I stiffened, my hard-on straining against the fly of my jeans. Damn, I should never have started this game.

  ‘Told you we should’ve grabbed takeout and gone back to my place.’ She almost purred, her tone soft and seductive. ‘Now we have a long ride back on the water.’

  ‘Fuck that ferry,’ I muttered, not pleased that our sweet date had morphed to sexy in an instant, even less pleased that I had to be in blue balls hell for an entire ferry ride back to the city.

  ‘It’ll be much more pleasurable to f-fuck me,’ she said, turning crimson at saying the F word.

  ‘Stop,’ I groaned. ‘Why do you choose now to start talking dirty?’

  She leapt to her feet and dusted sand off her butt, her grin smug. ‘Maybe we should grab a taxi rather than wait for the ferry?’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, bundling up our rubbish and stuffing it in the trash on our way back to the road. ‘Better buckle up, babe, because I’m going to tell the driver to break the land speed record.’

  A coy smile played about her mouth as she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to my lips. ‘Thanks for dinner. It was the best date I’ve ever had.’

  Speechless, I flagged down a taxi and bundled her in, almost tumbling in after her in my haste to get her alone. Where I could show her with actions rather than words exactly how much I’d enjoyed our date too.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Abby

  I USUALLY LOOKED forward to my day at TAFE once a week, a day to take a break from the manic pace of Le Miel and absorb the theory behind creating pastries.

  I loved the lectures, the note taking, the practical sessions. The sight of my notebooks covered in scrawl. The sharing of recipes with fellow students. The questions fired at the visiting chefs.

  I loved it all. But today I was distracted, seriously distracted. And I blamed a tall, tattooed nightclub owner with a penchant for pastry and me.

  Last night had been incredible. A laid-back evening filled with laughs and loving. Making love, that was. I’d never be foolish enough to confuse it with any other type of love.

  During our beachside date, Tanner had been more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. He had a softer side to him that was just as appealing as the harder edges. I liked seeing his different facets, like peeling back the layers of an onion and discovering more intricacies beneath.

  He’d come back to my place after our beachside picnic and we hadn’t left the bed for hours, before falling asleep in each other’s arms. When he’d left at five this morning, he’d seemed different. Almost reluctant to depart. More tender somehow.

  It had freaked me out a little. I couldn’t let Tanner derail my plans. I’d already given up so much of myself in the past and now that my divorce had come through and I was finally free, I needed to move forward. To do what was right for me.

  As much as we burned up the sheets and the many ways I craved him, having anything beyond short term with Tanner would be a recipe for disaster.

  I knew what would happen. I’d end up getting emotionally invested, wanting to do whatever it took to keep my man happy and end up resenting him, ensuring one of us would walk away. And I’d be catapulted back to twelve months ago, picking up the pieces of my life while struggling to heal, while cursing my lack of a backbone.

  After coming so far, I couldn’t do that to myself. I wouldn’t.

  Determined to forget the possible complications with Tanner and focus on today’s lectures, I hoisted my backpack higher and headed for the imposing wrought-iron front gates, mentally reciting the day’s timetable.

  Deep in thought, I stumbled over a crack in the footpath.

  And almost slammed into my mother.

  ‘Hello, Abigail.’ She helped me straighten, her expression half fearful, half expectant, as she released me. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ I responded by rote, stunned to see her here, torn between wanting to hug her and throttle her.

  I’d missed her so much. Had she missed me at all?

  A tsunami of mixed emotions swamped me: anger, sadness, hope, regret. A potent combination that made my hands shake and I clenched and unclenched them a few times to get a grip.

  I’d envisaged the first meeting with Mum or Dad so many times late at night, when I’d been cradling a Chardonnay and trying to ignore the insistent little voice in my head that recited how much my parents didn’t give a damn. In those thoughts, I’d imagined Mum hugging me, squeezing me so tight like she’d never let go. Maybe even Dad apologising and begging for forgiveness.

  But there’d been no hug from Mum. No sign that this was anything but an orchestrated encounter for who knew what purpose.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said, studying my face, her intense scrutiny not bothering me like it once had.

  How many times had I heard her berate me?

  ‘Abigail, you need to use more moisturiser on your frown lines.’

  ‘Abigail, sunscreen is an important part of your beauty regimen. You don’t want to wrinkle before fifty, do you?’

  ‘Abigail, those dark circles under your eyes could do with a thicker concealer.’

  ‘Abigail, that shade of coral lipstick makes you look too pale. Try a vivid pink.’

  I’d t
olerated her beauty advice because it was her thing, like I accepted her criticisms of everything from my wardrobe to my haircut. She was my mother and it’d been easier to acquiesce than cause dissension and ultimately get the silent treatment. I’d hated when she’d ignored me.

  Ironic, as she’d given me the ultimate silent treatment over the last twelve months.

  If she’d been trying to teach me a lesson, it hadn’t worked. The only thing I’d learned was that I should’ve escaped my parents’ shadows and started living my own life a long time ago. And that I couldn’t trust those closest to me, despite how much I loved them.

  Hoping the emotion clogging my throat wouldn’t make my voice shaky, I said, ‘I’m busy, so maybe we can catch up another time?’

  She wrinkled her nose, considering she couldn’t wrinkle her perfectly smooth Botoxed brow. ‘You don’t have to be busy, you know. Working at that pastry place, going to school here once a week.’ She waved her hand at the TAFE, then in front of her nose, like the place stank. ‘It’s beneath you.’

  Ice trickled through my veins. This definitely wasn’t how I’d envisaged our first meeting after a year. There were no kind words, no professions of missing me, no hugs.

  Instead, it was the same old. Mum telling me what I should and shouldn’t be doing.

  I crossed my arms across my middle, desperate to quell the hollow ache that her indifference elicited. ‘How do you know where I work?’

  Not that I particularly cared what the answer was. They’d obviously wanted to keep an eye on me, to ensure I hadn’t entered prostitution or anything similarly nefarious that would bring disrepute on the precious Prendigast name.

  ‘You know your father likes to keep tabs on everyone.’ She patted my arm, the briefest touch that conveyed nothing but condescension. ‘We care—’

  ‘Cut the crap, Mum. If you cared, you would’ve tried to contact me over the last year. To at least pretend you loved me more than keeping up appearances. To show you were worried about me rather than your reputation.’ My voice had risen and several students glanced our way, so I blew out a calming breath. ‘Look, arguing is pointless. I need to get to class so—’