The Last Goodbye (9 page)

A warm hand landed in the center of his back. Ally stood behind him, the plate of cake in hand.

“Tell me where everything is and I’ll make some tea,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to do that.”

She didn’t say anything, simply brushed past him and slid the plate onto the table. He watched as she filled the kettle and turned it on, then started rummaging in the cupboards for tea bags.

“Third cupboard on the left,” he said after watching her search fruitlessly for a few seconds. “Thanks.”

He crossed the room and collected three mugs. He could smell Ally’s vanilla-spice scent as he placed them in front of her.

She shot him an assessing glance. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look okay. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

He frowned. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

For a moment the only sound in the kitchen was the sound of the kettle heating.

“You and your father really know how to push each other’s buttons, huh?”

Tyler gave a small, humorless laugh. “You could say that.”

He waited for her to say more, to probe, but she didn’t. Instead, she sliced the cake and arranged the
pieces on the plate. After a second, she put down the knife and looked at him.

“I want to say something about last night. I know this probably isn’t the best time, but it’s been bugging me, so I’m just going to spit it out.”

“Okay.” He turned to face her, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.

Her breasts lifted as she took a deep breath and launched into speech. “I meant it when I said I like you, Tyler. And I’d hate for what happened, or, more accurately, what didn’t happen to stop us from being friends.” Her expression was very earnest, which only made her look cuter than usual.

“Because I wanted to sleep with you and you said no?”

“Yes.”

He filched a slice of cake. He took a bite, chewed and swallowed. Then he looked her in the eyes.

“I like you, too, Ally. And I’m happy to be friends.

But you should probably know I’m still going to want to sleep with you.” He shrugged apologetically. “It’s kind of a one-way valve. Not really something I can turn on or off at the drop of a hat.”

“Right.” She seemed thrown by his directness. “Well, I guess I can handle that.”

He ate the rest of the cake in one big bite. “Good,” he said around his mouthful.

She smiled. “Nice manners.”

He glanced at her curvy hips, shown to advantage by her skirt. “Nice skirt.”

She slapped his hand away when he reached for another piece. “No cheating.”

He knew she wasn’t talking about the cake. “I’m only human.”

Her gaze dropped to his chest, then his hips. “Tell me about it,” she muttered, so quietly he almost didn’t catch it. Then she grabbed the plate of cake. “Can you bring the tea in when it’s ready?”

He watched her backside until she disappeared through the doorway to the living room.

He didn’t understand her. There had been desire in her eyes when she looked at him. She wanted him, and she’d wanted him last night, too. And she’d stated boldly that she liked him. Yet she was determined to only be friends.

The kettle clicked off as it reached boiling point. He poured water into the mugs, automatically taking his father’s tea bag out after a brief dunking. His father had always preferred a weak brew.

Tyler stilled when he registered what he’d done. He let out a small, heavy sigh.

A large part of him might want to drive off and leave his father to his own devices, but an even larger part seemed to be determined to do the right thing, no matter what the cost to himself or his peace of mind.

A couple of days,
he reminded himself.
You can suck up almost anything for a couple of days.

A
LLY SWATTED A FLY AWAY
from her face. She was sitting on one of the twin wooden sun loungers on Wendy’s side deck, a glass of iced tea beside her, her notepad in hand, pondering how best to respond to Bankrupt Bridesmaid, a reader who was asking for advice on how to deal with a friend who had morphed into Bridezilla the moment her fiancé proposed.

Ally preferred to draft her responses to reader letters with pad and pencil, having learned long ago that her brain communicated best with the blank page via a pencil rather than a computer keyboard. Once she had her responses roughed out, she polished them at her laptop before emailing them into her editor.

Normally she loved questions like this—it gave her a chance to sound off against the ridiculous excesses of the modern wedding. During her tenure, Gertrude had developed a bit of a reputation for being tough on Bridezillas and young couples who seemed determined to start their married lives encumbered by the huge debt of a lavish, over-the-top wedding.

Ally had handed out plenty of tough love in the form of column inches, but today she was having trouble concentrating.

The house next door was silent—no raised voices, no angry words floating over the fence—yet she couldn’t forget the tension she’d witnessed between father and son this morning.

She’d heard the thwarted fury in Bob’s voice, the shamed pride. She’d seen him grab his son’s arm and,
for a heartbeat, she’d thought he was going to strike Tyler.

And the expression on Tyler’s face afterward when she’d followed him into the kitchen.

He’d looked so lost and desolate. The compulsion to wrap her arms around him had been so strong she’d nearly given in to it. She’d settled for simply placing a comforting hand on his back, as if she could somehow convey her sympathy and empathy to him through that single, small contact.

She’d like to offer him more. An ear to listen. A shoulder to cry on, if that was what he needed. Someone to vent to, a sounding board. Whatever he needed—and she sensed he desperately needed something, someone, on his side. But she wasn’t about to foist herself on him. In the guise of Dear Gertrude she was happy to hand out guidance, but in real life Ally was much more inclined to hang back until asked. And her gut told her that Tyler would never ask. He was too self contained, too controlled. Too used to keeping his own counsel—or, perhaps, simply sucking it up and soldiering on.

Whatever. He hadn’t asked for her comfort or advice or assistance, and she’d already volunteered enough. It was none of her business.

Forcing herself to focus, she began to write.

She’d barely composed a paragraph when the sound of a screen door slamming shut made her lift her head. It was Tyler, carrying a long roll of papers and what looked like a pencil case. He seemed
frustrated as he stood on the top step, scanning the rear yard as though he were looking for an escape route.

For a few seconds she allowed herself to admire the hard strength of his body. He’d felt wonderful pressed against her last night—his big arms, his even bigger chest.

She told herself to stop ogling him the same moment he glanced over and caught her staring.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Dad’s sleeping. With the radio going full bore.”

Her gaze dropped to the roll of papers in his hands and she guessed his dilemma. “Finding it hard to concentrate?”

“Just a little.” His gaze shifted to scan the yard again. “I was thinking of trying the shed.”

Ally turned her attention to the rusted metal structure that filled the corner of Bob’s yard. Not exactly the most salubrious working environment on a hot summer day.

“Plenty of iced tea and peace and quiet over here, if you like,” she offered before she could stop herself. “A spare lounger, too.”

Tyler looked as though she’d thrown him a lifeline instead of a casual invitation. “I wouldn’t be cramping your style?”

“I have precious little to cramp. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“In that case…”

He descended the steps and she lost sight of him behind the fence. She stood, ready to let him in the front door, then she heard the thunk of a boot connecting with wood and Tyler’s head and torso appeared above the fence immediately in front of her.

“Would you mind grabbing these?”

He held out the roll of papers. She took them wordlessly. He gripped the pencil case in his teeth before slinging a leg over the fence and dropping to his feet on her side.

“Nothing like a shortcut,” she said.

He took the papers from her. “Thanks for this.”

“No problem.” She waved a hand at the other seat. “You might want to check for bird poop before you sit.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

She went inside to collect a glass for him. When she returned, Tyler was toeing off his shoes and shed ding his socks. She watched as he settled in a cross-legged position.

“Wow. You’re pretty flexible for a guy.”

She tried not to stare at the way his thigh muscles strained the soft denim of his jeans.

“Yoga.”

He didn’t really strike her as being a yoga kind of guy. Her skepticism must have shown on her face.

“I had a bit of back trouble a few years ago and my physiotherapist suggested it,” Tyler explained. “It helps get the kinks out.”

“I know. It’s the only thing that keeps me mobile when I’ve spent a whole day writing.”

She sank onto her lounger and reached for her notepad and pencil. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as Tyler unrolled the papers. A rough sketch of a sideboard filled the bulk of the first page and the margins were thick with notes, as well as angle calculations and measurements.

She dragged her attention to her own work and concentrated on encouraging Bankrupt Bridesmaid to show some spine in the face of the despotic bride-to-be, but she was very aware of Tyler working quietly beside her.

She was such a hypocrite. Just this morning, she’d offered him only friendship and reprimanded him when he made a comment about her skirt. Yet she couldn’t even sit beside him for five minutes without becoming ridiculously aware of everything about him.

The play of light and shadow on his face.

The flickering muscles in his forearms as he made notations on his plans.

The clean, sunshiny smell of his clothing.

Maybe inviting him to share her peace and quiet hadn’t been such a great idea after all.

“Is that your column you’re working on?”

She glanced up from the doodle she’d been swirling along the bottom of the page to find Tyler watching her.

“Yep. Due tomorrow at lunchtime.”

“Anything good?”

“An etiquette question about texting at the dinner table, an exploited bridesmaid. And there’s one about a woman who is trying to decide if she should make contact with her birth mother or not. That’s the toughest one.”

“What do you think she should do?”

“I haven’t answered that one yet.”

“But you must have an idea what you’re going to say.”

She did. She fiddled with her pencil while she gathered her thoughts. “I think that family is important. That it strikes at the very root of who we are and who we think we are. If this woman is plagued by questions about her birth mother and her heritage, if it’s stopping her from living her life to the fullest, then I think she should take the plunge.”

“And what if she makes contact and it’s not what she expected? What if there are no answers to her questions?”

“Then at least she’ll know she tried. She can close the door and move on. At the moment, she’s in limbo, unable to commit to making contact yet also unable to put it aside and get on with her life.”

Tyler shook his head. “You have a tough job.”

“Sometimes. But I can’t imagine doing anything else now.”

“You don’t feel responsible? You never worry about what might happen if you say the wrong
thing? Or if you don’t answer a letter from someone desperate?”

“I read everything. Sometimes there are letters written by people who are clearly in crisis. I always respond with resources for them—counselors, support groups, whatever. But most letter writers are simply looking for impartial feedback, someone to call them on their bullshit or back up their instincts. They’ve got friends and family dumping their opinions, muddying the water. I’m the independent arbitrator.”

“You’re Judge Judy.” Tyler said it with a small smile.

“With better hair. I hope.”

“You sound like you love it.”

“I do. I feel…I don’t know…
connected
to these people. Like I really am their aunt Gertrude, and they’re sitting across the table from me having a cup of tea and sharing their lives. I like to think that I help them. That I make a difference.”

She was very aware of Tyler’s gaze on her face as she finished. She gave a self-conscious laugh. “I know what you’re thinking. I need to get a life, right?”

“Nothing wrong with enjoying what you do.”

His hand smoothed over the blueprints as he spoke. She wondered if he was aware of the gesture or if it was unconscious.

“You enjoy what you do, too, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said slowly. “It’s easy to forget
that sometimes, dealing with clients and staff and deadlines, but I do.”

“I know I’m not the best judge, since I don’t actually own any furniture or have a home to put it in, but the pieces I saw on your website looked great. And really, really expensive.”

His grin was unabashed. “Quality costs. What can I say?”

She found herself grinning in return.

She really liked this man. She liked his quiet confidence and his slow smile. She liked the way he seemed genuinely interested in her and what she had to say. She liked the fact that he’d made the decision to help his father, even though their relationship was clearly deeply troubled. She liked the way he’d kissed her last night. The way he’d pulled her onto his lap.

She realized she was staring at Tyler’s mouth, and that he was watching her, a dark, smoky look in his silver eyes.

Danger, danger, Will Robinson.

“Speaking of quality, I’d better get this sorted or I’ll be pushing it to make my deadline tomorrow,” she said.

“Yeah, I’ve got a deadline I need to make, too.”

They worked together for over an hour, talking occasionally, but mostly concentrating on their individual tasks. Given how disturbing she found Tyler on many levels, Ally was surprised by how easy it was to spend time with him. It was a warm day, but the breeze was cool and the iced tea even colder and
he was good company—intelligent and perceptive and wry.