All They Need (5 page)

The silence stretched. He needed to say something. Now.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm a little blindsided here. I wasn't expecting anything like this.”

“I can tell. You look like I hit you up for a loan.” Her smile wobbled a little and she curled her hand into a fist around the ring. “I was kind of hoping we were on the same page with this. But I guess I was wrong.” She was still kneeling and Flynn reached out to guide her onto the couch.

“I need a minute to get my head around this, that's all.”

She nodded but didn't say anything. Flynn took a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order, trying to find the one right thing to say that would take away the hurt dawning in her eyes.

“I think you're great, Hales. You know that. I've always thought you were great. We get on well, we understand each other.”

“I know, and I'll admit I was kind of hoping you would beat me to this. Then I remembered that this is the twenty-first century. Women are supposed to go for what they want, right? And I want you, Flynn. I always have.”

For the second time in as many minutes, he was without words. He'd given Hayley a black eye with his soccer ball when he was six. He'd danced with her at her debutante ball when she was seventeen. He'd laughed with her at any number of parties and theater
shows and functions over the years, caught up with her for lunch every now and then—with or without other friends in the mix. He'd always thought of her as a good friend, and only recently had he considered her as anything more than that.

“I didn't realize,” he said, then immediately kicked himself. Could he sound like more of an idiot? He wasn't an inarticulate teenager. He was thirty-four years old. He'd had his fair share of lovers and relationships. Yet he was handling this with all the sophistication and finesse of a pro wrestler.

“I guess that means I'm a better actor than I thought. Mom has known for years.”

She was watching him intently. Flynn realized he hadn't answered her question yet.

It should have been a no-brainer. She was beautiful. Their parents were friends. They had everything in common, from their acquaintances to their educations to their tastes in wine and food and art. She was elegant, clever and kind.

She was perfect and she would make the perfect wife.

So why couldn't he look her in the eye and say yes? Why was he feeling trapped and uncomfortable and deeply guilty all of a sudden?

An image flashed across his mind's eye—his mother capturing his father's face in her hands this morning and telling him clearly and unequivocally that she loved him, no matter what. The love and devotion in her expression had been undeniable, as had the love and devotion in his father's eyes. They were crazy about each other, always had been. They preferred each other's company to anyone else's, finished each other's sen
tences, tickled each other's funny bones…?. They were a matched set. Soul mates. Inseparable.

They were the best example of marriage a man could have, and Flynn had taken the lessons he'd learned from watching them to heart. When he married, he planned for it to stick. He wanted to grow old with the love of his life, to mellow with her, to store away memories and take on challenges and evolve with her. He wanted a forever kind of love, the kind that only increased and grew richer and deeper and broader with time. A love that was strong enough to withstand the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and then some.

He looked into Hayley's eyes and tried to imagine the two of them twenty years from now. He tried to imagine their children. He tried to imagine the two of them dealing with the tectonic shift that his parents were experiencing.

And it just wasn't there. He couldn't see it. Hayley was his dear, dear friend. But she was not the woman he wanted to marry.

His chest was suddenly tight. He was about to hurt her—the last thing he'd ever wanted to do.

He looked at her hand in his, her skin very pale in comparison to his, trying to find the words. “Hayley, I care for you a great deal. You're one of my best friends. The past year has been great. Really great. But marriage is a big step. And I don't feel even close to ready to take it with you.”

She was very still for a moment. “One of your best friends.” He could see the disappointment and hurt in her face.

Flynn stared at her helplessly. If it was in his power, he'd flip a switch and love her with the same fervor that she apparently felt for him. But it wasn't, and he didn't.

“I'm sorry. There's been so much going on…?. I never meant to create expectations.” His words sounded lame, even to himself. He'd fallen into a relationship with her, allowed her to move in, shared his days and his nights with her, but he'd never once thought about where they were going, or wondered what she thought their relationship was about. He'd been too busy flailing around in his own crap after his father's diagnosis—winding down his own company, stepping up to take over the reins of the business, trying to support his mother, trying to do anything and everything to ease his father's distress.

“You didn't create expectations. I did.” Her voice was heavy with tears but she was doing her best to hold them in.

“God, Hales, I'm so sorry.” He pulled her into his arms, guilt a physical burn in his chest.

She might be prepared to let him off the hook, but he wasn't. He'd been selfish, taking comfort where he could find it. Not thinking about the consequences. Not thinking about tomorrow at all.

She rested her head on his shoulder but didn't try to return his embrace. After a moment he let her go. Her eyes were filled with tears and she brushed them away with her fingertips.

“I'm sorry,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. Then she stood and rushed from the room.

Flynn heard the bedroom door click shut. He mouthed a four-letter word, angry with himself, angry with the situation. He fell back against the cushions and raked his fingers through his hair.

He had no doubt that right now, Hayley was howling her eyes out on the bed they were supposed to share
tonight. He swore again. He was a bastard. A stupid, selfish, thoughtless bastard.

The urge to get up and go gripped him, to walk away from the cottage and the scene that had played out, but he didn't move. The least he could do was be here if Hayley needed him. The very least.

 

M
EL SPENT THE
first half of the afternoon repairing the rotten windowsill. Her thoughts drifted from topic to topic as she chipped away the damaged wood with a hammer and chisel, but she kept coming back to Flynn and his girlfriend.

They were an attractive couple, with his dark good looks and her pale skin and fiery hair. They were socially well-matched, too, both bringing equal clout to the table. No one would look down their noses when they arrived at functions or events. No one would whisper behind their backs or laugh and speculate about how long their relationship would last and what, exactly, Hayley had done to land her man.

The chisel slipped and Mel's breath hissed out as the sharp metal sliced into the fleshy part of her thumb. She sucked on it for a second before inspecting the wound. Blood welled, but it was a shallow cut. She'd live.

She went inside for a bandage and returned to finish the repair, replacing the excised wood with builder's filler. Afterward, she made the ten-minute drive to her parents' place to help her mother finalize the invitations for their upcoming thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. She stayed for an early dinner, then drove home.

She was in the bedroom, ready to pull on her pajamas for a cozy night in front of the TV, when a knock echoed through the house. It came from the back door, and she quickly pulled her cargo pants on. She fas
tened the stud as she made her way to the kitchen and the door.

It was Flynn, his face shuttered, his body half turned away. “Sorry to disturb you. I need to give you this.” He handed over the key to the cottage.

Mel stared at it for a second before lifting her gaze to his. “You're leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Is something wrong with the accommodation? If there's a problem, I can offer you one of the other cottages.”

“It's nothing to do with the cottage. Everything's been great. Something has come up.”

She tried to gather her thoughts. She'd had last-minute cancellations, and she'd had no-shows, but she'd never had guests walk out halfway through their stay.

“Okay. Well. I hope you enjoyed your time here. What there was of it, anyway.”

“We did, thanks.” He gave her a small, tight smile before turning and walking down the steps.

She watched him for a minute, frowning. Maybe it was her imagination, but he looked tired. Defeated.

She caught her own thoughts and made a rude noise. Flynn Randall was filthy rich, better-looking than any man had a right to be and in the prime of his life. He probably didn't know how to spell defeat, let alone how to experience it.

She, on the other hand, was an expert.

On that cheery note, she went to get ready for bed.

T
HREE WEEKS LATER
, Mel stooped to wrap her arms around the hessian-covered root ball of the orange tree she'd excavated from her front yard. She'd pruned the branches and dug the roots out in stages, giving the tree time to adjust to the brutal surgery she was practicing. But now it was time to haul it to its new home. She felt a little like the horticultural equivalent of Atilla the Hun in uprooting the tree from its old home, but this was a necessary evil—it had been badly sited by the previous owners and would never thrive or even bear fruit in its current position.

Once she was confident she had a reliable grip, Mel flexed her legs and attempted to lift the tree onto the waiting wheelbarrow. As she'd half expected, the tree barely budged, despite giving it her all. Between the weight of the tree and the amount of dirt and clay contained in the root ball, it was bloody heavy. She might have rugby league shoulders, but she wasn't a miracle worker.

She sat back on her heels and looked up at the shiny green foliage towering over her. She was tempted to call her father or brother to ask them to lend a hand, but she didn't want them to feel as though she only called when she needed something.

Which meant it was time to move on to Plan B. Not
that she was a hundred-percent certain it would work, either. But what the hey.

She headed to the house—the canvas drop sheet she was looking for was in the spare room. After she'd grabbed it and was on her way outside, she glanced into the living room. The clock on the mantel told her it was ten, which meant she had an hour until Flynn Randall was due to check in. Plenty of time to do what needed to be done.

She still couldn't quite believe he was coming to stay with her again. He'd called on Wednesday and she'd been so surprised to hear his voice it had taken her an embarrassingly long time to respond to his greeting. After his last stay—or, more accurately, his nonstay—she'd thought she would never hear from him again. Even though he'd said the accommodation had been fine and she'd been inclined to believe him, his visit couldn't exactly have been called successful.

Yet he'd made another booking, and she'd been feeling nervous and on edge ever since she'd marked the reservation in her diary. Which was genuinely pathetic given that she'd long since sifted through her reaction to his last visit and come to the depressing conclusion the reason he put her on edge was because of who he was—a Randall.

Old habits died hard, apparently.

She was determined to get over the anxiety this time around. He was a man, he put his pants on one leg at a time, and she would respond to him as she would any other man. If it killed her. The same went for his girlfriend. They were people, and they were guests, and that was it. They weren't any more special than anyone else she played host to.

The drop sheet snapped open as she spread it across
the lawn. As she'd hoped, the orange tree was a few inches shorter than the length of the tarp. She positioned it at the most advantageous point, then braced her legs and rocked the root ball from side to side, “walking” it onto the canvas. As gently as possible she tipped the tree onto its side. She gathered up the corners closest to the root ball and bunched them together into a big wad. Then she took a step backward, using her body weight and her grip on the drop sheet to drag the tree across the lawn behind her.

By the time she got to the driveway her arms and thighs were burning. She put her chin down and kept hauling, making her slow way along the side of the house and onto the rear lawn. She stopped to peel off her sweater, wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans, then picked up the corners and put her back into round two, trying not to think of how much farther she had to go before she reached the new site she'd prepared.

“Are you all right there? You look like you could use a hand.”

Her head snapped around. Surprised, her grip on the drop sheet loosened as she hauled backward and she fell onto her ass with a painful thud—all while staring straight into the very blue eyes of Flynn Randall.

Her pride urged her to immediately scramble to her feet but her tailbone was vibrating with pain and it was all she could do not to groan out loud.

“Are you okay?” He strode to her side and held out his hand to help her up.

“Fortunately, the ground broke my fall.”

He smiled faintly at her attempt at bravado. She could feel embarrassed heat flooding into her face and she reached up to grab his hand, keen to not be on her
ass at his feet for a second longer than she needed to be. His firm hand closed around hers, and she rose to her feet almost effortlessly.

He was a big man, but she was a big woman. Clearly, he was packing some serious muscle under his butter-soft leather jacket.

“That's a lot of tree you're hauling there.”

“It's not as heavy as it looks,” she lied.

He lifted an eyebrow and she knew he wasn't buying her claim. Her backside was still aching and she desperately wanted to rub it. Instead, she put on her professional hat. Not the easiest thing to do with mud splashed up the legs of her oldest jeans and her butt throbbing.

“If you give me a few minutes, I'll clean up and grab the keys to Tea Cutter Cottage for you.”

“What about your tree?”

“It's not going anywhere.”

“That was kind of my point.” He surveyed the yard. “Where are you taking it?”

“I've dug a new site at the bottom of the property.”

She didn't go into detail—Flynn would hardly want to hear about her plans for a fruit orchard and a vegetable garden that would eventually feed not only her but her guests—if they chose—as well as her family.

“You're going to kill yourself getting it down there.”

Her eyes widened as he started pulling his jacket off.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“But—but you'll get all dirty.”

Her gaze took in his expensive-looking brown leather boots, his designer jeans and the black sweater he was wearing.

“I don't mind.” He threw his jacket onto the grass nearby, then tugged his sweater over his head and tossed it on top. He was wearing a dark gray T-shirt underneath. It looked as though it was made of silk, which probably meant it was.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I can't let you ruin your clothes.”

“A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

He examined the tree for a beat. “The drop sheet was a good idea.” He stooped and grabbed the wad of canvas she'd been dragging, separating the corners out and offering her one. “Shall we?”

“No. No way.”

“If you don't help me out, I'll have to try to equal your Herculean solo effort and risk embarrassing myself if I fall short.”

She stared at him, utterly thrown by his offer and his apparently genuine desire to help her out.

“Okay. If that's the way it has to be,” he said with a shrug. He bunched the two corners together again and started to pull the tree forward.

“Stop,” Mel said, moving to block his path.

He grinned and offered her a corner of the drop sheet again. She took it with a frown, which only seemed to amuse him even more.

“Thank you.” It came out a little grudgingly and she cleared her throat. “I really appreciate your help.”

“It's my pleasure.”

She darted him a skeptical look but he didn't look as though he was merely obeying the dictates of some masculine code of honor. He looked thoroughly in his element, as though this really was his pleasure.

Which was just plain strange, given who he was.

“On the count of three?” he said.

She took up the slack on her corner, and on his signal began to heave on the drop sheet. The difference in effort required was profound and she almost fell on her backside again.

“You okay?”

“Yes. I wasn't expecting it to be this much easier.”

“I have a feeling I should probably be insulted by that. Do I look that anemic?”

It took her a moment to realize he was joking. She smiled uncertainly. “You don't look anemic at all.”

He didn't say anything but he continued to seem quietly amused as they dragged the tree down the lawn, across the garden path, behind Tea Cutter Cottage and through a gap in the screening trees to the large clearing she'd chosen for her fledgling orchard. Although covered with patchy grass, it had never had a real purpose or design—until now.

She directed him toward the shovel she'd left sticking out of a mound of dirt to the left of the clearing. They came to a halt beside the hole she'd dug that morning.

“Thanks for that,” she said, already turning to lead him to the main house so she could get him settled in.

“How are you going to get it in the hole?”

She paused. “The same way I got it out.”

Which had been through sheer determination and not a little swearing. But he didn't need to know that.

“Come on, let's do this.” He knelt beside the tree and began untying the twine she'd used to keep the hessian covering in place.

She stared at his down-turned head, baffled by his determination to be helpful despite the obvious risk to his clothes and his complete lack of obligation to her.
He was her guest, after all.
She
was supposed to be at
his
beck and call, not the other way around.

“I've done this a few times over the years, but it's always a bit heart-in-your-mouth, waiting to see if you've done more harm than good,” he said as he tugged at the twine. “It drives me crazy when people plant trees where they think they will look pretty rather than where they'll grow well. A sixty-second conversation with someone in a garden center would have told them that
citrus sinensis
need sunlight, the more the better. How hard is it to ask the right questions if you don't already know the answers?”

He glanced up at her to gauge her reaction and suddenly it hit her.

“You're a gardener.”

The amused look was back in his eyes again. “You say that like it's a miracle. Or at least about as likely as Bigfoot being real.”

“Sorry. It's just not what I expected.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Let me guess. You had me pegged for a polo player, right? Maybe a yachtsman?” He spoke with an exaggerated British accent.

She smiled before she could catch herself. “Something like that.”

“My mother is a keen gardener. She recruited me as her slave when I was a kid, and I've been getting my hands dirty ever since.”

Mel dropped to her knees and pulled her penknife from her pocket, making short work of the knots he'd been tugging at without much success. He gave her a wry look and she shrugged apologetically.

He turned to inspect the hole she'd dug before glancing at her in an assessing way. “Would it offend you if I offered some advice?”

“I guess it depends on what it is.”

“The hole isn't big enough. You want the soil around the roots to be a little loose and aerated, so the tree can grow new feeder roots easily.”

“You're lucky I don't slap your face,” she said, deadpan.

She immediately felt a dart of alarm. She'd always been a bit of a smart-ass—impossible not to be growing up with a father and a brother who took no prisoners when it came to teasing and pranks—but her quick tongue had consistently gotten her in trouble with her ex. Owen had hated it when she said something provocative or racy or pithy. He'd wanted her to be discreet and elegant and sophisticated, not mouthy and cheeky.

She waited for Flynn to signal that she'd overstepped the mark with her off-the-cuff response. Waited for the friendly smile to fall from his lips or for his blue eyes to turn cold. But he simply smiled at her appreciatively before pushing himself to his feet.

“I was wondering where your sense of humor had gotten to.”

She stared at him as he pulled the shovel from the mound of dirt. “Excuse me?”

“Your sense of humor. You always used to make me laugh.”

Her lips twisted. She knew what this was about. “You mean because I jumped in the fountain at the Hollands' party?”

Flynn had started to dig, widening and deepening the hole, but he stopped to consider her. Almost as though he understood exactly how brightly that incident burned in her memory.

“I was under the impression that you fell in. And I didn't think it was particularly funny until you took
your bow. Hamish Greggs was an idiot for letting go of you. I hope he groveled at your feet the next day.”

She smiled grimly. “The Hollands ‘forgot' to invite us to their black-and-white ball. I guess they were afraid I'd take a dive into their koi pond.”

“You're kidding?” Flynn looked incredulous. Then he frowned. “I knew there was a reason I never liked them.”

For a moment she thought she'd misheard him, but the disgusted expression on his face was undeniable.

He didn't blame her for the incident. He didn't think she was vulgar or stupid or attention-seeking or clueless because she'd set out to help a woman in distress and wound up in the fountain. He didn't think she'd gone out of her way to cause trouble. He was sympathetic. Maybe even supportive.

The shovel hit a rock, the metal ringing loudly, and she realized she was simply watching while her guest sweated over a hole in the ground. She shook her head, wishing she could shake off the past as easily.

“Here. I should be doing that,” she said, striding forward.

“If it gets to be too much for me I promise to send up a flare.”

“You're my
guest.
” She reached out to grab the shovel from him.

“What are you going to do? Wrestle me for the shovel?” he asked.

“I was hoping you'd realize I was right.”

“Would it help at all if I told you that I'm enjoying myself? That I've had a really shitty couple of weeks and that digging a nice big hole and getting some dirt under my nails is exactly what the doctor ordered?”
His tone was light but there was something in his eyes that told her he wasn't joking.