All They Need (8 page)

He always had.

And maybe he'd lied when he'd said he hadn't invited her in to jump her bones.

If he closed his eyes, he could still remember in vivid detail how she'd looked rising out of the fountain at the Hollands' that night, her gown glued to every curve and hollow of her body. Over a year and a half had passed, but that moment was still etched in his memory as though it was yesterday.

That didn't mean he was going to do anything about it. No matter how sexy her tall, athletic body was. No matter how compelling he found her soft gray eyes and wide, mobile mouth.

Someone had hurt Mel Porter. Quite badly, if he was any judge. She was vulnerable. Maybe even a little broken.

He was the very last thing she needed in her life. As he'd proven so thoroughly with Hayley, he was not a good bet in the romance department right now. He had too much on his plate, too much uncertainty in his world, and he didn't want to set up expectations that he wasn't going to fulfill again. At best, he was good for some no-strings sex and some laughs, but Mel was not fling material. Not by a long shot.

He took a long swallow of wine and told himself it was a good thing she'd gone home.

By the time he'd finished his third glass, he had almost convinced himself it was true, too.

 

M
EL CHASTISED HERSELF
the whole drive home. She'd known taking the lanterns to Flynn's place had been a bad idea. From the moment she'd spotted them in her garden shed this afternoon she'd been at war with herself, going back and forth over whether she should drop by Summerlea and offer them to Flynn or not.

She'd been worried the gesture would come across as sucky or ingratiating, as though she was desperate for Flynn to like her. In the end she'd convinced herself that if she dropped them off and didn't try to parlay the brief contact into anything further, there was no way he could misconstrue her intentions as anything other than what they were—a friendly, neighborly gesture.

Then he'd asked her to show him how to light the lanterns, and the next thing she'd known she had a glass of wine in one hand and a piece of brie in the other.

Not what she'd anticipated, although she'd be lying if she pretended that she hadn't enjoyed their conversation—until the moment he'd revealed he and Hayley had broken up.

A hot flush of embarrassment washed over Mel as she remembered the way she'd bolted for the door after he'd made that crack about jumping her bones. With the benefit of hindsight it was clear to her that he'd seen her tension and had been trying to put her at ease—and she'd responded by behaving like a scared rabbit.

Very sophisticated and adult. God, she was an idiot. She should have listened to her first instincts and simply stayed away from Summerlea and Flynn Randall.

She threw her keys onto the kitchen counter as she entered the house and crossed to the sink. Pouring herself a glass of water, she drank deeply. The empty glass thunked loudly against the counter as she set it down
with too much force. She stared out the window past the dim reflection of her own features.

The world outside was dark and still. In contrast, she was buzzing with adrenaline, her head filled with mixed-up thoughts and half-acknowledged emotions.

She'd read the self-help books. She knew this was all standard fare for a woman recovering from psychological abuse. Knew, too, that it would take years for her to regain her confidence fully. If she ever did. It was a day-by-day battle to recover herself. Hour by hour.

Weariness washed over her. She was so sick of feeling anxious and uncertain. So sick of always doubting herself and second-guessing her every move.

Once upon a time, she'd been fearless. She'd been brave and confident and bold. She'd set off for London with two pairs of jeans, a pair of boots, half a dozen T-shirts and less than a thousand dollars in her bank account. She'd thrown herself into the adventure of travel—picked fruit, pulled beers, cleaned houses, packed boxes—done whatever it took to make enough money to live and move onto the next new place. She'd made great friends, had amazing experiences. Then she'd met Owen and fallen in love. The ultimate adventure. Or so she'd thought.

She'd come home and become Mrs. Melanie Hunter, and bit by bit, Mel Porter had slowly ceased to be, thanks to a concerted campaign by her husband to try to turn her into something other than what she was.

I want her back. I want to be that brave and confident again. I want to laugh without looking over my shoulder to see who is judging me. I want to just
be.

She'd been trying. She'd been silencing the voice in her head whenever it started in on her—the voice that sometimes sounded like Owen, and sometimes like his
mother. Mel had been doing her best to reconnect with her family and her old friends. She'd even been making a point of doing something impulsive every now and then, the way she used to before second-guessing herself had become a way of life.

She had no idea if any of it was making a difference, but she didn't know what else to do, either.

Her gaze shifted, focusing on the ghostlike reflection in the window instead of the yard outside. The woman staring back at her looked so sad and lost that she felt an instinctive surge of compassion for her.

You'll get there. Don't worry. You'll muddle your way through.

Turning away, she flicked off the light and walked to her bedroom. The familiar bedtime routine of washing her face and brushing her teeth was infinitely soothing, a form of behavioral valium, and she climbed into bed and pulled the quilt high around her shoulders.

Rather than give her whirling thoughts more oxygen, she very deliberately called up an image of her orchard-to-be.

Her brow furrowed with concentration, she began to plan her design. After a few minutes, her brow smoothed out.

Not long after that, she slipped into the forgetfulness and comfort of sleep.

 

T
HE FIRST THING
Mel remembered the next morning was that she'd promised her brush-cutter to Flynn so he could tackle his blackberries.

She groaned, covering her face with her hands.

Everything in her rebelled at the thought of facing him again after her undignified retreat last night. There was no way he didn't know why she'd left—she might
as well have hung a sign over her head with the words
I'm sexually aware of you
glowing in hot pink neon, the way she'd scrambled for the exit the moment he'd mentioned he was single.

He probably doesn't expect to see you, anyway. He probably thinks you made an off-the-cuff offer and won't be surprised if you don't follow through.

She seized on the idea the moment it registered. People made offers all the time that they didn't follow through on.
Come over for dinner sometime, we'll have to catch up, blah, blah.
It wouldn't be the end of the world if she simply…forgot to take her brush-cutter over to Summerlea.

Except, of course, that it would make her a big old yellow-bellied scaredy-cat. A cowardly custard who made excuses for herself instead of facing up to the world. Last night, she'd stood at her kitchen sink and grieved for the bold, adventurous, confident woman she'd once been. The only way she was going to get her back was to start challenging herself, pushing herself to move past all the little safety mechanisms she'd built into her life to protect herself and please her ex-husband.

She threw off the sheets and rolled out of bed. Then she showered and breakfasted and went out to collect the brush-cutter from the shed. She checked the oil, filled it with fuel and switched the bump-feed line head for the brush-cutting blade. Then she put all the necessary accessories together in a recyclable bag and loaded it into her car. She was about to head over to Summerlea when both sets of her guests appeared to hand in their keys and extend their thanks for a relaxing stay. She directed them to local cafés with reputations for good breakfasts and handed out winery trail maps and a
guide to the Tyabb antiques market in case they wanted to see a little more of the area before heading home. Then she girded her loins and drove over to Summerlea.

She collected the brush-cutter and accessories and did battle with the rusty gate latch before marching up the path. Her boots sounded very heavy and loud on the porch as she crossed to the front door.

She knocked, the sound echoing inside the house. Flynn didn't answer immediately and she rested the brush-cutter on the porch and knocked again. When nothing but silence greeted her, she walked around the house to double-check that his car was still there. It was.

He was obviously in the garden somewhere, even though it was still early. She could leave the equipment on the porch for him to find later. It was the perfect win-win—she would have fulfilled her obligation without having to look him in the eyes after last night's cut and run.

Sure, why not do that, you big old wuss? Then you could swing by the supermarket on the way home and grab enough canned food and bottled water so that you don't have to leave the house for the next six months.

She sighed. This being-brave, reclaiming-her-old-self business was hard work. Hoisting the cutter over her shoulder, she headed into the garden.

He'd mentioned the blackberry thicket was on the western boundary, so she headed there first. She walked along the sweep of lawn and onto a meandering forest path. She heard Flynn before she saw him, a colorful string of swear words floating to her on the breeze.

She found him in a small clearing that was domi
nated by a huge, bristling wall of blackberry bushes. The scattering of cut canes at his feet suggested he'd already launched his assault, but for the moment he was standing with his head bowed, a pair of hedge shears and thick gardening gloves at his feet as he examined a scratch on the back of his bare hand.

She took a deep breath. “Hi.”

His head snapped around, the frown sliding from his face when he saw her. “Hey.”

Even though her toes were curled inside her boots with self-consciousness, it was impossible not to feel warmed by the welcome in his eyes.

“You're up early,” she said.

“I've never been good at sleeping in.”

“Me, either. Is it bad?” she asked, gesturing toward his hand.

“I'll live.” His gaze shifted to the brush-cutter slung over her shoulder. “If that's what I think it is, I may have to kiss your feet.”

“I told you I'd bring it over.”

He didn't say anything and she knew they were both thinking about the way she'd bolted last night.

She cleared her throat. “Have you, um, used one of these before?”

“Only as a line trimmer.” He crossed to her side as she lowered the head of the cutter to the ground.

“It's pretty simple. You prime the engine here, then use the pull cord. It usually starts the first time, but if it doesn't, try priming it again. Here, I'll show you.”

He moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers as she angled the motor so he could see the priming button. She tried to ignore the smell of his deodorant as she pumped the primer a few times, then pulled the cord. The engine sprang to noisy life.

“Look at that. More reliable than my car,” he said.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that he was smiling, but she didn't dare look directly at him. She couldn't. He was standing too close.

“So this is the throttle, yeah?” he asked, pointing to the orange control halfway down the shaft. “And I assume this is the safety stop switch?”

“Exactly. I brought you some protective gear, too. The blade kicks up a lot of debris.”

She handed the brush-cutter over and watched as Flynn put the harness on so that the strap ran diagonally across his chest, the weight of the machine balanced near his hip. He frowned, adjusting it first to one side of his body, then to the other.

“It's sitting a little high,” she said. “You're taller than me.”

“I'm not sure an inch really counts.”

“I thought inches always counted with men. Sometimes twice.” She had no idea where the comment came from, but it was out her mouth before she could catch herself.

He let out a crack of laughter.

“Sorry,” she said automatically.

“What for? For being funny?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes. Owen had hated her smart mouth. “Women don't tell jokes,” he'd once told her. “It's unfeminine. And let's face it, you need all the help you can get in that department.”

She'd gotten used to guarding her words, in the same way that she'd gotten used to thinking twice before she did anything.

“If you stand still, I'll adjust that for you,” she said, indicating the harness.

She stepped closer. The adjustable buckle lay low on
Flynn's belly, above the waistband of his jeans. Her fingers brushed hard stomach muscles through his sweater as she lifted the strap away from his body.

“Can you take the weight off the harness for a moment?” she asked.

He did so wordlessly, lifting the brush-cutter so the harness hung loosely. She fed more strap through the buckle, lengthening the harness by a good couple of inches.

“There. That should do it.”

She made the mistake of looking up before she moved away. His blue eyes, clear and sharp, seemed very bright this morning as they looked into hers. As though he could see all the way through to her soul. “Thanks, Mel.”

Flustered, she bent to collect the safety equipment, passing over the hearing protectors and face mask.

“I feel like I should be terrorizing teenagers in
Friday the 13th,
” he said as he pulled on the mask.

“Trust me, five seconds from now you'll be grateful for it.”

He engaged the throttle experimentally before moving in on the blackberries for an experimental pass, the brush-cutter buzzing like an angry hornet. She stood to one side, watching his technique. After a few seconds she strode forward and touched his shoulder to get his attention.