Only We Know (16 page)

‘No need for that. I stopped in at the supermarket on our way here. You were still fast asleep. Stayed that way the whole time.'

Calla's face was a question waiting to be asked. ‘What did you get?'

‘Steak. Salad,' Sam said. ‘Does that meet with your approval?'

Calla rested her elbow on the bench and her chin in her hand. ‘Sounds awesome.'

‘Wait until you taste it. The boys at the station line up for my steak.'

Calla pulled out a barstool and sat down, watched Sam unpack the ingredients from the bag and deposit them on the bench with a flourish. She was quite relieved they weren't reliant on her culinary skills for sustenance. She didn't possess any. Whatever passion she had was reserved for her canvases, not the kitchen. While he worked, chopping up cucumber and tomato, cubing a block of feta cheese, Calla gave in to the moment.

So she was stranded a long way from home. She couldn't do anything about that right now but she could allow herself to enjoy the food fortune of having a handsome firefighter make her dinner. So, he was pretty good to look at. She'd noticed that the first time she'd seen him with her glasses on. He was tall and strong and she already knew from seeing it with her own eyes that he was one of those men who could save your life if it happened to need saving. And she didn't mean the emotional kind — who needed a man for that? Sam was a man who would cut you out of a crashed car, run into a burning house to find you or bring you back to life if you were near death.

And she found all of that a total turn-on.

Was she letting down her defences and falling for the professional hero, after all?

No. She wasn't that shallow and, despite her accusations, neither was Sam.

There was something else. Her body already knew it and she wondered if her head would figure it out soon. There was an indefinable connection between them that had flared almost the first time they'd met. It was attraction, sure. But there was more to it. It was in the way he'd patiently listened to his father during the afternoon, smiling and asking the same questions with quiet politeness. They way he'd looked at her whenever Charlie assumed she was his wife. The way he'd just decided to make her dinner without even asking.

Especially
the way he'd just decided to make her dinner. For the second night in a row.

‘Tell me something, Calla.'

‘Hmm?'

‘Why is it that you barely had any food but you seem to be so well stocked with wine?'

‘Because my priorities are in the right order. It was, naturally, the first thing I packed.'

Sam laughed at her. ‘You didn't think you'd be able to buy wine on the island?'

‘I couldn't take a risk, not when it comes to the essentials.' Calla reached for the bottle and filled her glass to the brim. What the hell if it was about four standard drinks? She lifted it and held it towards him.

‘Cheers, big ears.' And she took a huge mouthful.

After dinner, they talked politely about Sam's childhood on the family farm. The weather. The state of the dirt roads and the battle the islanders had waged for years to get them sealed on the western end. Once the dishes were done — Calla had volunteered again because Sam had cooked again — she found a second bottle of wine and they retreated to the twin sofas. One of them sat safely on each, away from each other. The easy flow of the conversation — and the wine — had made Calla loose, less cautious, comfortable enough to try and dig a little deeper under the façade of the hero firefighter she'd inadvertently come to be sharing a cabin with.

She watched as Sam leant towards her and filled her glass, the bouquet wafting up to her. She breathed it in. ‘Sam, can I ask you that question now, about your father?'

He met her eyes and the open softness in them created a surge of tension in her chest. Maybe he'd realised too that they were sharing more than stories. They were getting to know each other's secrets.

‘I know he's going downhill. You don't have to tell me that.'

‘Do you think Charlie's memory has got worse since the last time you were here?'

Sam propped his socked feet on the coffee table, relaxed back into the sofa, rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. ‘Yeah, it definitely has.'

His voice seeped inside Calla, as thick and sweet as honey. There was a huskiness to it, a lived-in quality, as if it had grown ragged barking commands at junior firefighters and shouting at people in emergency situations to remain calm. It was the kind of voice that could get you to do almost anything.

‘I have to admit, I don't normally talk to him as much as I did today. For the past year or so I've flown over, filled up the fridge and the cupboards, had a row with him about moving into a nursing home, and then flown back to Adelaide with steam coming out of my ears at how stubborn he is. And as you can see, that's been a huge success so far.'

‘I can understand why he might not want to leave. It's so beautiful there. And he has the dogs as well.'

‘It's beautiful, but it's a burden.' A shadow crossed Sam's face.

‘He's probably lived there his whole life, right?'

‘Nearly. Mum and Dad moved up to Roo's Rest the day they got married, and built the place together. It was the only family home I ever knew.'

‘Sam … I hope you don't mind me saying but, whether it's intentional or not, things are starting to slip. The place looked tidy enough, but the kitchen … It's what happens to oldies, especially when their sight isn't the best. They miss things.'

Sam swirled the wine around, tried not to look at Calla. She hadn't meant to embarrass him, talking about his father this way.

‘Thanks for doing that. Cleaning it up the way you did.'

Calla shifted, propped her elbow on the backrest of the sofa and rested her head in her hand. ‘I didn't want to make him look careless or helpless. But—' She hesitated. ‘Everything was dirty, as if a fine layer of oil had been sprayed over the cupboards, the stove, the bench tops. He's probably been frying everything and forgetting to clean it.'

Sam smiled, just a little. ‘He liked meeting you.'

Calla felt the heat in the moment and was suddenly skittish about so many of them with Sam in the one day. She tried to shrug off his compliment. ‘Who wouldn't? I'm adorable. And your father is an outrageous flirt.'

‘Charlie always did like a beautiful woman.'

‘And I can see where you get your charm from. He's been alone a long time, hasn't he?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What happened to your mum?'

‘She died of breast cancer. Four years ago. I think that's why the old man doesn't want to leave the house. They never spent a night apart during their whole marriage, except when she was away for treatment. Can you believe that?'

Calla's eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh Sam. That's so sad. Were they happy, your parents?'

Sam stopped to think about her question. It looked to Calla as if he'd never wondered about his parents' marriage before, which gave her the answer she was after. Children know when their parents are unhappy. It seeps into every conversation, every meal, every word. She knew how unhappiness poisoned the very DNA of the way a family worked; twisted every gathering and every memory. She felt a stab in her heart. She hadn't known families could be any different until high school, when she'd started staying over with friends and felt the camaraderie and ease in those homes. And that's when the heartbreak of her own family's dysfunction had hurt her even more.

‘I think they were. Can't say I noticed anything when I was a kid. I was happy; we had a happy family. And then—' He stopped, averted his eyes. Stared at the wine, took a swig. ‘How can you know from the outside of a marriage if it's good or not, even your parents' marriage? And anyway, I left twenty years ago. Who knows what happened in that little house after I was gone?'

‘Is that when you went over to Adelaide?'

Sam nodded.

‘And then you became a fireman?'

‘No, I went to uni first; got a science degree. I applied to the fire service after that.'

Her desire to know more about this man pulled her up. She didn't want to be fascinated by him, but it was already too late.

‘Do you like your job?'

‘Yeah, I do.'

‘You must see some horrible things,' she said quietly. ‘Like yesterday, for example.'

‘Nah.' He shook off her question, met her eyes with a smile. ‘It's mostly rescuing cats from trees and posing for the firefighters' calendar.' She noticed that his smile quickly faded.

‘Sure it is.'

‘So, what about you? What do you do for a gig back in the real world?'

‘I run art workshops for kids in primary schools. I teach them to draw and make things. Be creative. Draw. Paint pictures. Create mosaics, that kind of thing.'

Sam studied her and she felt a blush in her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze. ‘You're an artist. Just like Jem.'

‘No, not like him at all. I teach it, but I'm no good at it.'

Sam looked taken aback. ‘What are you talking about? How can you teach it and not be good at it?'

‘That painting of his you bought today? That's a million times better than I will ever do, and Jem never even studied. He must have got it from Mum, that talent. I went to uni for three years, beat my head up against a brick wall every day, and I've ended up about one quarter as good.' Or maybe no good at all. Calla tried to hide the embarrassment in her own admission, feeling foolish for sounding so petulant.

‘I'd like to see your work one day.'

Calla swallowed. She hadn't exhibited in years and really only painted for herself. It helped her relax, like some people cooked or jogged. The painting was what she'd always loved. The creating. Not the scrutiny and the criticism. ‘It's nothing special, really. It's just a hobby.'

‘I'm no critic, but I like what I like. And I like your brother's painting of my dad. Why don't we take it with us tomorrow and show him? See if it helps him remember? We can drive out there again after breakfast. He might make more sense in the morning.'

Sam stood, unfurled his long arms and long legs, stretched his arms up high, and yawned. ‘I'm hitting the sack,' he said. ‘This morning person is buggered.'

Calla rose to her feet too. The floor was cold under her socks and she looked down to her toes, wiggling them for warmth. When she looked up, Sam was next to her, looking down at her. Calla held her breath at the suddenly serious look in his eyes.

‘See you in the morning,' she managed to say.

And then without him saying a word, his arms were wide and he'd gathered her up in them, pulling her to his chest, holding her tightly. Calla didn't want to think about why she needed this from Sam, but she suddenly did. She wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling the muscles tense and shift in his back as she held on to him. She pressed her cheek to his chest and one of his hands slowly smoothed up her back to the nape of her neck. The unexpected skin to skin contact set every nerve ending on edge and she held her breath. But not for long. It came out in a slow exhale as she relaxed into his embrace, trying and failing to fight the feeling that this was right; that this was where she should be.

‘Good night,' she murmured into the soft wool of his jumper.

Sam shifted his head slightly. He pressed his lips to her hair, kissed her at the crown of her head. ‘Sweet dreams,' he replied gruffly.

She pulled back from him, looked up into his eyes. His arms were still around her and he leant down to kiss her on the mouth. Quick but strong. He tasted of man and red wine and she wanted to drink him up. As he pulled his lips from hers, the look on his face transformed from soft to blazing in an instant. It was control fighting with desire, right there in his dark eyes, on his full lips and in the tension in the crease at the top of his nose.

Control won. He stopped. Let go of her.

Before she could react, Sam was closing his bedroom door behind him.

CHAPTER

20

Calla liked the way Sam drove. There was something so damn sexy and masculine and powerful about it, she decided as she sat back in the passenger seat, watching him. His strong right hand gripped the steering wheel and his left hand rested lightly on the gear stick, and she couldn't help but notice how his fingers tightened around it when he changed gears. He had to bend his long legs a bit either side of the steering wheel because his commanding height made him almost too big even for his four-wheel drive. Ray-Bans on his face, stubble on his chin. He looked like a fighter pilot. And that three-day growth on his jaw?

Calla squeezed her eyes closed. She'd obviously been without a man for too long if she was getting turned on by the way he drove his damn car.

But she couldn't help herself. There was something so politically incorrect about letting Sam take control the way he had, going with his flow, surrendering herself to the way he looked after her. She did
not
need looking after, but it was so nice to let someone else do the work for a change.

She didn't offer to drive because she couldn't drive a manual car — and she knew that, even if she had offered, he would have brushed her off. She didn't need to navigate with a map she couldn't understand: he knew these roads well, knew the shortcuts, including which ones to avoid because they were flooding hazards in winter. It was all a relief, if she was honest. In every other part of her life, there was just her. She'd never lived with anyone or been married. She'd never had anyone to rely on. Even the couple of long-term relationships she'd had when she was younger weren't with the type of guys you could call to come and help if something went wrong. She'd had a habit of picking sensitive, bookish types who responded to a domestic crisis by calling a tradesman. And then she'd wasted years with a married man who wouldn't have come even if she called him.