Page 8 of Where the Heart Is

Even from a young age, he’d seen the way his dad treated his mum—like an annoyance rather than a wife—and Sawyer had done whatever he could to protect her. Including act like a jackass. Maybe his clownish ways had started then, desperate to make his mother and sisters laugh to distract from the fraught atmosphere whenever his father entered the house. It worked on them, so he carried over his behaviour to school, determined to be seen as the funny guy, the popular guy, the joker, to distract from how badly he struggled to understand the most basic of curriculum.

‘Well, if you ever want to take a stroll down memory lane, you know where to find me.’ Mila popped a mini rissole into her mouth and chewed. ‘Though not for much longer if I can’t afford the mortgage repayments.’

His heart sank at the sight of her so despondent and he wished he could help. She wouldn’t accept it, but he had to offer once more. ‘I meant what I said before, Gumnut. Anything I can do, all you have to do is ask.’

‘So you’re mister moneybags now, are you?’

He knew she didn’t mean to sound so harsh, that she was trying to deflect so he wouldn’t notice the sheen of tears in her eyes again. Those damn tears slugged him anew.

‘Being a land broker pays the bills,’ he said, wondering what she’d think if she saw his bank balance.

The class clown had made good and then some.

With a little careful investing early in his career, he’d managed to buy two rental properties on Melbourne’s fringe, as well as the house he resided in when he wasn’t on the road, among the leafy streets of affluent Hawthorn.

If Mila needed financial assistance he could definitely help, but her inherent stubborn streak meant she wouldn’t accept it no matter how many times he offered.

Unless he took a different approach …

An idea shimmered into consciousness, but he’d have to do some digging before he presented it to her in a way she couldn’t say no to.

‘Shall we make a toast?’ He picked up one of the champagne bottles on ice and waited until she nodded before popping the cork and filling two flutes.

After he’d handed her one, he raised his. ‘To old friends.’

‘To old friends,’ she echoed. As they tapped glasses, their gazes locked, and Sawyer wondered if contemplating sticking around for longer than a day was the craziest thing he’d done in a long time.

CHAPTER

6

Adelaide forgot to breathe the minute she laid eyes on Jack after all this time.

Her chest constricted and dizziness swamped her. She clutched at the doorjamb, only to find Jack’s arms around her.

‘Easy there, old girl,’ he murmured, leading her into the welcome cool of the cottage provided by centuries-old sandstone.

The familiar cadence of his voice made her chest constrict further and for some unfathomable reason tears stung her eyes. She’d shed enough tears over this man decades ago. No way in hell she’d cry now. ‘Who are you calling old, fossil?’

He chuckled and led her to a suede sofa. As he gently lowered her onto it, Adelaide didn’t know what surprised her more: the fact Jack had laughed when he should be ranting at her for abandoning him fourteen years ago, or that the living room resembled her idea of a dream house as much as the cottage’s exterior.

The rough-hewn sandstone bricks that comprised the walls were a perfect contrast for the A-frame wood-lined ceilings and mezzanine. Suede sofas and armchairs the colour of burnt toffee were split by a massive rectangular red-gum coffee table, and a state-of-the-art flatscreen TV perched on the wall above a gas log fire.

How she’d longed for a fireplace like that at the farm, where she hated having to empty ash out of the grate every day in the winter, and the prospect of finding snakes in the log pile outside. She’d asked Jack once, but he’d cited the usual ‘waste of money’ excuse, adding to her burgeoning resentment.

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said, giving her time to reassemble her wits, and that’s when reality hit.

Jack hadn’t been pining for her as a small part of her hoped.

Oh no. Jack had shacked up with a woman who had the same excellent taste she did.

And she didn’t know what made her angrier: Jack moving on—and still looking damn good, with his wavy peppery hair, hazel eyes, perpetual stubble—or her giving a damn.

She closed her eyes, inhaling to the count of four, holding her breath for four, and exhaling to the count of eight, a meditation technique she’d learned many years ago when she first arrived in Tally Bay. It never failed to ground her, but as the sofa dipped beside her and she smelled an intriguing blend of cinnamon and sandalwood, she knew all the deep breathing in the world couldn’t settle her.

She opened her eyes to find Jack studying her with unnerving intensity, as if trying to memorise every line on her face.

‘Here. Drink this.’ He thrust a glass at her and damned if her throat didn’t clog with emotion again as she realised he’d made her a manhattan: whiskey, sweet vermouth, bitters, with a slice of orange peel. Her favourite. ‘Alcohol’s good for the shock. Unless you came looking for me?’

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