Page 28 of The Science of Attraction

Liam squeezed my hand and let go.

The moment gone.

The clock silent.

My arm snapped back to my side and heat exploded in my cheeks.

Liam got to his feet and began tidying up. “You need to keep off it like the doctor said, at least for today.” He didn’t look at me. “It’ll give the edges a chance to knit a little.”

I nodded to the back of his head. “I will. I’ve got some bookwork to get done that will keep me busy enough.”

“That’s good, then.” He glanced at the closed hallway door. “I should really get going. I’m taking your dad for a slow walk to my cottage and back, and then it’s a lesson in the kitchen.”

My brows peaked. “Myfather? In the kitchen? Doing what exactly?”

He finally grinned and looked my way. “Making coffee, packing the dishwasher, putting a sandwich together—basic stuff like that. I can’t deal with helpless men. Gives us all a bad name. I told your mother that she has to stand back and let him learn. And I told Paddy that it’s perfect practice for co-ordinating his fine motor movement.”

I laughed. “You’re a terrible person. On the other hand, my mother may love you forever.”

Liam smiled that curious smile he always wore when something amused him. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it. Look after your leg and take it easy.” He held my gaze a second too long, like he might add something, but then he crossed the kitchen and disappeared into the back of the house without another word.

I blew out a long sigh and glared at the damn clock—its incessant tick like a finger of accusation in the quiet kitchen.

“Okay, already,” I grumbled. “I’m an idiot. Tell me something I don’t know. Or better yet, make yourself useful and tell me what the hell I’m going to do about it.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I sighed and glanced at the hallway door. “Yeah, well, thanks for nothing.”

CHAPTEREIGHT

Liam

The week after Jules’injury spring arrived in the Mackenzie like a debutante at a ball—sweeping in full of joy and beauty and promise if only you could get past the icy stare of her chaperone still clinging to her skirts.

On Monday morning I woke to a ball-biting frost. One look at the beauty that beckoned me outside and I couldn’t get out of bed fast enough. Tussock crunched underfoot as I jogged across the lawn, my breath fogging in front of my face. And when I hit the gravel drive and turned south, the iced pools of water caught in the potholes shattered like glass with every thundering step.

I hadn’t been running long when Stuart and Brent cruised past on their quads, no doubt heading for the south pasture. They waved gloved hands in greeting, their jackets zipped to their chins, woolly hats pulled low over their ears, dogs barking excitedly into the chilly breeze.

I scanned the valley as I ran, adrenaline coursing through my veins, my heart full of beauty. The tops of the ranges cut a crisp line against the sky, and although the peaks still bore a solid cap of snow on their slopes, only pockets remained in the shadowy crevices of the lower ranges. But best of all—the glacial headwater melt, full of freshly ground rock flour, had turned the Macaulay River a magical milky turquoise that would’ve stolen the breath from my lungs if the cold had left any to take.

I returned from my run in high spirits and spent fifteen minutes in the shower trying to warm my toes enough to feel them again. But by late morning, the arctic temperature had risen to a positively balmy sixteen degrees Celsius and I was wandering outside in just a T-shirt and jeans for the first time since my arrival. I’d never been a winter guy, but I was beginning to think that could change.

Norma had driven Paddy into Oakwood for a late morning appointment with his doctor followed by a barrage of tests that would take up most of the afternoon. Everyone agreed the excursion would drain most of Paddy’s energy and so I was using the free time to do a circuit of the station outbuildings and make a plan. I wanted to map a route to the woolshed and back which was suitable for Paddy and his quad cane. He’d managed the short trip to my cottage several times and I wanted to up the ante.

My intention was to break the course into small manageable sections before putting them together. The goal was to have Paddy complete the entire circuit on his own by the time I left. It was an ambitious goal but achievable, if he put his mind to it.

Paddy’s obstinate nature had come into its own. He didn’t admit defeat easily and my intense exercise regime during our first couple of weeks was finally starting to see results. His right-sided weakness was slowly improving, and although he’d likely always need an aid to help him walk, he was beginning to take more weight on that leg. His right hand still couldn’t grasp a cup but he had much better elbow and shoulder control, which made dressing himself easier, especially after I had Norma switch out as many buttons and dome snaps as she could for zips and Velcro.

And Paddy had kept his side of our agreement. No bigoted comments, at least within my earshot, and no fighting my touch. He was still ornery as fuck, but I could give as good as I got, and he seemed to appreciate that side of me. It was progress, but I was under no illusion he’d somehow miraculously changed his opinion ofthe gays. He still avoided any conversation about Zach, and I’d been privy to several failed attempts by Norma to get him to invite his youngest son for dinner.

The man had a stubborn streak to rival his best Angus bull.

Reaching the woolshed at last, I climbed the ramp and opened the door. I no longer found the sharp scent startling or pungent. It had somehow morphed into this homely familiarity that was almost welcoming. Probably because it wasn’t limited to the shed. The aroma pervaded everything down to the pores of your skin—the woolshed simply offered it in its most concentrated form.

And it wasn’t just the smell. I’d noticed a slickness to my skin from the ever-present lanolin on every surface. A man could save a fortune on moisturiser. At least this man could. And if I closed my eyes, I was pretty sure I’d still be able to hear the ghostly clamour of the departed shearing gang, and the dogs baying in the pens.

Any day now I’d start wearing stubbies in the freezing cold, talking about the big snow of 2000, complaining about all the scarfies filling up the Tekapo campground in spring break, and looking forward to the annual Fieldays event up north. Kill me now.

---