It's Never too Late - By Tara Taylor Quinn Page 0,107
thought she was incredibly rude all but slamming the door in his face.
She shrugged. There wasn’t much she could do about that, and it wasn’t the end of the world. They were hardly going to become bosom buddies, after all. She’d moved to the beach house for one reason and one reason only—to recover. She didn’t care who moved in next door or what he looked like or what he thought of her.
She only wanted her life back. And she would bloody well do her damnedest to get it.
* * *
OLIVER HAD TO THINK about it, but he was pretty sure that no one had ever slammed a door in his face before. Not even an angry ex-girlfriend. So much for easing the concerns of his elderly neighbor.
Not that there was anything elderly about Mackenzie Williams. If he had to guess, he’d say she was around the same age as him—thirty-nine—and judging by her firm, lean body, there was nothing remotely doddery about her. Nothing soft or warm or welcoming about her, either, from the cool, clear blue of her eyes and small, straight nose to her very short brown hair.
From the second she’d opened the door she’d wanted him gone—he’d felt the force of her will like a hand shoving him away. More fool him for trying to do the right thing in the first place. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, not where she was concerned.
He’d met a lot of women like Mackenzie over the years. Edie had gravitated to that type of woman—aspirational middle-class, with European luxury cars in their driveways, addresses in the “right” part of town, foreheads injected with Botox, fashionably skinny bodies and husbands who earned the big money in banking or law. The only wonder was that Mackenzie had taken time out from her no-doubt hectic social schedule to rusticate in the wilds of the Mornington Peninsula. Hardly the kind of place he’d expect to find an upwardly mobile, hard-edged woman like her.
He paused climbing the steps to his porch, aware that there was a considerable degree of vitriol in his thoughts. Perhaps a disproportionately large degree, given the length of his acquaintance with Mackenzie Williams. They had been talking for all of two minutes before she’d slammed the door, after all. Hardly enough time to drum up a high level of ire.
Before his life had turned out to be about as substantial as an empty cereal packet, he’d considered himself a pretty easygoing kind of guy. Not particularly prone to temper tantrums, reasonably long fuse, pretty quick with a laugh when something tickled his funny bone.
Lately, though... Lately he’d noticed a tendency to see only the darkness, the ugliness in people and the world. And his fuse had shortened considerably. Six months ago, Mackenzie’s little stunt would have made him laugh and worry about her blood pressure. Today, it filled him with the urge to do something childish like put Led Zeppelin on the stereo and turn up the volume to bleeding-eardrum level so that it rattled her windows.
He released his breath on an exasperated exhalation. It didn’t take a psychologists’ convention to work out where the impulse stemmed from and who his anger was really directed at.
Edie.
Except she was a thousand miles away and he hadn’t spoken to her for more than three months.
Because he didn’t know what to do with all the anger Mackenzie had inadvertently triggered in him, he strode through the house and into the yard, aiming for the shed in the far corner. Nothing like a distraction to avoid dealing with his feelings.
Strudel kept pace with him, her whiskered face bright with doggy anticipation. At least one of them was getting something out of this.
He was struggling with the rusty latch on the shed when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen before deciding to take the call. It was Brent, his brother.
“You there yet or still on the road?” Brent asked.
“Got here a couple of hours ago.”
“How’s the place looking?”
“Old.”
“Coat of paint will fix that. I’ve been doing some research. Looks like the big-gun real-estate agent in the area is Dixon and Lane.”
Oliver gave the latch a thump with his fist. “It’ll be a while before I can call the agents in, mate.” The latch finally gave and he pulled the door open. “Bloody hell.”
“What?”
“The garden shed is stuffed with furniture.” His gaze ran over chairs, a sideboard, a dresser, a bed frame, all of it crammed cheek by jowl and covered with dust.