The Other Side of Us - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,27
center of the cushion and Mr. Smith had curled his long body around hers. His head nestled on his outstretched paws, and he watched her every move with a single-minded devotion.
“I think we might have a romance on our hands,” he said.
She followed his gaze. “Smitty’s definitely enthralled. And she doesn’t seem to mind it too much.”
“I’d say she was eating it up with a spoon.”
“Speaking of which, time for dessert.”
She cleared the plates. He watched her walk to the sink, his gaze drawn yet again to her small, pert bottom.
“You want ice cream or cream or both?” Mackenzie asked.
“At the risk of imminent cardiac arrest, both, please.”
She was smiling when she returned with two plates bearing lemon tart, ice cream and cream. “Man after my own heart condition.”
The lemon tart was just that—tart and sharp and sweet and sour and so good that an involuntary moan of pleasure escaped him.
“That good, huh?” she asked.
“Lemon is one of my favorite flavors, and it’s been a while.”
“I always make it a rule never to go too long between good desserts. Life is too short.”
“That’s a pretty good rule.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
Her expression seemed self-satisfied, although not in a bad way, and once again he was struck by how attractive she was. It wasn’t just her eyes, although they were spectacular. It was the shape of her small nose and the plumpness of her lower lip and the laugh lines around her mouth.
Her smile faltered a little and he realized he was staring like...well, a little like poor, dumbstruck Smitty, if he were honest.
Mackenzie put an inordinate amount of attention into scooping up the last of her ice cream and he tried to pretend he couldn’t feel heat climbing into his cheeks.
He was really, really out of practice with this man-woman stuff. Not that this was a proper date with any expectations attached to it or anything like that, but still. Apparently he needed to brush up on his social skills before he ventured out too far in public.
“That was really delicious,” he said. “The whole meal was great. Definitely better than the canned spaghetti I had last night.”
“That’s a rather low standard you have there.”
“What can I say? I’m a man of simple tastes.”
He wasn’t sure how, but somehow his words came out sounding loaded. As though he was talking about tastes other than the ones that originated in his mouth.
“So, will your wife be enjoying this lovely, restful break in delightfully wintery Flinders with you?” Mackenzie asked.
For a second he was thrown. How did she know he was married? Then he realized she’d probably assumed he was. Not the craziest assumption given his age, and one that would have been accurate four months ago. He opened his mouth to tell her he was in the process of getting a divorce—then the memory of the last time he’d told someone about him and Edie popped into his head. He hadn’t stopped at sketching in the bare details, hadn’t been able to stop, and all the sordid, messy ugliness had come pouring out. Trying to extricate himself—and the poor person who had been on the receiving end of his spewing—from that embarrassing situation had been almost as bad as baring his soul.
So no way was he gutting himself in front of Mackenzie like that. He’d already made her uncomfortable with his dopey staring and rusty social skills. Discretion was definitely the better part of valor in this circumstance.
“No, she won’t.”
“That’s a shame,” Mackenzie said.
He made a noncommittal sound as she poured herself more wine. The dogs stirred, shifting positions on the cushion. Mackenzie smiled indulgently.
“How old is Strudel?” she asked.
“Eighteen months. How about Mr. Smith?”
“Nearly three now. Poor little guy. He was so confused when I had my accident. He had to live with my friend Kelly for nearly eight months. I was worried he’d forget me after all that time, but he still did the happy dance when he saw me.”
He knew what she was referring to—the complicated little dance Strudel did whenever he came home, complete with crazily wagging tail, bright eyes and lolling tongue.
“Gotta love the happy dance.”
“Yeah, you do.”
Her gaze rested on her dog, her expression suddenly pensive. “You know what I love about having a dog? They don’t have moods.” Her gaze met his, very intense and maybe even a little fierce. “He’s always happy to see me. He always wants to be tickled on his belly. He’s loyal and steadfast to a fault. Utterly and completely