The Other Side of Us - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,37

Then she blinked and the sky was once again blue overhead, the wind chill on her cheeks, Oliver at her side.

“I was lucky someone came along a few minutes later and called for help. Probably wouldn’t have made it otherwise,” she said matter-of-factly.

They’d arrived at the houses and he turned to face her.

“Scary stuff.”

“Yeah. I guess the downside of a long recovery is having an excess of time to think about it—repeatedly. I like to think I’ve mostly desensitized myself—” a slight exaggeration, perhaps “—but who knows. I definitely make a point of noticing and appreciating the small stuff these days.”

“I bet.” He unwound the scarf and handed his end to her. “Thanks for sharing your bounty.”

“I’ll pass your compliments on to my niece.”

“Tell her it’s the warmest half scarf I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing.”

“Will do.”

Neither of them said anything for a beat. Mackenzie glanced toward her house. It was cold out here and she wanted to be inside, but she didn’t want to stop talking to Oliver. He was easy company, fun and fast on his feet. She wondered what he’d say if she invited him in for coffee.

“I suppose I should finish sorting through the back bedroom,” he said.

“Sure.” She shortened Smitty’s leash to signal that the canine love fest was about to end. “I’ll see you around, okay? Thanks for the walk.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

She started up her driveway, very aware of the fact that Oliver still remained in the street, watching her. She concentrated fiercely on her stride, trying to make it as smooth and effortless-looking as possible. She didn’t want him pitying her.

It occurred to her that a year ago she would have been more concerned about the size of her ass than the way she walked. Amazing how the world could tilt on its axis and things that had once seemed so vital could be rendered so insignificant.

She allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder when she reached the porch. Oliver was still there, crouched beside Strudel as he attempted to brush sand from her damp coat. He was talking to her and shaking his head and Mackenzie wished she could hear what he was saying. Something funny, no doubt.

She was staring—again—and forced herself to go inside. Mr. Smith headed up the hallway at a leisurely trot, clearly tuckered out after his romp. She didn’t immediately follow him. Instead, she stood in the foyer, hand pressed to her belly, trying to understand what was happening to her.

Somehow, she’d gone from acknowledging Oliver’s attractiveness to being attracted to him. A thin line under ordinary circumstances, perhaps, but at the moment it seemed a huge leap. For months she had been nothing but a body, a collection of bones and muscles and organs that the doctors had stitched and stapled and screwed back together and that she had nurtured back to strength. She hadn’t thought about sex or desire or men or anything even close to it. She’d been sexless, essentially, and she hadn’t even noticed.

Then Oliver had arrived less than a week ago and she’d caught herself feeling nervous and primping and dressing to please him, even when she’d suspected he was happily married. Now he was unhappily on the verge of divorce and her awareness of him as a man had expanded exponentially.

Which meant...what, exactly? That she was horny? That she was lonely? That he was an attractive man and that her libido hadn’t been crushed in the accident after all?

Without really thinking about it, she lifted his end of the scarf to her nose and inhaled. She smelled wool and ocean and something with hints of sandalwood and musk. Oliver’s aftershave.

She remembered the way his shoulder had bumped against hers as they walked, how good it had felt to find the rhythm of another person’s stride and match her own to it. How good it had felt to be connected, intimate.

He’s a mess. And so are you.

Hard to disagree with the logician in her head. Bunching the scarf in one hand, she made her way to her bedroom and returned it to the cupboard. The odds were strong she wouldn’t see him for a while now, anyway. Which would be a good thing.

Apparently.

* * *

OLIVER SAT AT his aunt’s kitchen table, warming his hands around a mug of coffee. If he was a smoother guy, more practiced in the art of seduction, he would have somehow inveigled Mackenzie into inviting him to her place and right now he’d be sitting at