The Other Side of Us - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,42

each of the dogs.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Oliver said.

She threw her scrunched-up serviette at him, which only made him laugh more loudly.

He left her with the bottle of wine and the fire while he sorted out dessert. She shifted to the rug before the hearth and sat staring into the flames, feeling warm and well fed and content as she listened to him rattle around in the kitchen. After a few seconds she closed her eyes and let her head drop against the couch behind her.

Funny how comfortable she felt around him so quickly. As a general rule, she took a while to warm to people, her innate caution leading her to keep her distance until she had a sense of who the other person was. She and Oliver might have gotten off on the wrong foot initially, but once she’d seen him clearly, he’d catapulted over her usual defenses with his openness and sincerity.

It probably didn’t hurt that he was a very sexy, attractive man, or that there was something about him that drew her like iron filings to a magnet or ants to honey. Charm? Charisma? Presence? However you defined it, he had it. A certain light in his eyes, a quickness to his wit, an innate confidence in himself that was evident in every move he made. All of which meant he could admit to being useless with directions or ask for help gutting a fish and not lose one iota of his masculine appeal.

“Hey.”

She opened her eyes to find Oliver standing over her, plate in hand. For a moment they simply stared at each other in the flickering firelight. There was something in his face—an intensity—that made her wonder how long he’d been watching her drowse. An odd little prickle of awareness tugged at her.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this. Tell me, is it considered a compliment when the guest falls asleep between courses?” he asked.

“If not, it should be.” She sat up a little straighter and sniffed appreciatively. “I smell chocolate.”

His mouth kicked up at the corner as he handed her the plate. “Brilliant detective work, Dr. Watson.”

He left the room briefly before returning with his own plate and they were both silent as they ate their dessert.

“This mousse is really good,” Mackenzie said.

“Thanks. I opened the package myself.”

She smiled at his small joke, but for some reason she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Suddenly she was acutely aware of the fact that they were alone, surrounded by all the accoutrements of a clichéd romantic evening—the wine, the fire, the dim lighting. She was sure it was unintentional—not for a second did she think that Oliver had hatched a plot to seduce her—but now the thought had popped into her head she couldn’t seem to get it out.

He sat on the rug opposite her, his back against a wing-back armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him. His legs looked so long and strong, the muscles of his thighs discernible beneath the soft denim of his jeans. At some point he’d taken his shoes off and his socked feet were crossed at the ankles. Like the rest of him, they were big but surprisingly elegant looking.

Stop staring at his feet, for Pete’s sake, and say something.

She cleared her throat, even though she had no idea what she was about to say. Before she could speak up, his phone rang.

“Sorry. It’s probably Brent, my brother.” He reached out to grab the handset from the coffee table.

He glanced at the caller ID and frowned before taking the call.

“Hello? Oliver speaking.”

She heard someone speak, a woman’s voice. Oliver’s expression turned stony.

“I thought we agreed to do everything through the lawyers.”

The coldness in his voice, the abrupt change in his demeanor—Mackenzie had no doubt whatsoever who was on the other end of the line. Her stomach dipped.

The woman spoke again. Something flickered across Oliver’s face.

“Are you all right?” The words seemed dragged from him.

Mackenzie realized she was eavesdropping as avidly as a voyeur so she rose and collected first her plate then his. Without looking at him, she slipped into the kitchen. She could still hear his voice, but not every word. She busied herself at the sink, running water and washing first the dishes then the frying pan and the salad bowl. All the while, she wondered why Oliver’s ex was calling, trying to work out what she’d seen in his face when he’d asked if Edie was all right. Concern? Lingering