The Other Side of Us - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,66

Mackenzie’s workload, assigning her the task of cataloging and photographing their finds, but she insisted on helping him shift the bulkier items.

“You’re pretty strong for a girl,” he observed as they set down a chunky Edwardian-era card table. Especially for a girl who had been put back together again by surgeons.

“Rehab, baby.” She pulled up her sleeve and flexed her biceps for him. It was noticeable and he gave an appreciative whistle.

“Few more inches, you might actually be dangerous,” he said.

“I’m dangerous now. You just don’t know it.” She threw him a challenging look as she walked toward the shed.

He had to agree with her—she was dangerous. To his peace of mind, as well as his resolve. The tight bounce of her bottom, the gleam in her eye. The arch of her slim neck, the tilt to her mouth.

She was sexy and smart and real, and a part of him wanted to snatch what she offered—pleasure and desire and distraction and laughter—and hang on for grim life.

But he hadn’t forgotten that sense of panic from last night. The feeling that he’d grabbed a tiger by the tail. Until he had his head on straight, he had no business even looking sideways at Mackenzie.

They worked until midday, talking and laughing, sharing stories from their working lives and childhoods. He learned that she’d tortured her brother when they were younger by throwing her least favorite vegetables under his chair at the dining-room table when their parents weren’t looking, letting him take the blame for the failure to eat. He told her about the time he and Brent wrote a stream of outraged letters to the purveyors of X-ray glasses, complaining that despite having handed over a significant sum of pocket money, they were unable to see through walls.

At lunchtime, Oliver and Mackenzie drove into town to buy sandwiches and vanilla cakes from the local sweetshop. Mackenzie insisted she was happy to keep working into the afternoon, pointing out they were very close to finishing. She was right—the clock hit two as they photographed the last piece and returned it to the shed.

“I think I owe you dinner as well as lunch,” he said as they walked to the house.

“What you owe me is three more hours on the end of a shovel. Don’t think I wasn’t keeping track.”

He noticed that she hadn’t responded to his invitation, which he chose to interpret as a “thanks, but no thanks.” Probably a good decision, all things considered.

“Someone’s going to have a great time restoring all that furniture,” Mackenzie said as they entered the kitchen.

“Not me, thank God. I’ll be more than happy to see the back of it.”

“Amen.”

Mackenzie busied herself at the sink, washing her dusty hands and forearms.

“I’ll grab you a towel,” he said, heading for the bathroom.

She was washing the last of the soap off as he returned, and she glanced toward the doorway expectantly. There was a smudge on her nose and a cobweb in her hair. At some point she’d stripped off her sweater to reveal a slim-fitting black T-shirt, and the soft fabric outlined her breasts and belly faithfully. Because he wanted to touch her so badly it hurt, he fell back on the devices of adolescence, tossing the towel at her so swiftly and forcefully it hit her in the chest before she could intercept it.

“Hey!”

“Sorry.”

“Like hell.”

He grinned. She dried her hands, shaking her head.

“You didn’t really expect me to take that sort of unprovoked attack lying down, did you?” she asked, her head tilted to one side, her eyes bright.

“It was an accident. Bad timing.” He kept his expression deadpan.

“Yeah? Wait till you see my timing with a towel flick.”

She held the towel by one corner and twisted her hand in the air, coiling the towel on itself.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned her.

“Lucky you’re not me, then.”

She flicked the towel at him, but he was ready for her, his hand flashing out to grab the end before it could connect. She gave a war cry, securing her grip on her portion, refusing to relinquish her weapon as he tried to tug it free. He laughed and began hauling her toward him instead, using the towel to reel her in.

“I warned you,” he told her.

Despite her laughing efforts to dig her heels in, she was soon within reach.

“Give up yet?” he asked.

“Do you give up?”

“Never.”

He gave one last, hard yank, jerking her forward a final step so that there was less than a foot