All They Need (14 page)

By five o'clock Flynn was sweaty, sore and covered with grit. It had been a while since he'd worked with his body and hands for a full day and he had a new respect for Mel after watching her toil alongside the men without once letting up. As the time edged toward five-thirty he began to wonder when, exactly, the apparently indefatigable Porters were going to call it quits. He heaved a silent sigh of relief when her father dug his shovel into the garden bed with an air of finality.

“Right, that's it. It's getting dark and cold and I need food,” Mike said.

No one was about to argue. Between the five of them they returned Mel's tools to the shed, then Mel ushered them all into her kitchen and distributed beers. Harry sat back in his chair and made an appreciative sound as he swallowed his first mouthful. Flynn had to agree that an ice cold beer had never tasted quite so good before, probably because he knew he'd bloody well earned it.

“Okay, dinner is on me. Fish and chips. Who wants what?” Mel asked.

She had a notepad in hand and a smudge of dirt on her cheek. He watched in amusement as she proceeded to decipher the barrage of requests from her family before finally fixing her gaze on him.

“What's the burger situation like?” he asked.

“Good fish-and-chip-shop standard, verging on very good at times.”

“Hook me up with one of those, then, thanks. And a couple of dim sims.”

“Fried or steamed?”

“Fried. Of course.”

“I knew you were all right,” Harry said as he downed the last of his beer.

Mel made a couple of phone calls, and twenty minutes and a round of beers later their food arrived, delivered by Val, and a woman who looked so much like her that she could only be Mel's sister, Justine, and two little boys.

Introductions were performed over the rustle of fish and chips being unwrapped and the booty portioned out. Flynn learned that the taller, skinnier boy was Eddy and the younger, wide-eyed boy was Rex, and that Mel's sister was not going to be as easily won over as her mother, if her coolly assessing glance was anything to go by.

There was much laughter as they ate, most of it in response to the constant one-upmanship Harry and Mel seemed to thrive on. Flynn guessed that Justine was naturally the quieter of the three siblings, but after a while she loosened up and started to toss the occasional comment into the mix. Val and Mike played umpire, laughing readily when they inevitably became the butt of the joke, while Jacob kept up a sly, clever commentary that was so dry Flynn sometimes almost missed the laugh.

It was a noisy, informal, relaxed meal, a far cry from the dinners he usually shared with his parents. He knew from comments his mother had made from time to time that they'd never intended for him to be an only child,
but luck had not been on their side. Sitting around Mel's crowded kitchen table, he couldn't help thinking that there was a lot to be said for a large family.

For starters, he'd have someone to talk to about his parents without having to worry that he was boring or overburdening them. Someone who was as invested as he was, someone he could trust implicitly.

The thought killed some of his buzz and he sat back and slid his half-finished beer onto the table. His thoughts circled to this morning's meeting and suddenly the room seemed too crowded, too noisy, too filled with stories and memories that he didn't understand or share.

A warm hand landed on his knee and he glanced up to find Mel leaning toward him.

“I meant to ask, are you staying at the house? Because you're welcome to one of the cottages tonight.”

Her gaze was steady, and he could feel the warmth from her hand clear through to his bones.

“I hadn't given it much thought, to be honest. I guess I'll stay at Summerlea. Don't really fancy the drive to Melbourne tonight.”

“Stay here. You'll have a proper bed and central heating. The last thing you want to do is have to build a fire and crawl into your sleeping bag after the day we've had.”

“Sleeping bag? Who's sleeping in a sleeping bag?” Val asked.

Mel's gaze was apologetic as it met his and he couldn't help but smile.

“I haven't got any furniture yet,” Flynn explained. “I've been camping out in the living room until I get something sorted.”

“Then Mel's right. You should stay here.” Val said
it as though it was set in stone, a high priestess handing down an edict.

“That's it, Mom's spoken. No turning back now,” Justine said with mock solemnity.

Flynn decided to let it ride for the moment. In truth, he quite enjoyed camping out at Summerlea. It gave the endeavor a boy's-own-adventure feel that helped distract him from the enormity of the job he'd undertaken and offered him a very delineated break from his life in the city.

It wasn't long before it became clear that the youngest members of the family were heading toward cranky territory.

“Bedtime for you, my little friends,” Justine announced to her squabbling boys. “Time for us to go.”

It quickly became a mass exodus. Flynn shook hands with all the men and kissed Mel's sister and her mother goodbye, then he was alone in the kitchen, surrounded by silence as Mel walked her family to their cars.

He glanced at the mess they'd made and began clearing the table, stacking plates and screwing the paper from the fish and chips into a tight ball. The dishwasher was full of clean dishes, so he left the stacked plates and glasses on the draining board and wiped the table.

He paused to check out the series of photographs stuck to the fridge door—a picture of Rex and Eddy, another of Val and Mike, a couple of postcards from various places in Europe. Just visible behind one of them was a shot of Mel in a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a tank top. Her hair was a wild spill around her shoulders, her face creased with laughter. Harry stood next to her sporting rock-god long hair, one arm looped around her shoulders.

Flynn's gaze traveled over Mel's long, muscular legs
before finding her face. She had such a great smile. Like her laughter, it held nothing back, shouting to the world that she was open and accessible. Although the latter was probably more an illusion these days than reality. At thirty-one, Mel was far more battle-hardened than the girl in the photograph.

He heard the door open and close. He turned away from the fridge as Mel appeared. Her gaze swept the table and counter, and she gave him a grateful smile.

“Thanks for clearing the table.”

“Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for working like a dog for me all day.”

“Thanks for letting me barge into your family working bee.”

She laughed. “I'm all out of thanks. Would you like a coffee instead?”

“Thanks.”

She laughed quietly at his little joke as she took the jar of beans from the pantry.

“So, are you going to give in to the lure of civilization and stay in one of my cottages or are you going to go back to your man cave?” She glanced at him in order to gauge his reaction.

“I think I'm going to suck it up and brave the sleeping bag.”

“Then there's no help for you.” She gestured dramatically with her free hand. “I officially give up.”

“Do you?”

He hadn't meant it to sound like a challenge, but that was the way it came out.

The coffee canister hit the counter with a loud thunk. The instinct to make a joke so they could move past the moment was strong. Almost undeniable.

He didn't want to push her.

And yet, he did, too. He was falling. It would be nice to have some idea where he might land.

So he waited.

M
EL WAITED FOR
F
LYNN
to say something—anything—to dispel the sudden tension in the room, but he remained silent. It was going to be up to her, then, to get them past this moment. This moment that had been heading their way for weeks now.

“You take sugar, right?” Her voice sounded a lot huskier than she would have liked. Almost sultry.

“I do.”

He was barely an arm's length away, one arm propped on the counter as he watched her. Panic—excitement?—sent adrenaline surging through her bloodstream. She took a deep, calming belly breath.

“Is it that scary, Mel?”

She met his eyes. She intended to cover, to protect herself, but the truth popped out. “Yes.”

“Okay.” He sounded disappointed. “Then perhaps I should go. If that's what you want.”

She stared at him, the right words forming in her mind but somehow not making it out her mouth.

“The thing is, I've always had a bit of a crush on you. Even when I shouldn't have.” He said it lightly, but his words hit her low in the belly.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. I've always loved the way you laugh. The way you smile. The way you hold yourself. Your body.”

She blinked. “I had no idea.”

“Then I guess I've picked up a few tricks since I was fourteen.”

“I think you might have.”

He smiled, but his eyes remained serious. He was waiting for her to answer him. To tell him to go—or to stay.

“I don't know what I want,” she said.

“Don't you?”

His gaze was steady on hers as he took one step toward her, then another. Her heart clamored against her breastbone as he stopped a scant few inches away. She could feel his body heat, could smell his aftershave and the faintest hint of good, clean sweat. She could see his five-o'clock shadow and the small scar at the very tip of his left eyebrow.

Her gaze slid to his mouth, tracing the sensuous curve of his lower lip. She'd been too confused, too conflicted to allow herself to even think about kissing him before. Now she let herself go there, wondering how it would feel to press her mouth to his, to feel his tongue inside her mouth, to taste him and breathe the same air as him.

Hot desire unfurled inside her, foreign and familiar at the same time. It had been so long since she'd kissed and been kissed.

“You have the most watchable face,” Flynn said, his voice very low and deep. He laid his hand on her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, his fingers cradling her jaw.

She swallowed, awash with nerves and lust and anticipation and fear as his gaze slid to her mouth and he drew closer. She closed her eyes and forgot to breathe
as his lips met hers and his free arm came around her, pulling her close.

He was strong and warm and male and his mouth moved gently against hers, his kiss provocative and soothing at the same time. Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers gripping muscle and bone. She felt the brush of his tongue against her lips, then he was inside her, hot and wet and demanding, and a part of herself she'd pushed down deep inside came roaring to life.

It had been so long. Too long. And he felt
good.

She angled her head to deepen their kiss, her fingers clenching into the fabric of his T-shirt, pulling him closer. She slid her tongue along his, tasting him, giving as good as she got. Her other hand slid down his back, exploring the broad planes and angles en route to his waist. When she arrived, she fumbled blindly for the hem of his T-shirt, sucking on his tongue, pressing her hips forward, desperate to touch him skin-to-skin. Finally she slid her hand over his belly. She made an approving sound in the back of her throat as she felt the flex of his stomach muscles beneath her hand. She needed more from him. Much more.

She caught the hand cupping her jaw and pulled it to her breast, closing her own hand over his. He took the hint, his thumb sweeping across her nipple, and she let out a low moan.

She'd forgotten how good this felt. How needful. How beautiful and powerful a man's body felt beneath her hands, how different the textures of his skin were from her own.

Wet heat throbbed between her legs as he plucked at her nipple through the layers of her sweater and bra. She wanted him. She wanted him very badly.

The press of his hips against hers, the silken rasp of
his tongue in her mouth, the beautiful friction of his fingers at her breast, the feel of his hard body beneath her hands, the smell of him, the taste of him—she was overwhelmed by sensation, utterly lost.

Her shaking hands found the waistband of his jeans. She popped the stud free and had his zipper down and her hands inside his boxer briefs in seconds. His erection was thick and hard and hot in her hand, his shaft silky smooth. She stroked him, rubbing herself against his thigh at the same time.

She imagined what he would look like naked, how he would feel on top of her, sliding inside her.

She couldn't wait. She couldn't.

She started pushing his jeans down, her hands frantic. He smiled against her mouth.

“Slow down, babe. We've got all night,” he murmured. His tone was light, but his words hit her like a slap.

Suddenly she could hear Owen's voice in her head, cold with condemnation and disgust.

Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'd like to take the lead now and again?

It's not a porn shoot, Mel. Do you have to make so much noise?

Could you at least try to pretend you're not always gagging for it? And you wonder why I don't like you talking to other men.

She jerked away from Flynn's kiss, her whole body tense. She tried to turn away from him but he caught her shoulders.

“Mel. What's wrong?”

“Let me go.”

She couldn't look at him. Was too afraid of what
she'd see in his eyes. After a few beats he loosened his grip and she pulled away from him.

“Mel. Talk to me. What just happened?”

She could hear the confusion in his voice. The concern. A part of her understood that he hadn't been criticizing her, not really. He'd simply been trying to slow things down. And she
had
been rushing.

She'd been out of control.

But the greater part of her was running for cover, desperate to protect herself. Desperate to pretend she hadn't exposed herself so completely and left herself so open to his judgment and condemnation.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “This was a mistake.”

“Then it's the best mistake I've ever made. Up until about twenty seconds ago, anyway.”

His words surprised her so much she looked at him. His face was filled with concern, his gaze worried.

“What happened, Mel?”

There was no way she could answer his question, so she simply shook her head.

He sighed. Then he reached for the fly on his jeans. She looked away while he pulled up his fly and rebuttoned the stud, humiliated color burning its way into her cheeks.

He must have thought she was mad—tearing his clothes off one minute, then pushing him away the next. He must have thought she was completely demented. The moment he was decent she turned and led the way to the front door. She couldn't bring herself to look at him once she'd unlocked the door, so she aimed her gaze at his chin instead.

“I'm sorry. That was… I'm sorry.”

He stood on the threshold, his body tense.

“Mel. I wasn't criticizing you. In case you couldn't tell, I was having a damned good time. It was meant to be a joke.”

“I know.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that it wasn't about him, it was all about her—about how screwed up she was—but she didn't want to start a conversation that she was never going to finish. It was bad enough that she knew how ugly her marriage had become, she didn't need to share the grim details with this man she'd grown to admire and respect and like so much. She didn't want to watch his lust turn to pity. She didn't want him to know how little she'd valued herself.

“Okay. I'll see you later, Mel.” Frustration was rich in his voice but she didn't blame him. Why would she? She'd led him on then pushed him away and now she was kicking him out of her house.

Mel shut the door behind him and allowed herself one small moment of weakness as she leaned her forehead against the cool wood. Then she straightened and walked to her bedroom. The sight of her bed made her lip curl. If she wasn't such a head case, she might have been on that bed with Flynn right now, having what had been shaping up to be some of the best sex of her life.

Angry and embarrassed and deeply sad, she stripped off and walked into the en suite to wash away the day's labors. She stepped beneath the shower and washed herself with a businesslike thoroughness. It was impossible to ignore the sensitivity of her breasts and the sense of heavy fullness between her legs, however.

She'd wanted Flynn. Very badly.

She closed her eyes as she remembered the thick
length of his erection in her hand, reexperiencing the rush of longing and lust and need. If he hadn't said anything…

But he had, and the bad old stuff had reared its ugly head.

She turned off the water and stepped out. She dried herself briskly, almost roughly, before walking naked into her bedroom. She was crossing to her chest of drawers when she caught sight of her reflection in the free-standing mirror in the corner.

She stilled, then slowly turned to face herself.

She lifted her hands and covered her breasts, pressing them tightly against her body. Once, Owen had told her that her breasts made him believe in the divine—and yet in the final months of their marriage, he'd told her to lose weight, claiming her curves made even expensive clothes look tacky and cheap.

He'd also told her that she had no idea how to dress or act modestly and that if she couldn't “behave like a lady” he'd have to start attending social functions on his own.

He'd accused her of humiliating him with his peers and colleagues with her overfriendly manner and kept a constant, censorious eye on her whenever they were out together.

And yet he'd never stopped wanting her once they were alone. The moment they were safely behind their bedroom door, he'd always turned to her with desire. It had confused her for so long, the disparity between what he said and what he did—and she'd hated herself for wanting him in return, for clinging to the last good, functioning, life-affirming thing between them because she'd seen it as evidence that their marriage wasn't beyond repair.

Then things had deteriorated even further and he'd started to run her down in the bedroom, too. By that time she'd been so punch-drunk from years of criticism and disapproval that it had taken the night of the Hollands' party and the ugliness of Owen's anger afterward to awaken her to the fact that her marriage was over.

Well and truly.

Not long after that she'd walked out altogether. The smartest thing she'd ever done in her life.

She turned away from the mirror and crossed to her bed. Last night's pajamas were under the pillow and she pulled them on and climbed beneath the covers. She was tired, but instead of turning off the light she lay frowning at the ceiling, her body as rigid as a board.

She'd ruined things with Flynn. All these weeks they'd been dancing around one another, an invisible question hanging between them. Would they, wouldn't they? She'd answered the question tonight, unequivocally.
No.
A resounding, screwed-up, messy no.

She wouldn't see him as much now. Against the odds they'd become friends, but tonight would change all that. Sex always did—even if it was only half-assed, abortive sex that didn't quite come off.

No more drop-in visits. No more gardening sessions. No more laughter.

If only she'd met him seven years ago. If only—

She closed her eyes. Then she reached out and switched off the bedside lamp.

“If onlys” were a pointless waste of time. She was who she was, and he was who he was, and she had ruined things. Nothing was going to change that.

 

S
UMMERLEA WAS COLD
and dark when Flynn let himself in. He turned on the lights in the living room and built
a fire. There was a bottle of shiraz he hadn't quite finished from the previous week and he poured himself a glass and sat to one side of the hearth, waiting for the fire to start throwing out some heat.

He had no idea what had happened with Mel tonight. Not a single clue. One minute she'd been insatiable, tearing at his clothes, so hot she'd almost blown his mind—and the next she'd been pushing him away, her body tense, her face pale.

And the look in her eyes…

He tossed back the wine. If there was more, he would have drank it, too, but there wasn't so he stripped to his underwear and unrolled his sleeping bag. Lying on the hard floor, he forced himself to face the fact that he'd badly misjudged things with Mel. Or, more accurately, he hadn't listened to his own judgment, because he'd always known she was wounded and still recovering from her marriage, hadn't he? He'd acknowledged that right from the start—and yet he'd pushed and pushed until they'd gotten to the point they'd reached tonight.

Which was, effectively, nowhere.

A part of Mel might want to be with him, but a big part of her also didn't—and Flynn wasn't in the business of forcing his attentions on women. Even ones he liked as much as he liked Mel.

Even when he thought he was falling for them.

It took him a long time to fall asleep and he woke with a sore back. Standing under the shower in the cold and drafty main bathroom, he made a mental note to have a bed delivered during the week. He didn't need or want anything else yet—he'd only have to move any furniture out again once renovations were under way—but the romance of sleeping rough was starting to fade.