The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) by Sarah Mayberry Read Free Book Online Page B

flattened into a stubborn line for a second or two,
then she nodded. “Come on, then.”
    He paused on the doorstep to toe off his sodden sneakers then
followed her inside, Mr. Smith hard on his heels. Mackenzie stepped into the
first room on the left—a home gym with some kind of specialized equipment, from
the look of it—and returned with an armful of towels.
    “Thanks,” he said when she offered him one.
    Water pooled on the floor around him. He blotted his face and
hair, then started in on his T-shirt and jeans. She did the same, briskly
toweling her hair before moving on to her chest and arms.
    There was an odd intimacy to the moment—the two of them alone
in the narrow, dimly lit hall, tending to the needs of their bodies. It didn’t
help that now they were inside he was very aware of the fact that her pale gray
tank top had become semitransparent with the rain and he could see the dark
shadows of her areolaes through the thin fabric. To make things worse, her
nipples were hard from the cold, too, an almost irresistible combination for any
self-respecting heterosexual male.
    He forced his gaze away and registered the vicious-looking
pink-and-red scar that ran down her left shoulder and along her upper arm to her
elbow. It was so unexpected he found himself staring. He remembered the scar on
her scalp and put two and two together—clearly, something very serious had
happened to her. Recently, too, if the pinkness of the tissue was anything to go
by.
    He became aware that Mackenzie had finished drying herself and
lifted his gaze to look straight into her eyes.
    Busted. Big-time. Heat singed his cheeks. He tried to find the
words to explain why he’d been gawking like a five-year-old, but before he could
open his mouth she turned away.
    “There’s brandy in the kitchen.”
    She disappeared up the hallway, Mr. Smith trotting after her.
Oliver followed her to an open-plan kitchen/living room at the rear of the
house. He saw that she’d draped her towel around her shoulders, effectively
covering her injury. Between avoiding ogling her breasts and getting busted
ogling her scar, he was feeling more than a little awkward, so he made a big
deal out of checking out the room while racking his brain for something to
say.
    The kitchen was white and modern and pristine, the furniture in
the living area a mixture of creams and whites and raw wood. Only the stack of
magazines on the coffee table and the vase of half-dead flowers on the mantel
saved it from being magazine-shoot perfect.
    “This is nice. Much better than Aunt Marion’s place,” he
said.
    She opened a cupboard and pulled out two tumblers. “Scotch or
brandy?”
    He didn’t drink either, but if ever an occasion called for the
lubricating effects of alcohol, this was it.
    “Scotch, thanks.”
    She poured a generous amount into each glass then handed one to
him.
    “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it,” she said, lifting her
glass to him in an informal toast. “Above and beyond the call of duty,
especially since we hardly know each other.”
    And didn’t exactly get off on the right
foot.
    She didn’t say it, and neither did he, but he knew without a
doubt that they were both thinking it.
    “Once I saw the street I figured you might be in trouble.” He
took a swallow and Scotch burned its way down his throat to his belly.
    “Oh, right. I guess it’s flooded up there, too, huh?”
    “You practically need a canoe.”
    “I’ve never seen flooding like this before. And I’ve had this
place nearly ten years.”
    “My guess is the drains on the street are blocked. Mind you,
when that much water comes down this quickly, most drainage systems freak
out.”
    She nodded, then looked into her drink. He wondered if she was
as uncomfortable as he was, and if she was finding this conversation as stilted
and yawn inducing.
    A bead of water ran down her temple and onto the curve of her
cheek. She lifted one side of the towel to rub at her hair. When she