That look he'd seen in her eyes. It wasn't what he'd seen in everyone else's face as they'd stared at him in hospital and in the months since the accident, studying him like he was a science experiment, watching and waiting for him to fall apart. When she'd looked at him just then, her eyes bright and aware, he hadn't seen pity or worry or sympathy. No, it was something else.
He peered inside the bag to check out the food she'd left. It smelled damn good. Maybe he was hungry after all.
CHAPTER
2
Worst. Idea. Ever.
Lizzie stomped through her house, tore off her clothes in a tangle of curse words that would raise the eyebrows of a shearer, and jumped into a cold shower. With the water cranked up as high as she could get it, she shoved her head under the spray and tried to drown out the jumble of what had just happened.
She simply couldn't do it, she decided. No matter what promises she'd made to Ry and Julia, no matter how much she adored her best friend and was slowly growing to adore her best friend's fiancé, there was absolutely no freaking way she could knock on Dan's door every night and look into that man's eyes.
Because … because she couldn't. No matter how much of a hermit vibe he had going on, with the beard, the track pants with the stretchy waistband, the grumpy attitude and the non-existent smile, she realised something when he'd looked at her tonight. His eyes were the same. The same unbelievably mesmerising, emerald eyes that had sucker-punched her the first time she'd ever talked to him, months before at the pub. The same eyes that had looked her up and down like she was a long, cold drink on a hot day. The same eyes that had turned on her in a charm offensive so all-conquering that she'd actually wobbled at the knees and felt kind of sick.
And tonight, when she'd stood on his doorstep playing a very reluctant Florence Nightingale, and he'd looked down at her with those peepers, something happened. All it took was him to move close to her, to touch her hand. And it was there. The hint that he was still the man he used to be. She knew, she just knew, that if she were forced to stare at his unbelievably masculine handsomeness on a regular basis, she would collapse like a stomped-on sandcastle and talk herself into helping him. Or God forbid, saving him.
Worst. Idea. Ever.
The spray of water sluiced through her hair and over her neck, giving her tightly wound shoulders a much-needed massage. Lizzie was old enough and sensible enough to know herself. Stray animals or stray people, she'd never been able to say no. If she analysed this a bit more deeply, it was probably some pathological attempt to be liked by everyone. Analysed less deeply, it was simply a desire to be nice.
She stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and dried herself off. She pulled on a tank top and loose cotton pants before pouring herself a glass of chilled sauvignon blanc and headed out to her front deck for her nightly ritual. No matter if it was blowing a gale or scorching hot, she had to be out there. The familiarity of the outlook calmed her, took her out of herself at the end of each day. It needed regular and intense study. Rooftops and candy-coloured houses, mangroves in the distance in one direction and the Point at the other, the salty tang in the air, all reminded her that this was her little piece of the world.
Lizzie loved her house. It wasn't the fanciest place in Middle Point, certainly not a gorgeous summer retreat like Ry and Julia's place, but it wasn't a quirky beach shack like Dan's either. It was a solid brick home, on the rise behind the coastline, close enough to feel the breeze but not close enough to hear the waves. It had been her grandmother's house and Lizzie had grown up here with her mother and her older brother Joe. It was no surprise that, with three generations of women driving him crazy, Joe had left home as soon as he'd finished high school. He'd headed off to Sydney to forge an award-winning career in journalism.
But there were still reminders of him here. Lizzie grinned. Right ahead of her in the garden. Three pink cement flamingos stood drunkenly in the front cactus garden, faded now. Her grandmother's favourites and a constant reminder of her brother, who'd suffered years of torment from his schoolmates because he'd lived in the pink flamingo house.
The memory made her smile. Which was exactly why she loved sitting out there in her ratty old cane chair in the dark. The memories of those she loved always swirled around her with the sea breeze, comforting and calming her, anchoring her in this place of childhood and family.
As the stars began to flicker and the deep blues of the daytime sky faded to purple and black, Lizzie let the wine buzz settle and stretched her legs out in front of her, the cool breeze fluttering against her toes. And then, and only when she felt serene and calm, did she let herself think about the elephant in the room.
What was she going to do about Dan McSwaine? There was something wrong with him. She just knew it. Call it a career spent listening to people's confessions across the front bar of the Middle Point pub. She could pick the problem by the first drink. Heartbreak. Divorce. A lost job. A death in the family. Each type of grief looked slightly different and required its own particular libation. That same instinct was sending her warning signals that there was something going on with Dan that was way more serious than a lack of appetite and a desperate need for some personal grooming.
Could anyone blame him after what he'd been through? Of course Lizzie had sympathy for what had happened to him. It was hard watching anyone suffer but there was something about him, in particular, that made her want to draw a line in the sand. Being a fixer was exhausting and maybe it was time to put herself first for a change. 'Dan McSwaine is not your problem to fix,' she told herself.
Ry and Julia had told her that she was their only hope. Yeah, right. So what if she and Dan had shared a few meaningful glances and some flirtation the night of the accident. He'd simply been playing his part as the slick city guy. She'd seen men like that before, every summer of her whole life, in fact.
She wasn't going to play their game.
At eight o'clock the next night, there was a knock on Dan's door. He figured it was Lizzie coming with more food and he was kind of glad because he had something in mind to say to her. Not that he'd worked on a big speech or anything. Just something friendly with an apology wrapped around it for the whole slamming the door in her face thing. That's all it needed to be, a word or two, nothing more. And it was all there, on the tip of his tongue, ready to be said, when he opened the door.
'Elizabeth, I-'
He realised he was talking to the sea breeze. There was no sign of her or anyone else. But there was food. The sensational aroma of curry battled it out with the faint waft of seaweed blowing off the beach. Dan followed his nose and looked down. There was a white box on his front door mat.
He bent carefully to protect his aching leg and picked it up, its flaps origamied together to protect what was inside. With a flip of his fingers, the folds popped open and he saw a foil container covered with a white lid. He took another glance to the street and then shut the door behind him.
A minute later, when he was tucking into the red beef curry with rice and steamed bok choy, he decided that no meal in the history of humankind had ever tasted so good. He ate hungrily and then, dozy with food and a couple of beers, he fell into bed. It was nine o'clock.
The thumping ringtone of a Cold Chisel classic woke Dan up way too early. Bright morning light streamed down the hallway, right into his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hang on to sleep. Sleep. He realised then that he'd slept all night. Like a baby. Like a baby who actually slept through the night.
Out of habit more than anything, he fumbled on the bedside table for his phone.
'McSwaine.' It came out with a groan.
'Danny Boy.' Ry. He should have let the call ring out. He just wasn't in the mood for a fight with his best friend. It was too early and he was already too hot, even though he'd slept naked inside a tangle of white sheets.
'What the hell time is it?' Dan croaked, slowly opening both eyes to see if the light would hurt. It did. He fell back on his pillow and draped his forearm over his face to block it all out. The light, his best friend's voice, the day.
'Listen, mate,' and then Ry's voice became lower, conspiratorial. 'Julia wants me to call you so I'm calling you. Play along, all right?'
Dan swore under his breath. 'Yeah, all right.'
'So,' Ry said. 'What do you think about your meals on wheels service?'
'Yeah, the food's … great.' Dan assumed Ry was talking about the food rather than the particular method of its delivery.
'Fantastic. I need to come over and watch the cricket with you tomorrow.'
Now Dan was wide awake. 'What the hell for?'
'Because we are two true-blue Aussie blokes and the First Test starts tomorrow. It is our patriotic duty to lie on your couch, drink beer and shout at the TV about our useless batting line-up.'