A Man Like Him. Rachel Brimble
swimming back and forth, hauling food and drink and helping hundreds of people into a hovering helicopter wasn’t your run-of-the-mill workout. With a curse, he heaved upright. His legs muscles screamed in protest as he swung them out of bed. He planted his feet on the hardwood floor. Damn, even his toes hurt.
He stared at his jeans hung on the back of a chair in the corner. His T-shirt had been washed and ironed and was now folded atop the chest of drawers, his boxers and socks beside it. Had Cat crept in his room in the night and put them there? He stared down at his naked body. God, the woman didn’t care. Get Things Done. That was his sister’s motto. To hell with the consequences...or whether someone was naked or dressed.
Trouble was, the consequences always turned out to be what was needed at the time and her instincts were spot-on. Unlike his. Everything he touched got messed up.
Standing, Chris ignored the crick and pop of his tired bones and hobbled toward his clothes. He’d managed to navigate his legs into his boxers and cover his manhood just as the bedroom door flung open on its hinges.
“Jesus, Cat.” He scowled. “Can’t a man have some privacy?”
She waved a newspaper in front of his face, clearly not bothered by his state of semidress.
“Look at this.” She held the paper out in front of her and wiggled her eyebrows. A smile curved her lips. “And explain.”
“What?” Shooting her a glare, he snatched the paper from her fingers.
He stared at the double-page spread reporting the flood. Or should he say the double-page spread of him and Angela, seemingly side by side for the entire duration of the ordeal. His stomach tightened. This was what she’d been talking about. This was the anticipated situation that filled her chocolate-brown eyes with tears and turned her olive skin gray.
“Well?” Cat’s voice cut through his reverie. He met her expectant gaze and inwardly groaned. His sister’s eyes were lit up like they had damn fairy lights behind them, and her grin was as wide as her face.
He shoved the paper at her. “It’s nothing like that.”
She laughed. “Nothing like what? Look at your face. Woo-hoo. You like this woman big-time.”
Spinning away from her, Chris headed into the bathroom. “I don’t like her. I don’t even know her.”
He slammed the door and tried to concentrate on emptying his bladder. It wasn’t easy when his little sister hammered on the door before he’d even got going.
“Cat, for God’s sake.”
“She’s gorgeous. Even with her hair all messed up and her face streaked in mud, she looks beautiful. Puts my tomboy ass to shame.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Chris tipped his head back. How could he argue how beautiful Angela was? She was gorgeous. More than gorgeous. She was intelligent, savvy, caring...and scared.
A moment’s silence and then Cat’s voice drifted under the door as she read aloud. “Listen to this, ‘Angela Taylor, the Good Time Holiday Park manager, was the last female to leave the roof and taken by helicopter to safety. Survivors talk of her bravery and care during this horrendous time.’
“‘Together, with her comrade-in-arms, lone holidaymaker and swimming teacher Chris Forrester—pictured here comforting Miss Taylor—have been referred to as the dynamite team by many survivors we interviewed.’ Wow! Dynamite team, huh? Certainly some sparks between you, looking at this picture. Jeez, just kiss the damn woman, would you?”
Snapping his eyes open, Chris flushed and turned the faucet on full blast as he washed his hands. Cat banged on the door again, but he ignored it. He needed some time to figure out what he was going to say to her. How he’d explain the dumb-assed look on his face captured for eternity on camera. He looked like a bloody idiot staring into Angela’s eyes when chaos reigned supreme all around them.
When chaos reigned inside her.
Angela’s face and voice when she told him about her ex-husband had been too real to ignore. Too raw to be exaggerated. Chris gripped the edge of the sink. He wanted to run again. Get the hell out of Dodge before this woman’s problems seeped any deeper into his mind and morals. Shame coursed through his veins and panic sped the beat of his heart.
How could he not get involved? She’d told him something profound about her life and then turned away. Her face and the timbre of her voice still haunted him. He hadn’t wanted to push her. His perpetual fear of involvement and getting it wrong swelled up like the river that flooded the park. So he’d taken the easy way out and walked away.
Turning off the faucet, frustration swarmed into his blood, hot and unwelcome. “Goddamn it.”
Slapping the edge of the sink, Chris turned and marched to the bathroom door. He yanked it open. “Can we talk about something else, please?”
Cat stumbled backward, the paper still in her hand. “Hey, I’m joking. What’s the matter with you?” Her frown was deep, the teasing lilt in her voice gone.
With his back to her, he stalked to the chest of drawers and pulled on his clothes. “Nothing. Like you read, she’s the park manager. I’m a swimmer. I helped her as and when I could. No big deal.”
Silence.
Inwardly cursing, Chris snatched up his belt and threaded it through the loops of his jeans. His hands shook. “Stop looking at me as though I’m some bloody perpetrator, Cat.”
“How do you know how I’m looking at you if you’ve got your back to me?”
He spun around. “Because I know you, that’s why.” He met her eyes. They were narrowed and suspect, her jaw set. “And I was right. Stop looking at me like some bloody perp.” He brushed past her and sat on the bed. “There’s nothing else to talk about. The situation is nothing to do with me anymore. I’ve moved on. Even you’ll back off and let your brother come to terms with the fact he survived a disaster, won’t you?”
She flung the paper on the bed and fisted her hands on her hips. “I was teasing you. Having five minutes of fun. But your reaction tells me there’s a lot more to that photo than my big brother going all googly eyed over a beautiful woman.”
Chris’s hands turned clammy. If he told Cat about this, about Angela, it made it real and it meant he’d heard every damn word Angela said and hadn’t done a thing about it. He came to the Cove to get his head straight, to feel sorry for himself about Melinda for a while and decide what the hell to do next.
“Chris?”
He looked up. “What?”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Talk to me.”
“Goddamn it, Cat. There’s nothing to talk about.”
He pushed off the bed and walked to the dresser. He snatched up a comb and strode back into the bathroom, slamming the door and praying Cat took the hint and gave him some space.
He’d run headlong into more responsibility and now he had a choice to make. There was a time he would’ve run and not looked back. That changed when Cat made him realize the error of his ways and demanded he take care of their mother while she investigated her friend’s murder. Chris tossed the comb into the sink and turned away from the mirror.
Two years ago marriage would’ve been something Chris could never contemplate. But when he’d seen his mother destroying her life through drink and sadness, it had flicked a switch, leaving him yearning for more. It had been that yearning that Melinda said scared her.
“You’ve changed, Chris. You’ve gone from the good-time boy to the serious family man. It’s boring.”
Anger yanked at his chest. Well, watching from the sidelines while his family deteriorated had done that to him. Made him think twice about what was important and what wasn’t. Family. Love.