A Home Like Ours by Fiona Lowe (inspirational books for students .txt) 📗

Eventually, it was the extended silence that roused her from the book and propelled her off the couch. She found the men gathered in the outdoor entertaining area, chatting, drinking beer and demolishing the platter of nibbles she’d prepared for her and Jon to enjoy from the sensual warmth of the spa.

Jon crossed the deck, meeting her by the door. ‘Where were you?’

‘Reading.’

‘Nice.’ His smile was warm and wide. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘I have to leave in ten to pick up the kids.’

‘No need.’

‘What? Why?’

Chris ambled over. ‘Shan’s picking them up. It’s the least we can do when you’re giving us that beautiful wood.’

Chris crafted stunning furniture and back when it was still a hobby, Jon had commissioned him to make their bed as a surprise wedding present. Two years ago, one of Chris’s loveseats had won a Vivid design award and now furniture making was his career and his pieces were sought far beyond Boolanga.

Tara thought of her heavily pregnant friend and wondered why Chris thought putting Shannon out was helping. ‘But it’s out of her way.’

Chris’s smile faded to wary and he shot Jon a look. ‘Have I just put my foot in it?’

‘Nah, mate.’ Jon slapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s all good.’

Chris didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t say anything more and walked back to Ian.

Jon was grinning like a kid fighting to keep a secret. ‘Shan’s coming because I’ve invited the gang for dinner.’

Tara stared at him, unable to form a coherent sentence as her mind grappled with the state of the house. The bathrooms needed wiping, the dishwasher was full of dirty dishes and the sink groaned with the overflow.

She dropped her voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I was up a tree when you got home,’ he said easily as if that explained everything.

She almost asked, ‘Why, when we were supposed to be in the spa and bed all afternoon?’ Except, in her desperate desire to spice things up between them she hadn’t told Jon her plans. She’d wanted the element of surprise and to build the anticipation with the texts so it spilled into desire. Irritation dug in. Damn it! He’d told her he was going to mow the lawn.

‘Besides,’ he said reasonably, ‘if I’d told you before now, you wouldn’t have read and enjoyed a break from the kids.’

‘But now I have to do everything in less time!’

‘No, you don’t. I’ve got it sorted. I’ve pulled meat out of the freezer, there’s heaps of stuff in the garden to make a salad and I asked Rhianna to pick up a cheesecake. Too easy.’

Too easy, my arse. Jon was the big-picture person and she looked after the minutiae, following behind with a brush and pan. She’d be organising crockery and cutlery, glassware and serviettes for the two courses, not to mention wrangling children high on sugary party food, while he held court at the barbecue.

‘And you’re making the salad, right?’

Sheepishness replaced his brash confidence. ‘The bloody cockies shat on me and I need to grab a shower. Sorry.’

Despite the bird poo, and the way dust stuck to his skin outlining the previous position of his goggles, his eyes sparkled at her. She saw her Jon, happy and relaxed, and her irritation faded.

‘I’ll make the salad.’

‘Thanks, T.’

‘But you owe me.’

‘Always.’ He brushed his lips on her cheek and his scent of freshly cut wood interspersed with sweat tickled her nostrils.

Her hands pressed against the bulk of his arms, the muscles unyielding under the grip of her fingers. She breathed deeply, wishing their soon-to-arrive guests far far away. ‘Promise me it won’t be a late night.’

Before Jon could answer, the toot of a horn broke the late afternoon air.

‘You don’t mind if Gerry comes for a drink, do you, Tar?’ Ian said.

She hated the phrase ‘you don’t mind’ because it was never asked as a question—it was always delivered as a statement. Gerry wasn’t her favourite person, but she made the mistake of glancing at Jon whose expression said, please don’t rock the boat.

Gerry was already walking through the gate, his obligatory slab of beer tucked under his arm. ‘You bastards started without me?’

‘G’day, Ger. You know Chris?’ Jon relieved Gerry of the beer and offered him a cold one from the fridge. ‘Get this into you. I’m just grabbing a shower. Tara and I will be back in a jiff.’

Gerry’s grin morphed into a leer. ‘You can wash my back any time you like, Tara.’

‘In your dreams, old man,’ Jon said, echoing Tara’s thoughts and enveloping her hand inside his meaty one.

The feminist in her arced up at the macho, staking-a-claim gesture, but the part of her that craved sex sat up, lust tingling.

Gerry laughed and twisted the top off his beer. ‘Don’t hurry back on our account, eh, boys?’

Hoping Chris or Ian would tell Gerry to shut up, Tara hurried Jon inside and straight to their ensuite. She flicked on the shower and pulled off her T-shirt.

‘What are you doing?’

She finger-walked her hand up his chest. ‘Exactly what they think we’re doing. A quickie in the shower.’

He batted her hand away and stepped back. ‘No! Jesus. What’s wrong with you?’

Tears stung her eyes. ‘Nothing is wrong with me.’

His nostrils flared but he didn’t rise to her bait. She glanced at his crotch—nothing rising there either. Despair broke her.

‘Don’t you find me attractive any more?’

His arms rose and fell and his expression lurched between bewilderment and anger. ‘What the hell sort of question is that?’

‘A valid one.’

‘It’s not.’ He picked up her T-shirt. ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but we don’t have time to talk about it now. Put this on. Make the salad. Please. The others will be here soon.’

She hated being told what to do, but what was the point of staying in the ensuite when he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to touch her. But she sure as hell wasn’t putting the T-shirt back on. She tossed it into the laundry hamper,