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‘No,’ she carried on, ‘you won’t take any of that into account, will you? It’s much easier to carry on the way you have been.’
Something inside him snapped. ‘Easier!’ He started to shake with the force of his anger. ‘Tell me how any of this is easy?’ he yelled. ‘Every day—every single day—I have to fight the urge to go driving in my glorious car, resist the impulse to go down to the beach and relish the feel of salt water against my skin, turn my back on the desire to race into the kitchen and try out a new recipe that’s exploded into my mind!’
With each named temptation he flung his arm out as he paced up and down in front of the garden bed.
‘I chain myself to my computer all day to write a book I should be qualified and competent to write. But instead I find myself battling with it as if it’s an enemy that’s determined to bring me down. So will you kindly tell me how any of that is easy?’
She moved to stand in front of him. She stood on a slightly higher piece of ground than he did so she was almost eye to eye with him.
‘It’s easier than facing the consequences of the accident.’
Ice crept across his scalp.
‘It’s easier than attempting to rebuild your life.’
He didn’t have a life, and for as long as Ethan remained in hospital he didn’t deserve a life.
She gave a mirthless laugh, as if she’d read that thought in his face. ‘You really feel that responsible for Ethan?’
That wasn’t worth dignifying with an answer.
‘Then this—’ she gestured all around ‘—is easier than meeting with Ethan face to face, easier than witnessing his struggles, and easier then offering him the true moral support of a friend.’
He had to swallow before he could speak, and he felt every last drop of anger draining away. ‘I have it on good authority that the last thing Ethan wants is to clap eyes on me.’
‘Ethan’s mother is not a good authority—and if you think she is then you’re an idiot.’
He couldn’t speak past the lump that had stretched his throat into a painful ache.
‘Have you even spoken to Ethan yourself?’
He hadn’t. Diana had demanded that he not plague her son, that Mac leave Ethan in peace. Call him a coward, but he hadn’t wanted to speak to Ethan—hadn’t wanted to hear the boy’s recriminations.
‘A real man would show up and say sorry.’
It was Russ’s voice that sounded in his head now. He shied away from the thought, from what it demanded of him. What good would facing Ethan do for either one of them? He would do whatever he could not to upset the younger man. But he could check up on him—see how he was doing. He could ring Terry, the creative director, or one of the producers of the show. He’d bet someone from the old team would know.
He could at least ring. Not Ethan, but one of the others. How hard could that be?
‘I do have one final burning question.’
He blinked himself back into the here and now to find Jo halfway up the steps to the house.
‘Precisely what calamity do you think will befall us—’ she shot the words over her shoulder ‘—if you did go for a drive in your car, or went for a swim, or if you did go and cook some delicious meal?’
She didn’t wait for an answer but continued straight into the house on those long, strong legs of hers.
‘So that was a hypothetical question, then?’ he muttered.
Good. Because he didn’t have an answer for it.
* * *
Jo sensed the exact moment when Mac loomed in the dining room’s doorway. She didn’t turn from where she’d set down dishes of new potatoes and buttered green beans.
‘You’re just in time. Take a seat.’
‘On one condition.’
She turned at that. ‘What?’
‘That we call a truce and promise not to holler at each other for the next hour.’
The tension in her shoulders melted away. ‘Make it two and you have yourself a deal.’
His lips lifted. Not quite a smile, but almost. Maybe they’d achieve one by the end of the meal.
He took a seat. ‘Did you have any trouble with my instructions?’
‘I don’t think so. Proof is in the pudding, though, so to speak.’
She went to retrieve their steaks, oddly nervous as she set his plate in front of him.
He helped himself to potatoes and beans. Jo dug straight into her steak, slathered in béarnaise sauce. She closed her eyes. Oh, dear Lord, the sauce was to die for. She’d be lining up for his cookbook the moment it came out.
‘You’ve overcooked your steak.’
She opened her eyes. ‘Try yours.’
