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Twiddling his thumbs like this was driving him crazy. When would he hear back from his editor?
He collapsed to the step and ordered himself to admire the view.
‘See? Beautiful!’
His scowl only deepened. The view did nothing to ease the burn in his soul or the darkness threatening to tug him under. He’d kept himself busy for a reason. He’d missed Jo every second of every day and every night, but keeping busy had helped him to deal with it, to cope with it, to push the pain to the boundaries of his mind.
He had to find something to do. He leapt up, intending to stride down to the beach for the second time in an hour. Bandit stood too. He stared at her and pursed his lips. If he went down there she’d want to come, and with her about to drop her puppies any day she should probably be taking it easy.
He glanced around wildly for something else to do and his gaze landed on a rosebush. He nodded once. The garden needed wrestling into shape. He could wrestle while Bandit dozed in the sun.
He gathered some battered implements—a hoe, a trowel and secateurs—from the garage. He barely glanced at his car, even though he still made sure to turn the engine over twice a week. It reminded him too much of Jo.
Digging up weeds and pruning rosebushes reminded him of Jo too. Everything reminded him of Jo. He wondered how she was getting along with her macaron tower.
One thing about being so hung up on Jo—it meant he had less time to brood about Ethan.
Jo’s voice sounded in his head. You’re just going to give up...? Fight harder...
What else could he do? He’d make sure Ethan wanted for nothing.
Except a life.
He started reciting multiplication tables.
When lunchtime rolled around he ate cold omelette and a banana. He sat outside in the sun because the kitchen reminded him too much of Jo. So did the dining room.
‘I miss her more,’ he shot at Bandit, who moped nearby. She didn’t flick so much as a whisker.
Has life always been that easy for you?
Yep. Right up until the accident. ‘But don’t worry, Jo—it’s hell now.’
Which was unfair. Jo had only ever wanted his happiness.
Fight harder.
‘How?’ He shouted out the word at the top of his lungs, making Bandit start.
He apologised with a pat to her head. What did Jo mean? How could he fight any harder? He was fighting as hard as he could!
He paced the length of the garden bed. He was fighting as hard as he could to make money.
That wasn’t what Jo had meant, though, was it?
He bent at the waist to rest his hands on his knees. He didn’t know how to fight for Ethan when the other man hated the very sight of him. How could he rouse the younger man from his apathy and depression if—?
Mac froze. The trowel fell from his fingers. Ethan hated the sight of him in the same way Mac had loathed the idea of a housekeeper. Blackmail had been the only method that had worked on him. Blackmail and playing on his guilt about Russ.
He’d loathed the very idea of Jo, but her presence here had forced him to reassess how he was living, to question the bad habits he’d formed. He certainly hadn’t welcomed her with open arms, but she hadn’t gone running for the hills.
As he’d done with Ethan.
No, she’d forced his inward gaze outwards. She’d reminded him that he needed food and exercise for his body, along with sunlight and fresh air. She’d forced him to recognise that he wasn’t betraying the task he’d set himself if he took the time to enjoy those things. She’d made him see that he needed those things if he was to accomplish that task.
She’d stormed in here and turned his world upside down. He hadn’t enjoyed it. He’d resisted it. But it had been good for him.
It had brought him back to life.
Who did Ethan have to give him that kind of tough love?
His mother? Very slowly Mac shook his head. Diana was too caught up in her fear for her son and her anger at the world.
From the corner of his eye he saw Bandit polish off the rest of his abandoned omelette. He didn’t bother scolding her. She’d put up with his growly grumpiness and no Jo for the last fortnight too. If omelette helped, then all power to her.
Mac drummed his fingers against his thighs for a moment, before pushing his shoulders back and reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone. He punched in the number for Ethan’s doctor.
* * *
Jo carefully sealed the lid on the airtight container holding the most perfect dozen macarons she’d ever seen. She set them gently on a shelf at the very back of the pantry with the other six dozen macarons she’d spent the last few days baking. She had twice as many as she needed, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Each and every one of them was perfect.
All the less than perfect ones had been placed in her grandmother’s biscuit tin, and even her grandmother’s enthusiasm for them had started to wane. After her grandmother’s birthday dinner tonight Jo would be glad if she never set eyes on another macaron for as long as she lived.
