Chapter 15 #2
“Well, how would you know that? Neither of us can claim to be normal people from normal families. And while I don’t usually agree with waste, in this instance, I take solace in knowing that future tenants will enjoy the new sofa.”
“Spoiled brat.” There was real affection in his voice.
He took another quick sip of coffee and waved Suzie over for the bill.
Ignoring Kenny’s protests, he proceeded to pay for both of their meals and then got up.
He was leaving?
Kenny fought back the pang of disappointment. She was grateful that they’d had a lovely, conflict-free morning and had hoped it would continue a little longer.
They might not have had any meaningful conversations but at least they hadn’t been in that uncomfortable space where simply being near each other was painful.
He probably had the right idea. Better to leave now before things got acrimonious again. A single misspoken word was all it would take to tear open their too-fresh wounds.
Only he wasn’t leaving.
He was still staring down at her, and she met his eyes quizzically, not sure what was going on.
His eyebrows were raised, lips quirked and, he held out a competent hand, palm up.
“Well, come on then. Let’s go find your sofa.”
“Wh—” She blinked up at him uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re not going to find great furniture places in Riversend. I’ll borrow Spencer’s bakkie”—pickup truck—“and we can take a drive to Knysna. If we find something you like there, we can bring it back with us.”
“Oh, but I was just going order something online. From Takealot maybe. They’re bound to have sofas.”
“You can’t arse test an online sofa.”
The comment startled a disbelieving snort of laughter from her.
“What?”
“You know what I mean. You have to sit on it, see if it conforms comfortably to your arse and back. What is the lounging and sprawling capacity? Does it meet the international nap standard? Back to neck ratio?”
“Buy a lot of sofas do you?” Kenny asked, her voice bubbling with laughter.
“This will be the first one,” he said, hand still outstretched and steady. Waiting. “But I’m a fucking expert at sitting on them. I have definite and very strong opinions on what makes a good sofa.”
Kenny eyed his calloused palm for a second longer, before throwing caution to the wind and sliding her hand into his.
She wasn’t sure why he was doing this. Wasn’t sure if it was wise to continue spending still more time with him.
But she was so sick of questioning everything, and for once, decided to just give in to impulse without exhaustively weighing every pro and con.
“Okay. Let’s go,” she said with a reckless grin.
“Too soft,” Smith declared, after burrowing down into the sturdy two-seater, and sitting there for a moment. Kenny was curled up next to him, face turned toward him, while she awaited his verdict.
“The last one was too hard,” she reminded, a little fed up. “The one before that too squidgy, whatever that means. The one before that had irritating fabric. And bef—”
He held up a finger, effectively shutting her up, and she was instantly annoyed for allowing herself to be silenced by that imperious index finger.
“I said itchy-making, not irritating,” he corrected and she rolled her eyes.
“Okay, Goldilocks, what is the perfect sofa?”
Not this,” he said, with a smug upward turn of his too-beautiful mouth.
“You’re not even going to be sitting on the damned thing,” she reminded, allowing exasperation to creep into her voice.
“Okay then…do you like this sofa?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest, waiting for her reply.
Kenny dragged her upper lip into her mouth and sighed. “Not this one, no.”
“What about the squidgy one?”
“Fine…no. It was like sitting on a marshmallow.” She hated admitting that. Especially since it resulted in the return of that insufferably smug gleam in his eyes.
“Did you like any of the ones before this?”
Shit.
“No.”
“So you’re protesting my selection process just for the sake of protesting?”
“Your selection process seems to be based on witchcraft and wizardry. I prefer a more scientific approach.”
More suppressed laughter in his eyes.
“So sitting on a marshmallow is a scientific descriptor?”
He had her there.
“Your use of the word squidgy clearly introduced a bias that I unconsciously picked up. The results are therefore flawed,” she told him with a prim sniff and this time there was no hiding his delighted grin.
Kenny was so dazzled by that beautiful smile that she quite helplessly offered him an unreserved one in return. He blinked, looking bemused, while his own smile dimmed somewhat.
Kenny’s smiled started to fade too, as uncertainty gnawed around the edges of her stomach. Had she done something wrong?
But then his eyes brightened and his smile widened again.
“And me without my sunglasses.” The words, muttered beneath his breath, were so incongruous that Kenny was certain she must’ve misheard.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He hesitated for a moment, before continuing. “Just bitching about leaving my shades in the car. How about some warning the next time you decide to blind a man with that smile, sweetheart?”
Her smile turned bashful, his words making her self-conscious. He’d always had the power to make her feel like shy, silly schoolgirl.
“Shut up,” she said with an embarrassed little laugh, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
His gaze softened as they swept over her flushed face.
He swept his index finger lightly over the surface of the skin along her jawline, reminiscent of the way he’d done last night before leaving.
He withdrew the whisper-soft touch seconds later and it took everything in her not to list in the direction of that retreating hand.
“Onto the next one,” he said, his voice raspy and eyes glazed. “We’re getting this damned sofa today.”
Several “arse tests” later and Smith was supervising the loading of what he’d deemed “the perfect sofa” onto the back of the borrowed pickup truck.
He was trying to tell the loaders—who clearly knew their jobs and didn’t need his oversight—exactly where and how to tie the couch down onto the bed of the truck.
Kenny had opted to stay in the vehicle. She had even less value to add when it came to the loading furniture onto the back of trucks and she had a headache building. Probably due to hunger—brunch had been nearly five hours ago—and some residual dehydration after last night.
Smith finally joined her, shouting his thanks to the loaders, before backing out of the cargo bay.
“All set?” Kenny asked, massaging the back of her neck. “It’s not going to fly off the back of the truck while we’re driving or anything, right?”
“It probably would’ve if those guys had paid any attention to anything I said,” he admitted with a self-effacing grin and she smothered a laugh. “But I’m confident they got it sorted, despite my attempts to help.”
“Hard to cede control sometimes, isn’t it?” she asked sympathetically.
“Has it been for you?” he asked with a narrow-eyed gaze, as if trying to figure out if there was another layer to her observation. “It can’t have been easy handing your department over to someone else to run in your absence. You must be checking in regularly.”
Surprised that this was the direction he’d chosen to take the conversation, Kenny shook her head.
“After a few hiccups in the beginning, I’m confident the department is in good hands. I haven’t checked in at all since arriving here.”
“Seriously?”
Kenny couldn’t blame him for being taken aback.
Work had always been her excuse to avoid any kind of emotional turmoil at home. Her crutch to lean on when she wanted to escape from the quietly stifling confines of her marriage. Her reason for getting up and carrying on two days after her miscarriage.
“Who did you leave in charge?”
“Dr. Rachel Khumalo.”
“Hasn’t she been gunning for your job for years?”
“She’s the only one qualified to run the department. And the only one I trust to do a competent job.”
“Aren’t you afraid she’ll make a play for the department while you’re gone?”
Kenny turned to face the passing scenery, resting her aching forehead on the cool glass of the window.
“Honestly? She’s welcome to try. I’ve built one of the best public health oncology departments in the country, and if the board doesn’t see my worth after the work I’ve put in, then maybe it’s time to move on.
There are plenty of other hospitals—public and private—that would be happy to have me.
I’m just too mentally exhausted to fight them right now. If they want Khumalo, then so be it.”
She’d left because fighting for her marriage was more important. But that fight turned out to be lost before she’d even fired her first salvo.
Yet over the course of the last six days, she’d come to understand that she needed to fix whatever was broken inside of her. That fundamentally flawed part of her that was afraid to love because love meant loss. Afraid to trust, because trust meant disappointment.
And that was the most important thing she needed to focus and work on right now. Because if she didn’t repair that damage, she would never be happy.