Chapter 14
COMPETENCE PORN
By the time Skylar pulled her car into the driveway behind Zane’s, she’d already discovered that his house was, no surprise, in the very best location. Near the golf club, and a couple of streets from the village, which would be convenient. Or lovely.
“Nice, eh,” Granddad said. “The only problem is that it’s what Maureen is used to now. But we’ve come up with a few ideas around that.”
A few ideas? What kind of ideas? He and Maureen were getting a new place together? Starting a new life together, the two of them?
Don’t go there now. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
Something her Gran had used to say. She already had a burst pipe.
She didn’t need to be worrying about this, too.
She’d never been a truly anxious person and could usually tell herself that she’d muddle through somehow—she had so far, hadn’t she?
—but sometimes, when enough went wrong, that got harder.
Oh, and the house? Well, yeh. That was pretty bloody spectacular, too.
Enveloped by trees, ferns, and assorted greenery—she could tell that even in the dark, because Zane had the sort of upturned landscape lighting that made the place seem like some sort of Fijian resort.
If she’d ever been to a Fijian resort, that is.
There’d be birdsong here all day long, and birdsong was her favorite music.
You wouldn’t even feel like you were in the city.
The place was a double A-frame that had been added on to, she supposed, because besides the two peaked roofs, it seemed to consist of levels on levels. It also had a swimming pool.
Zane opened the front door, and they all trooped in after him. Finlay looked around at the soaring ceilings, the woodwork, and all that lit-up greenery outside, and said, “This is the most flash house I’ve ever been inside of. It’s probably worth millions of dollars.”
Before Skylar could address that, Scarlett said, “That’s rude. You aren’t meant to talk about how much things cost.”
“Why not?” Finlay asked. “It’s obvious it cost heaps more than our house. If it cost less, that would be rude for me to say, but I’m saying your house is nice.”
Scarlett sighed. “You’re hopeless.”
“Why don’t you pull the games out of the box, Finlay?” Skylar said before he could retort. “Granddad, will you help them set up a couple of them, please?”
“Sneaky Snacky Squirrel!” George cried.
“That’s a baby game,” Duncan said. “I’m not playing that.”
“Nobody ever wants to play it,” George said sadly. “But it’s still my favorite.”
“I want to play it,” Georgia said. “I’ve only played it at school. D’you want to see my room? We could play it in there. It’s my favorite place ever, because it has pink walls and flowers on the walls, and a tent on the bed.”
“Boys don’t want to play in a room that’s got flowers on the walls,” Duncan said.
“I do,” George said. “I like flowers. Let’s go play in there.”
“I don’t really want to play a game,” Olive said. “I’d rather read my book. I’m just at the good part.”
Since Olive was always “just at the good part,” Skylar wasn’t convinced. She said first, though, “You got your specs, Georgia! I can’t believe I didn’t notice before, but that’s because they look like part of you already. How do they feel?”
“I don’t know exactly how they feel,” she said. “Except that they’re on my nose.”
“All right,” Skylar said, “I’ll ask instead, ‘How are you seeing things?’”
“I’m seeing so many things,” Georgia said. “Did you know you can see leaves on trees? I thought trees were just kind of blobby-looking, but you can see all the leaves. And you can see the ducks on the water, too.”
“Brilliant,” Skylar said. “You’ll be reading in no time, then.” Which reminded her, so she went back to, “How about playing Clue, Olive? You like that, and it’s like reading a story. A mystery story.” She looked at her granddad. “Help, please.”
“Hmm?” He and Maureen had been talking in the corner.
“Granddad. Games? Help?”
“Right,” he said. “Games. Let’s have you set that up, you kids, and Maureen and I will sit on the couch and supervise. How about a glass of that wine first, Maureen?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “A small one. It’s so lovely to have you all here. Cozy, I call it.”
Scarlett said, “You do?” But her grandmother ignored her.
Zane was still holding Skylar’s washing basket of food.
Now, he led her into a perfectly modern kitchen, set the basket on a white-veined charcoal benchtop with a sort of leathered texture—that was nice—and said, “Reckon the grandparents can break up the fights until I’m back.
Open anything. Use anything. I’ll be back in …
call it half an hour.” He headed for the doorway, then turned back, and she thought he was going to kiss her again, or say something like, It’s all right.
Not that she needed him to, of course, because it was all right.
He’d sounded like the plumbing bill wouldn’t be anything too shocking, and she wouldn’t even have to do the washing-up in the bath!
And the kids wouldn’t actually fight. She hoped.
He didn’t kiss her, though. He said, “Keys?”
“Oh!” She dug them out of her purse and handed them over. “Thank you.”
“I’ll pull the table out before I go so you can lay it,” he said. “It’s got an extension in it.”
She did lose some of the tension over the next half-hour.
When Finlay and Scarlett started squabbling, she decided to let her granddad handle it and poured herself a glass of wine instead.
It’s fine, she told herself. It’s one evening.
And you’re seeing how the other half lives.
Openness to new experiences fosters creativity and resilience.
It may have worked. But it may just have been the wine.
Bright, cheerful conversation over dinner. Draw Zane’s kids into the conversation, and ask Maureen about her lovely clothes and where she shops. How she makes all the pieces work together like that. How could anybody take exception to that?
She could handle a roomful of five-year-olds with one eye closed and one hand tied behind her back.
This was nothing. It was a couple of hours, and then she’d be done with this entire mad idea and allowed to go home and …
and do some yoga. Yoga was relaxing. Yoga was meditative.
She’d focus on her breathing, get flexible, and not think about kissing Zane Mahuta.
Or having him kiss her. Wait until she told Jess that he had put his hand on her face! It had felt so good, too. Utterly safe, and absolutely not, was how it had felt. Possibly even thrilling. His hand at her waist, too …
Oh, wait, she couldn’t tell Jess. But still.
She could do yoga and meditate on it. You were meant to meditate on happy things, like the sound of waves or the scent of a new baby.
Or being kissed by Zane Mahuta, for whatever reason he’d done it.
It wasn’t her new normal, but it was apparently her new fantasy.
Close enough.
He could sense the difference in her as soon as he walked into the kitchen again.
She had the fillets coated with a bit of flour and laid out on a baking sheet, and at sight of him, she said, “Oh, good, you’re back.
I’ll finish this off now,” and turned on the induction.
“You don’t look bloody, anyway,” she remarked as she added butter to frying pans.
He leaned a hip against the benchtop and folded his arms. “Nah, that was last night.’
“Oh, right,” she said, sounding a bit flustered again. “You have those Steri-Strips on your cheekbone. I saw that happen. Also that you seemed like you didn’t know there was blood streaming down your face.”
“It was raining. It all feels more or less the same.” She looked like she knew what she was doing with those fillets. Good, because he was hungry.
She gave him a sharp glance. “But it must have hurt. That was a gash.”
“Secret for you.” He reached out and snagged a bit of broccolini on a foil-lined sheet, and when she slapped his hand, he laughed. “Everything hurts in rugby.”
“Ugh,” she said. “I hate it when I even get a paper cut. I’m such a baby about getting hurt.”
“Yeh, right. You had three kids.”
“Well, yes,” she said, slipping the broccolini into the oven and turning over her fish at practically the same time. “But that’s different. You get a baby out of it, and you sort of forget how it felt afterwards.”
“Same, then,” he said, and this time, she laughed. And took a sip of wine and smiled at him, too. Worked for him.
“So am I able to use my dishwasher?” she asked. “Am I going to be even more impressed by your manly DIY skills? Imagining you under my sink showing your forearm muscles and solving my problems? ‘Competence porn,’ my friend Jess calls it.”
He laughed out loud. “How much wine have you had? What happened to the woman who ran away from me at the motel? I was bloody disappointed that night.”
“You were not.” She laughed, though. She also lifted the fillets out of the pans, shoved them into the warming oven on a plate, and began doing something in the pans with wine and lemon juice and butter that made the kitchen smell like an Italian restaurant.
“I was, though,” he said. “All that effort bang in front of you in the stands, and you weren’t even impressed. I call that disappointing.”
“That’s pathetic,” she said. “Fishing for compliments. It would be bad for you if I told you how I felt watching you. I should restrain myself for the good of your character.”
“Mm. Probably. Can’t help it, though. That’s my skill set. Every man wants a woman to admire his skill set, whether it’s fixing a pipe or playing rugby. Should I be helping you with something?”
“No,” she said, sliding the fillets back into the pans and adding something else.
Capers, that was. She turned off the fire, then pulled the pans of broccolini from the oven and the fettuccini noodles from the warming oven.
“I’m ready to plate all this, and it’s meant to be beautiful.
Why do I suspect that beautiful plating is not your skill set?
” She set about arranging glistening fettuccini in artful twirls on each plate, then adding a crispy, golden hoki fillet or two and spooning the extra sauce over all of it.
It included some thin slices of lemon, which made it pretty, and the broccolini brightened the whole thing.
“I admire your skill set,” she said, while focusing fiercely on her fish.
“Your skill sets. I should think that’s pretty obvious. Steri-Strips and all.”
“And I admire yours,” he said. “You’ve got some competence porn of your own.”
“What, my brilliance with the easiest fish recipe known to man? Ha.” She was flushing again, though, and he didn’t think it was the heat of the oven.
“Not just that,” he said, serious now. “Your brilliance as a teacher. And as a mum. That counts, too.”
“My female occupations.”
“Yeh. Those. We could be throwbacks, eh. Nothing wrong with that.”
“You think I’m not tough,” she said. “I can be tougher than you think. Just not physically. Put these on the table, will you? I gave you three fillets and extra broccolini. And there’ll be a platter of extra.”
He didn’t do it, not right away. He said, “Skylar.” She looked up, those green eyes staring into his, and he got another flash of—whatever it was that he kept getting flashes of with her.
“I think you’ve had to be tougher than anyone can imagine,” he said.
“A woman can be feminine as … as flowers and still be tough. And I think you are. Both things.”
“Feminine as flowers,” she said, and then spoiled the skepticism by asking, “Really?”
“Yeh. But that’s not all you are. Just like I’m not always hard as iron.” Then he put the plates on the table—which was decorated with three overlapping tablecloths and flowers, which was unusual but also nice—and called the kids.
All right, he couldn’t date her. Or more precisely, he couldn’t take her to bed.
School rules. Family complications. Possible pain for her, though he’d have done his best to make it worth her while.
But no. He met his needs discreetly and didn’t bring them home, and he always had, because that was the only realistic option.
He didn’t need this, and neither did she. Not beyond bearing, anyway.
Nobody’d said they couldn’t flirt a little, though. He’d never been much chop at flirting. Too direct. And she clearly hadn’t had much practice at it. Good for both of them, probably. That didn’t mean they had to go round the bend.
You needed a game plan, and that was his. He’d let her know she was attractive, she’d let him know he was, and they’d both enjoy it. And have a semi-normal our-grandparents-are-dating sort-of-family relationship.
Easy-peasy.