Read Online The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) by Sarah Mayberry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Mayberry
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his
work. Tomorrow night was sure to be awkward. They didn’t know each other, so
conversation would be polite and superficial and no doubt stilted, as it had
been the other night.
It was too late to take back his acceptance, so he would have
to simply suck it up and take his medicine. Mackenzie would have a chance to get
her gratitude off her chest and any sense of obligation that existed between
them would be a thing of the past.
Then they could go back to being strangers and each get on with
their lives.
* * *
M ACKENZIE SPENT THE evening
planning the menu for tomorrow night’s meal, flicking through cookbooks and
trying to work out what she could pull together given the limited supplies
likely to be available at the local supermarket. She settled for a pasta
dish—tortellini with salami, goat cheese and Kalamata olives, fresh bread and a
baby spinach, Parmesan and pear salad. She made a shopping list sitting up in
bed, more than a little amused by her own organizational zeal. She was planning
this simple dinner with military precision—a strong indication her mind needed
more to think about. The sooner she got back to work, the better.
She went into town first thing to do her shopping, then spent
the afternoon pottering around the house. She started prepping for dinner at
five o’clock so she could take her time and enjoy the process.
She was looking forward to tonight. There was no point denying
it, even to herself. Having another warm body to talk to would be a welcome
novelty.
“No offense, Smitty, but sometimes a lick and a scratch don’t
quite cut it in the witty repartee department.”
Mr. Smith lifted his head from his paws and gave her an
uncomprehending look.
“Exactly.”
She had everything prepped by six o’clock, the table set by a
quarter past. At loose ends, she wandered into her bedroom and caught sight of
herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair was limp and lifeless, her face
pale. Her black leggings had seen better days, as had the long-sleeved wool
tunic she’d pulled on. Combined with her sensible walking shoes, she
looked... frumpy. There was no other word for
it.
As if he’s going to notice what you’re
wearing. He’s going to have one eye on the exit all evening.
She wasn’t stupid. She’d noted Oliver’s hesitation when she
invited him. Given her not-so-enchanting behavior to date, it didn’t surprise
her that he might be cautious about breaking bread with her. The last thing he’d
be concerned with would be if she looked frumpy or halfway presentable.
So what? It concerns me.
She opened the closet on a surge of determination. She was
allowed to look nice if she wanted to. So what if Oliver was unlikely to
register the cut of her pants or the drape of her sweater? She would know, and
it would be a welcome change from workout pants and warm sweaters.
She pulled on a turtleneck made from cashmere and silk,
matching it with her steel-gray wide-legged linen pants. They made her feel
elegant, like the heroine from a thirties noir movie, and she felt infinitely
better as she slipped on a pair of simple ballet flats and went into the
bathroom to do something with her face.
Some blush worked wonders, as did a few swipes of mascara. Her
hair, however, refused to cooperate. Amazing to think that it had once been her
crowning glory, almost long enough to sit on, a sleek, smooth waterfall of hair
that—in her own mind, at least—had made up for the fact that she wasn’t exactly
stacked in the breast department. She’d never been the frilly, feminine type,
but the swish of her hair against her back had made her feel saucy and womanly
and sexy without fail.
Those were the days.
The E.R. nurses had shaved it all off when they prepped her for
emergency surgery after the accident. For long days and weeks afterward, it had
been the least of her concerns, but there was no denying that it had been a
shock to see herself in the mirror for the first time. The scars on her
work. Tomorrow night was sure to be awkward. They didn’t know each other, so
conversation would be polite and superficial and no doubt stilted, as it had
been the other night.
It was too late to take back his acceptance, so he would have
to simply suck it up and take his medicine. Mackenzie would have a chance to get
her gratitude off her chest and any sense of obligation that existed between
them would be a thing of the past.
Then they could go back to being strangers and each get on with
their lives.
* * *
M ACKENZIE SPENT THE evening
planning the menu for tomorrow night’s meal, flicking through cookbooks and
trying to work out what she could pull together given the limited supplies
likely to be available at the local supermarket. She settled for a pasta
dish—tortellini with salami, goat cheese and Kalamata olives, fresh bread and a
baby spinach, Parmesan and pear salad. She made a shopping list sitting up in
bed, more than a little amused by her own organizational zeal. She was planning
this simple dinner with military precision—a strong indication her mind needed
more to think about. The sooner she got back to work, the better.
She went into town first thing to do her shopping, then spent
the afternoon pottering around the house. She started prepping for dinner at
five o’clock so she could take her time and enjoy the process.
She was looking forward to tonight. There was no point denying
it, even to herself. Having another warm body to talk to would be a welcome
novelty.
“No offense, Smitty, but sometimes a lick and a scratch don’t
quite cut it in the witty repartee department.”
Mr. Smith lifted his head from his paws and gave her an
uncomprehending look.
“Exactly.”
She had everything prepped by six o’clock, the table set by a
quarter past. At loose ends, she wandered into her bedroom and caught sight of
herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair was limp and lifeless, her face
pale. Her black leggings had seen better days, as had the long-sleeved wool
tunic she’d pulled on. Combined with her sensible walking shoes, she
looked... frumpy. There was no other word for
it.
As if he’s going to notice what you’re
wearing. He’s going to have one eye on the exit all evening.
She wasn’t stupid. She’d noted Oliver’s hesitation when she
invited him. Given her not-so-enchanting behavior to date, it didn’t surprise
her that he might be cautious about breaking bread with her. The last thing he’d
be concerned with would be if she looked frumpy or halfway presentable.
So what? It concerns me.
She opened the closet on a surge of determination. She was
allowed to look nice if she wanted to. So what if Oliver was unlikely to
register the cut of her pants or the drape of her sweater? She would know, and
it would be a welcome change from workout pants and warm sweaters.
She pulled on a turtleneck made from cashmere and silk,
matching it with her steel-gray wide-legged linen pants. They made her feel
elegant, like the heroine from a thirties noir movie, and she felt infinitely
better as she slipped on a pair of simple ballet flats and went into the
bathroom to do something with her face.
Some blush worked wonders, as did a few swipes of mascara. Her
hair, however, refused to cooperate. Amazing to think that it had once been her
crowning glory, almost long enough to sit on, a sleek, smooth waterfall of hair
that—in her own mind, at least—had made up for the fact that she wasn’t exactly
stacked in the breast department. She’d never been the frilly, feminine type,
but the swish of her hair against her back had made her feel saucy and womanly
and sexy without fail.
Those were the days.
The E.R. nurses had shaved it all off when they prepped her for
emergency surgery after the accident. For long days and weeks afterward, it had
been the least of her concerns, but there was no denying that it had been a
shock to see herself in the mirror for the first time. The scars on her
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