‘Me too.’
‘Is it true you pulled Doctor Prita from the fire?’
‘Yes. Your dad saved me.’
His gaze returned to her and pierced her with a look she couldn’t make out, one that was searching and questioning and needy, yet somehow held the quiet strength that she’d always liked in him.
‘I think it’s truer to say we helped each other.’
Maybe they had. Maybe they did. Maybe they could. The thought made her a little breathless as she leaned in and said, ‘Can we talk a little later?’
His smile crooked into that smile that made her flutter inside. ‘Sure. I was hoping to do just that.’
‘Good.’
She didn’t get to say anymore because Carter came rushing over, his arms full of ginger, white and tabby cat, his happiness almost overwhelming. She let that happiness wash over her, yet couldn’t stop her gaze from flickering to Flynn, wondering what he wanted to talk to her about and if it was the same as what she wanted to say. She wanted nothing more than to go do that now, her rash side pushing at her relentlessly. But she held firm, staying with Carter to coo over Maccy because that’s what he needed—and it was what she needed too, if truth be told.
But she didn’t forget Flynn’s request. Maybe he was going to ask for her help. Maybe he was finally going to admit he had a problem. Maybe she’d be able to help him through it. She hoped so, because if anyone deserved unconditional happiness in his life, it was Flynn Findlay. And even though she was totally and utterly confused by him and what he meant to her, she wasn’t confused about the need to help him. She wanted to do that, and maybe, in doing that, she could figure out what the hell she was supposed to do with all of what was going on inside her head.
Chapter 19
Prita didn’t get to talk to Flynn that afternoon. Not long after he’d got home with Machiavelli, Mac called to say he needed help with Rebel’s fences, so Reid and he headed off. She’d yelled after him to take care of his knee, but knew he wouldn’t listen. Frustrating man. Then Constable Bruce arrived to talk to her further about the fire and the dead possum and the threats. When he’d gone, she ignored the exhaustion tapping her on the shoulder, took some headache tablets and went down to the cottage to look at what needed to be done and make lists with Barb. If she stopped, she knew her mind would spin over everything and panic would rise about the possibility of losing Carter to some arsehole who had wanted nothing to do with him before money became involved. Then it would skip to the fire and who was after her, before circling back around to Flynn and the insane attraction they shared and how she was going to deal with it and help him and then onto what the hell she was going to do about Chandra because he hadn’t left and had called her not once, or twice but five times this afternoon wanting to see her again.
Crap. She needed to keep herself busier if she wanted these stupid circling thoughts to stop. Thankfully, Wendy, a pregnant patient, called in a panic because she’d been having contractions and was only thirty-four weeks along, so she got Cherry to pick her up and they drove out to see Wendy and spent the next hour calming her down and explaining about Braxton-Hicks contractions. By the time she got back, it was dinner time and she had to peel Carter away from Maccy and make him eat, have a shower and put him to bed.
Flynn came to eat dinner just as she was about to put Carter to bed. As they passed in the doorway, Flynn leaned down and whispered, ‘I’ll meet you at the cottage after you’re finished here.’
The headache and exhaustion that had been plaguing her all afternoon slipped away as the heat of him, the brush of his breath on her cheek, the look of need in his eyes, swept through her, leaving tingling expectation in its wake. She’d begun to think he’d been avoiding her, that he regretted agreeing to talk, but apparently not. She smiled and said, ‘I’ll be down as soon as I can.’
Once Carter was tucked into bed, a purring Machiavelli sleeping next to him, she slipped out of the back door of the house and hurried down the moonlit road to the cottage. Warm yellow light flickered through the trees, indicating he was already inside. Music drifted on the breeze that blew her hair back from the hot skin of her neck, getting louder as she approached. Something with a pulsing beat and soaring melody, pushed by a male voice that was so familiar.
Her papa.
Flynn was listening to Diarmuid Brennan’s music. It was a signature sound, that Celtic driving rhythm, the strumming of the guitar and the play of piano and violin throughout—a mix of rock and pop and classical music all entwined that was intrinsically her papa.
She played his songs a lot—Carter was always asking to hear them—but his music had never felt quite like it did now as she stepped up onto the porch, light spilling out of the open door, the sound of Flynn’s voice—rough and barely in tune—carrying above her father’s voice, twining around her, pulling her in.
She stopped when she saw him step out of the shadow of the hall on the other side of the lounge room, carrying an armchair, his limp not as pronounced as it had been that morning. Maybe he had followed her advice and rested it during the day rather than worked his arse off as usual—which would be a first. He certainly wasn’t resting it now though.
He didn’t notice her at first as he stepped to the left, carrying the chair over to where there was another like one under the window and
