Know Your Heart: A New Zealand Enemies to Lovers Romance (Far North Series Book 2) (10 page)

Josie came around the couch and moved a big basket of yarn off the second armchair.

“Anyway”—Josie flicked a hand—“are you a friend of Nate and Lauren too? They’re good people, and Drew’s a right little cutiepie.”

“He is.” The ball of tension in her belly shrank a little at the way Josie had said
actor
, as if in her world, acting was just another way to earn a living, like dentistry or sales. “Nate’s my second cousin.”

“Is that right?” Josie’s eyebrows lifted.

Savannah could almost see the cogs turning in Josie’s brain, adding together the sum of her and Nate and her now ex-husband, Liam, photographed together after
the incident
at an Auckland bar.

Last year, Nate had flown back to New Zealand between assignments and invited her out for a drink. She hadn’t been able to turn him down without raising suspicion, and her relationship with Nate had always been a sore spot with her husband. A sore spot that on this day detonated the last, tenuous strands holding her disastrous marriage together. Liam had slammed her up against a wall, screaming red-faced and incoherently, ordering her not to leave their house.

She’d gone anyway.

Nate had discovered the bruises on her arm minutes before Liam tracked her to the bar and tried to drag her out of it. Her calm-as-lake-water cousin lost his temper, and after a short but intense scuffle, broke Liam’s nose. The following media frenzy speculated that Nate was Savannah’s lover, sprung in a booty-call by her faithful manager/husband.

Liam agreed not to lay assault charges against Nate and to give Savannah an uncontested divorce if she kept her mouth shut about their tumultuous marriage. Yes, Liam had actually used the word “tumultuous”, as if they’d had a few rough patches, instead of the last few years of his escalating manipulative control and emotional cruelty. But as much as it burned her ass, she wanted out more than she cared for what the public thought of her marriage, and she’d conceded one final time to her husband’s demands. Freedom was worth it—though she hated that Nate had been caught in the backlash.

“Not many people know it,” she admitted. “Nate and I decided early on to keep the fact we’re related private.”

Josie gave her an almost imperceptible nod. She must’ve heard the rumors—as had the majority of people in this tiny country of only four and a half million. Especially since one of the trio in the scandal was a nominated contender for a women’s magazine’s
New Zealand Bachelor of the Year
contest, and had his own claim to fame being one of the country’s top photojournalists.

“Now Liam and I are divorced, it’s not such big news. Though I’d prefer to keep Nate and his family off the radar.”

“Won’t hear anything from us. Lauren and her little boy deserve some peace after everything they went through.” Wrinkles spread out from Josie’s eyes as she narrowed them into hardened slits. “And you too. What really happened between you and your ex is your business, but those of us who’ve followed your career from the beginning saw the light go out of your eyes a few years back. It’s no wonder your cousin reacted the way he did.”

Savannah’s throat thickened, remembering the viral photos of her wedged between Nate and her husband, blood pouring out of Liam’s nose, Nate’s expression fierce and possessive but not for the reasons the media had splashed around.

“The public chose not to see it that way.”

“Seems to me the public doesn’t really know you,” said Glen.

Truth was, most days it felt as if
no one
really knew her. She’d been burned by the media once too often after Liam had leaked strategic personal information to them to try to boost her flagging popularity.

So once again, Savannah adopted a smile she didn’t feel like smiling and angled her chin. “The public—those who troll trashy magazines or websites wanting to know the contents of my trash, or what my father’s address is, or the details of my sex life—can bite me.”

Glen’s gaze smoldered, suggesting that he, for one, was curious about her sex life.

“You tell ‘em, love.” Robbie chuckled and stabbed a finger at her. “People need to mind their own shit—pardon my French.”

The kettle began to wail, and Josie rose from her chair. “Amen to that. While we’re waiting for Robbie to boil up that cray, I’d love to hear about L.A, Savannah. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

***

Savannah slotted into easy conversation with Robbie and Josie—a surprise to Glen. Guess his assumptions her interactions with locals would be strained and awkward were grounded in bias toward the woman. After a brief stumble when her ex-husband was mentioned, Savannah had continued to relate to the elderly couple as if they were old, dear friends. Her self-depreciating sense of humor over some of Hollywood’s ridiculousness had him feeling like a jackass.

Apparently, the public weren’t the only ones who neglected to look beyond the toothpaste-ad smile and dreamy green eyes to the warm, funny, and forthright woman beneath. Had he also misjudged her? Or was this just another character role she’d donned in a scheme to soften him up and convince him to leave?

They’d left the house to wait for Robbie to gas up the tractor and bring it around. Savannah wanted to help with the clean-up, but Josie wouldn’t have a bar of it, asking only for a photo of her and Robbie with Savannah so she could show her grandchildren. Savannah had obligingly posed then hugged the woman goodbye.

Now, Glen and Savannah stood on the beach in front of the Aldridge’s little cottage, the tide having retreated to expose the rocky reef needed to return home. Glen pretended to study the distant line of white breakers in the moonlight. Correction. That’s what he
was
doing—staring at the sea. Because pretense suggested he’d have to admit to his awareness of the faint scent of summer berries rising off Savannah’s skin. Or the way her hair had curled in the humidity. Or the shiver rippling through her when a cooler sea breeze picked up.

He stripped off the light fleece sweatshirt he’d grabbed out of his car earlier. “Here, put this on.” He offered the garment, expecting her to turn it down with a side order of snark.

“Thanks.”

She pulled it on. The sweatshirt hung loosely on her, the sleeves momentarily covering her hands until she pushed them up her arms.

Glen sucked in a harsh breath, memories of that night ten years ago crowding into his head. He’d given her his sweatshirt that night, too, and she’d looked like a child lost in a shopping mall as he’d driven her home. The next time he’d seen her, at Nate’s flat a few days later, she’d been cuddled up on his couch with Liam’s arm wrapped tightly around her shoulder. A possessive piece of work, even then. Savannah had given Glen a bland smile, her eyes filled with no recognition other than acknowledgment that he was one of her cousin’s many friends. Stupid to have believed his presence would trigger a memory of that night—and she’d probably binned his non-descript navy sweatshirt the next day.

Forget it
. She continued to stare at the horizon’s black line. He’d more things to worry about than an event that had evidently meant so little that Savannah either couldn’t, or chose not to, remember. He needed to remove her distractingly hot bod from his life—using a light touch and hopefully avoiding any dig-in-heels resistance.

He cleared his throat. “This audition…wouldn’t you be better rehearsing with one of your actor pals?”

Like the ones who lived in multi-million dollar houses that overlooked Malibu or at the very least, Auckland city.

Savannah’s glance could’ve stripped paint.

Ah
. Missed the mark of subtle hint, then.

“Nate’s agreed to read lines with me,” she said.

“Nate couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag,” he scoffed. “He couldn’t even score the part of a tree in his primary school play.”

“He’ll be fine.”

Forget subtly. “You’re miles away from anything up here—supermarkets, beauty salons…a decent fitness center with personal trainers, for example.”

Okay, laying it on a little thick. But another yoga session outside his window would siphon all his creative juices from brain to another region entirely.

Her eyebrows drew inward. “Exactly. No temptation to go to the twenty-four-hour supermarket at 2:00 a.m. for Hokey Pokey ice-cream, no friends pouting if I refuse to hit the pub and club circuit with them, no photos of me running with close-up photos of my thighs with red arrows pointing to
oh my god, the horror, is that cellulite
?”

Glen faced her, ignoring the ice slick coating the insides of his gut. He couldn’t imagine how humiliating it was to see unauthorized and unflattering photos virally spread across the internet, but the fact remained. He wasn’t going anywhere until he’d finished his book.

“Is being away from the city worth the inconvenience of living in a trailer and doing your laundry by hand?”

“If you weren’t so stubborn to accept my offer of a hotel—”

“Plus a bang up dinner at
Kai Moana
.”

Savannah threw up her hands. “How about I pay for a hotel room and dinner every night until your agreement runs out? You can write without disruption.”

“Hmmm.” He pretended to consider this, just to yank her chain a little bit more. Then he leaned forward, close enough to see a few specks of sand dotted along her cheekbones. “How about you learn to accept no as a non-negotiable answer? I don’t want to stay in a cramped hotel room when I have a beautiful bush retreat to work in.”

“It’s my house,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Not until the eighteenth, so
you
should consider the hotel.”

“I’m not staying in a hotel, goddamn it.” Savannah placed a hand in the center of his chest and gave him a little shove.

He rocked back on his heels, heart revving like a stuck motorbike throttle at the imprint of heat her palm left behind. An imprint that shot sparks down to his gut, and lower…

“I want you to leave.” Another shove.

Glen allowed her to shift him back another step, curious to see how physical Savannah would get.

“I want you out of my house.”

She raised her hand to push him again, but her fingers didn’t make it to his chest. Instead, they hovered, trembling, while her lips parted and a sigh escaped. He zeroed in on her mouth—Savannah’s bewitching, demanding mouth ordering him to leave—but the only phrase he’d focused on in the last few moments was
I want you
. That, combined with the dull ache behind his breastbone where her hand touched him snapped the last of his resistance.

Glen gained the ground he’d lost, standing toe to toe with her.

“I want…” Savannah’s words came out in a strangled rasp, whatever order about to fall from her lips crumbling to dust and blowing away in the sea breeze.

He removed a strand of hair blown across her face and tucked it behind her ear, his fingers lingering, stroking her jaw. “You want to put your hands on me?”

“No! I…” She moved to drop the hand she still held between them, but after years of swordplay, his reflexes were fast, and he caught it, placing her palm on his chest.

“I…” Her breathing hitched, her sudden intake of air audible even with the background hiss of the ocean. “Glen.”

The way Savannah said his name set his heart hammering against her palm like a man hammering on a door, desperate for shelter while outside a storm raged. And he was desperate—to taste her mouth…to see if honeyed sweetness hid under her sharp words.

He skimmed a thumb down her bottom lip and her mouth parted, eyes widening at his touch. Emboldened by her lack of resistance, he cupped her nape and drew her closer. Her expression remained unreadable in the semi-darkness, but he gambled the fingers curling into a fist around his tee shirt meant she didn’t intend to knee him in the nuts.

But if he did this, if he kissed her now…would it be a sign of strength? Or surrender?

Perfect example of his problem, right there. He over-analyzed everything to death, instead of just doing, taking the risk, and to hell with the consequences.

Screw it.

Glen let go of Savannah long enough to grasp her upper arms and tug her flush against him. He bent his head, hesitating a whisker away to gauge her reaction. Her breath puffed gently on his lips in rapid pants, her green eyes shielded with the sweep of her lashes at half-mast. Guess he must have traces of the young man fascinated with medieval chivalry still inside him. He couldn’t go all caveman on a woman if she didn’t want him.

Dipping his head, he brushed his top lip against the fullness of her bottom one. She gasped, tilting up her head, so he repeated the action, but this time lingered…aligning their mouths so they clung lightly together. The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, savoring the fruity zing of the Sauvignon Blanc they’d had with dinner. Savannah made a needy sound in the back of her throat, half sigh, half moan. He stiffened further, resisting the urge to fill his palms with her curvy bottom and snug her lower half even tighter against him. Tentative fingers grazed his chest to clutch at his shoulders, and she pressed closer.