Just One Last Night...

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, we barely talked,’ she said.

‘Well, how’d he look?’ Trish sighed and fluttered her hand against her chest. ‘He was always such a handsome boy.’

Marshall gave a hoot and Grace shot him her very best I-used-to-change-your-nappies look as she stood. ‘I guess he still looks okay,’ she muttered, figuring she was probably about to be struck down dead and that would, at least, cure her horrible bout of nerves.

He’d looked incredible. Just like the old Brent but with a maturity that had taken his sexiness to a whole new level. ‘Anyway, gotta go.’

She bustled around to the other side of the table and dropped a kiss each on Tash and Benji’s heads. Benji gave her one of his sweet smiles but Tash fluffed her hair as if to erase it.

Grace ignored the pointed action. ‘See you both about five-thirty,’ she said, picking up her case and turning to go.

‘You should invite him to dinner one night. It’d be lovely to see him again.’

Grace stopped in mid-stride. She looked at her mother, ever the hostess. ‘Mmm …’ she said noncommittally, ignoring Marshall’s wink in her peripheral vision, and headed towards the front door.

That was so not going to happen.

As it played out it wasn’t until lunch of her third day that she finally met up again with Brent. She was standing in line at the cafeteria when a familiar sense of him surrounded her. She didn’t have to look to know he was near.

It had always been like that between the two of them.

‘Grace.’

She gripped her tray as his quiet greeting brushed her neck and nestled into her bones as familiar to her, even after all these years, as her own marrow.

She didn’t bother to turn and face him. ‘Brent.’

‘What are you having? They do a good Chicken Parmigiana.’

‘The quiche.’

Brent frowned at the continued view of the back of her head. ‘Let me guess. With chips drenched in vinegar?’

Grace smiled. ‘Yes.’

The waitress interrupted them and Brent let her order.

‘That’s twelve dollars fifty, Doc.’

‘Here,’ Brent said, smiling at the middle-aged woman behind the counter, ‘add up mine too and take them both out of this.’

Grace, who was handing over her card, froze and finally faced him. ‘I pay my own way, Brent.’

A man would have to be deaf, blind and stupid not to pay heed to the ice in her tone and the chill in her gaze.

But somehow it just made him more determined.

He shrugged. ‘For old times’ sake.’

A surge of molten rage erupted in her chest so fast it took her breath. Hadn’t he learned anything from the old times? He’d wanted to take care of her and all she’d wanted had been for him to realise she could take care of herself.

She hadn’t needed a carer. She’d wanted a partner. An equal. Someone who didn’t need the trappings of the traditional to be validated. But Brent, a product of a broken home and an even more broken foster-system, had craved the conventional.

He’d wanted roots. A wife, some kids, the whole white-picket-fence catastrophe. And she’d just wanted a career.

‘No.’

She didn’t mean it to come out as a growl but she suspected from the rounded eyes of the nurse standing behind Brent that it had. ‘Put it away.’

Brent nodded and withdrew his money, cursing his stupidity under his breath. It had been the wrong thing to do and the wrong thing to say.

Why did he suddenly feel like a gangly eighteen-year-old around her? Trying to prove he was a suave urbane gentleman and not some gutter urchin who had been dragged through a system that had been underfunded and overstretched?

She hadn’t treated him as if he’d been unworthy back then—why would she now?

Grace paid for her meal. ‘We need to talk,’ she said, before she stormed off to an unoccupied table as far away from the nearest lunchtime customers as possible.

Grace continued to fume as she watched Brent charm the woman at the register and then his unhurried stride towards her. He’d been in a suit that day of the interview, which had only hinted at the perfection she knew lay beneath. But today he was in trousers and a business shirt that left nothing to the imagination.

Was it possible that he was even broader twenty years on?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he placed his tray on the table and sank into a chair. ‘It won’t happen again. In fact, I think you should pay for me next time. I reckon I could set up a tab here and have them bill you at the end of each month. You could also pay for my parking if you like.’

Grace, who’d opened her mouth to launch into her how-dare-you diatribe, shut it again. He was grinning at her and it seemed like nothing had ever gone wrong between them. How many times had they sat in a cafeteria, eating some awful uni food and laughing at his silly jokes?

It seemed like yesterday.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Surely the director of emergency medicine gets his own car space?’

Brent grinned again. ‘Yeah, you got me there. So, just my cafeteria bill, okay?’

Grace felt all the angst melt at his infectious smile. Seemed like she was still a sucker for that mouth.

The urge to reach out and stroke the rich-looking fabric of his shirt, as she once would have done, prowled inside her like a living, breathing beast. She forced herself to pick up her cutlery instead.

As they ate they chatted about her orientation and Grace also told him about the house she’d bought. Twenty minutes passed easily. He loved listening to her talk. Her voice was just the way he remembered—soothing and melodic.

In fact, so many things about her were the same. Familiar. Her great big smile. Her mannerisms.

But the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed was new. She’d obviously done it a lot and he was torn between being happy for her and annoyed that she’d obviously had a rich and full life without him.

Of course her hair was completely different. And then there were the glasses. He knew she was severely long-sighted and was essentially as blind as a bat without some kind of corrective device, but what had made her switch from contacts?

‘So, why the glasses?’ he asked as conversation dwindled.

Grace shrugged and adjusted them with sudden nervousness. This was moving into personal territory.

‘I’ve had so many problems with contacts over the years. Glasses are simpler. And they’re excellent splash protection. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve copped an unexpected spray of blood in my face and they’ve saved my eyes every time.’