In His Good Hands. Joan Kilby

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СКАЧАТЬ nose transported her straight back to grade eleven, when a passing glance from him in the school corridor had been enough to send her into dreamy reveries.

      Not now, though. No way.

      She extended a hand. “How are you?”

      “G’day, Renita. It’s been a while.” His clasp was firm, almost painful, as if he didn’t know his own strength, and his blue gaze so direct it was like a stab to the heart. “What is it, thirteen years?”

      “Something like that.” She gestured to a chair. “Tell me, what can I do for you?”

      He sat, but instead of getting down to business, he leaned back and shook his head. “I can’t get over it. You’re exactly the same.”

      “Gee, thanks. And here I thought I’d improved.”

      He flashed her his easy grin. “You always had a wisecrack for every occasion.”

      “No, I only speak the truth,” she deadpanned. “Everyone just thinks I’m joking.”

      “What I meant was you look fabulous.” When she raised her eyebrows skeptically, he insisted, “Honestly, you do.”

      “Don’t flatter me, Brett.” Renita knew she was well-groomed, pretty but not beautiful. Most of the time she thought she looked just fine—well, except for the extra weight. But she didn’t believe for one second that Brett, who was used to being mobbed by half-naked football groupies, could possibly think she looked fabulous.

      “You look…real,” he amended, having the grace to appear sheepish at being called on his sincerity.

      “Real. Yep, that’s me.” Real meant eyeglasses, hair with a mind of its own, jackets that strained at the buttons.

      She searched beneath his gorgeousness for signs that he’d aged badly from the debauched life he must have led as a professional football player. Not to mention Australian rules football was a rough sport. Brett had been hot in high school. Hotter still during televised football games, with his cheek smeared with dirt and his muscles—all sweaty and glistening—exposed by his sleeveless jersey and tight shorts. But apart from a small white scar across his right eyebrow, laughter lines around his eyes and mouth and the way his lanky frame had filled out with solid muscle, he looked pretty much the same as he had at seventeen. Sexy and athletic.

      “So, Brett, are you here for a loan?”

      “First I’d like to know how my favorite math tutor is doing,” he said, still with that easy smile, that confidence that used to enthrall her. Now it only grated on her nerves.

      He was trying to charm her. It came to him as easily as breathing, and probably just as unconsciously. It took her back to afternoons around her parents’ farmhouse kitchen table. She had tried earnestly to teach him trigonometry; he had tried to distract her with jokes. She’d wanted to slap him.

      Or kiss him.

      “How could I be your favorite tutor?” She laughed nervously, although she was anything but amused. “I dropped you two weeks before the final exam, remember?”

      “Oh, yeah.” Brett frowned. “Why did you do that, anyway?”

      “Dad needed my help with chores after school,” she lied, even as hurt and anger pushed their way to the surface.

      What an idiot she’d been back then, imagining that just because they’d laughed together, just because he’d tweaked her ponytail, he’d liked her. She could still see his stunned expression, hear his excruciatingly blunt, “Sorry, you’re not my type,” when she’d asked him to the grade eleven dance.

      “Is it a home loan or business loan you’re after?”

      “Your father used to put the fear of God into me whenever I came around,” Brett went on, seemingly oblivious to her efforts to change the subject. “But I’ll never forget the cakes and cookies your mum baked for our study sessions. How are your folks doing?”

      “They sold the farm and moved into Summerside to be near Jack, Lexie and me,” Renita said, summing up the past six months in a few quick words. What she didn’t say was that her parents, Steve and Hetty Thatcher, weren’t fine at all. They were having marriage problems, and her dad was sick. But she was done chatting. She shuffled some papers on her desk. “Interest rates are set to go up next month, so I’m recommending to our borrowers that they lock in for a fixed term.”

      “I ran into Jack yesterday in the grocery store,” Brett added. “He told me your father had been in the hospital.”

      Renita nodded, biting her lip. The scare was recent enough that she was still shaken up over it.

      “Is Steve all right?” Brett pressed. “Jack was in a hurry and didn’t have time to tell me what happened.”

      She gripped her pen tightly between her fingers. “My dad’s been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.”

      Brett leaned forward, his clear blue eyes troubled. “I didn’t think that usually meant a hospital stay.”

      Couldn’t he just drop it? Renita met his gaze, and that was her undoing. His expression was so sympathetic she couldn’t resist confiding in him. “Mum was away on a meditation retreat and Dad let his diet go to hell. No one knew he had diabetes or that he was eating a ton of sweets. Next thing, he was severely dehydrated and his blood sugar levels were through the roof. He was in a coma for two days.”

      “I’m sorry,” Brett murmured. “Is he okay now?”

      Sorry. Was he? Renita tapped the pen against her blotter. For reasons she’d never understood, Brett and her father didn’t get along.

      “He’s out of the hospital. Mum’s back home and taking care of him.” Grudgingly. Hetty, and even Jack and Sienna, believed Steve had brought his illness on himself to punish her for going away.

      “My gym is sponsoring the Diabetes Fun Run next month,” Brett said. “You and Steve should think about entering.”

      “Me, run?” Renita laughed. “I’m built for comfort, not speed.” She was like her dad in many ways, including having a weakness for sweets.

      “It’s not a race,” Brett said. “It’s to support a good cause. And an excuse to get some exercise.”

      Renita shifted uncomfortably, feeling her waistband pinch. Steve’s health crisis had given her a jolt. She needed to do something about her weight or she might end up with type 2 diabetes. In fact, she was going on a diet. Starting next Monday. Or Tuesday.

      Just thinking about being hungry made her cranky.

      “I support the cause, but as for exercise, I’d sooner stick flaming bamboo shoots beneath my fingernails.”

      “Okay, I get the picture. I’m not here to torture you.” Brett let the subject go. “What are you doing these days? Do you still see anyone from high school?”

      “Most everyone has moved away.” Didn’t he get that they weren’t friends?

      “I’m looking forward to catching up with Jack and his fiancée,” СКАЧАТЬ