Joss Wood - The Last Guy She Should Call

Patch didn’t meet his eyes. ‘No, but it was close.’

Seb rubbed his hand over his hair, which he kept short to keep the curls under control, and muttered an expletive.

‘Don’t swear at me. You had your own little gold-digger you nearly married,’ Patch shot back, and Seb acknowledged the hit.

He’d been blindsided when he’d raised the issue of marriage contracts and his fiancée Bronwyn wouldn’t consider signing a pre-nup. Like most things he did, he’d approached the problem of the marriage contracts intellectually, rationally. He had the company and the house and the cash, and pretty much everything of monetary value, so he’d be the one to hand over half of everything if they divorced.

Bronwyn had not seen his point of view. If he loved her, she’d screamed, he’d share everything with her. He had loved Bronwyn—sorta...kinda—but not enough to risk sharing his company with her or paying her out for half the value of the house that had been in his family for four generations in the event of a divorce.

They’d both dug their heels in and the break-up had been bruising.

It had taken him a couple of years, many hours with a whisky bottle and a shattered heart until he’d—mostly—worked it all out. He believed in thinking through problems—including personal failures—in order to come to a better understanding of the cause and effect.

It was highly probable that he’d fallen for Bronwyn because she was, on the surface, similar in behaviour and personality to his mother. A hippy child who flitted from job to job, town to town. A supposed free spirit whom he’d wanted—no, needed to tame. Since his mother had left some time around his twelfth birthday to go backpacking round the world, and had yet to come home, he’d given up hope that he’d ever get her love or approval, that she’d return and stay put. He’d thought that if he could get Bronwyn to settle down, to commit to him, then maybe it would fill the hole his mother had left.

Yeah, right.

But he’d learnt a couple of lessons from his FUBAR engagement. Unlike his jobs—internet security expert and overseeing the Hollis Property Group—he couldn’t analyse, measure or categorise relationships and emotions, and he sure didn’t understand women. As a result he now preferred to conduct his relationships at an emotional distance. An at-a-distance relationship—sex and little conversation—held no risk of confusion and pain and didn’t demand much from him. He’d forged his emotional armour when his mum had left so very long ago and strengthened it after his experience with Bronwyn. He liked it that way. There was no chance of his heart being tossed into a liquidiser.

His father, Peter Pan that he was, just kept it simple: blonde, long-legged and big boobs. Mattress skills were a prerequisite; intelligence wasn’t.

‘So, can I move back in until she moves out?’ Patch asked.

‘Dad, Awelfor is a Hollis house; legally it’s still yours. But I should warn you that Yasmeen is on holiday; she’s been gone for nearly a week and I’ve already eaten the good stuff she left.’

Patch looked wounded. ‘So no blueberry muffins for breakfast?’

‘Best you’re going to get is coffee. No laundry or bed-making service either,’ Seb replied.

Patch looked bereft and Seb knew that it had nothing to do with his level of comfort and everything to do with the absence of their elderly family confidant, their moral compass and their staunchest supporter. Yasmeen was more than their housekeeper, she was Awelfor.

‘Yas being gone sucks.’ Patch yawned. ‘I’m going back to bed, Miranda has a voice like a foghorn and I was up all night being blasted by it.’

Seb turned his head at the sound of his ringing landline. ‘Crazy morning. Father rocking up at the crack of dawn, phone ringing before six...and all I want is a cup of coffee.’

Patch grinned up at him. ‘I just want my house back.’

Seb returned his smile. ‘Then kick her whiny ass out of yours.’

Patch shuddered. ‘I’ll just move in here until she calms down.’

His father, Seb thought as he turned away to walk back into the house, was totally allergic to confrontation.

* * *

‘Seb, it’s Rowan...Rowan Dunn.’

He’d recognised her voice the moment he’d heard her speak his name, but because his synapses had stopped firing he’d lost the ability to formulate any words. Rowan? What the...?

‘Seb? Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘Rowan, this is a surprise.’ And by surprise I mean...wow.

‘I’m in Johannesburg—at the airport.’

Since this was Rowan, he passed curious and went straight to resigned. ‘What’s happened?’

He would have had to be intellectually challenged to miss the bite in the words that followed.

‘Why do you automatically assume the worst?’

‘Because something major must have happened to bring you back to the country you hate, where the family you’ve hardly interacted with in years lives and for you to call me, who you once described as a boil on the ass of humanity.’

He waited through the tense silence.

‘I’m temporarily broke and homeless. And I’ve just been deported from Oz,’ she finally—very reluctantly—admitted.

And there it was.

‘Are you in trouble?’ He kept his voice neutral and hoped that she was now adult enough to realise that it was a fair question. For a long time before she’d left trouble had been Rowan’s middle name. Heck, her first name.

‘No, I’m good. They just picked up that I overstayed on my visa years and years ago and they kicked me out.’

Compared to some of the things she’d done, this was a minor infringement. Seb walked to his walk-in closet, took a pair of jeans from a hanger and yanked them on. He placed his fist on his forehead and stared down at the old wood flooring.

‘Seb, are you there?’

‘Yep.’

‘Do you know where my parents are? I did try them but they aren’t answering their phone.’

‘They went to London and rented out the house while they were gone to some visiting researchers from Beijing. They are due back in...’ Seb tried to remember. ‘Two—three—weeks’ time.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me! My parents went overseas and the world didn’t stop turning? How is that possible?’

‘That surprised me, too,’ Seb admitted.

‘And is Callie still on that buying trip?’

‘Yep.’

Another long silence. ‘In that case...tag—you’re it. I need a favour.’

From him? He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it was still ticking. Why hadn’t time stood still? He’d presumed it would—along with nuns being found ice skating in hell—since Rowan was asking for his help.

‘I thought you’d rather drip hot wax in your eye than ever ask me for anything again.’

‘Can you blame me? You could’ve just bailed me out of jail, jerk-face.’

And...hello, there it was: the tone of voice that had irritated him throughout his youth and into his twenties. Cool, mocking...nails-on-a-chalkboard irritating.

‘Your parents didn’t want me to—they were trying to teach you a lesson. And might I point out that calling me names is not a good way to induce me to do anything for you, Rowan?’

Seb heard her mutter a swear word and he grinned. Oh, he did like having her at his mercy.

‘What do you want, Brat?’

Brat—his childhood name for her. Callie, so blonde, had called her Black Beauty, or BB for short, on account of her jet-black hair and eyes teamed with creamy white skin. She’d been a knockout, looks-wise, since the day she’d been born. Pity she had the personality of a rabid honey badger.

Brat suited her a lot better, and had the added bonus of annoying the hell out of her.