I towered over him by three inches, it was a hollow taunt, one he’d made many times as a kid, and we laughed.
‘Let’s get back to the club and you can show me proof you haven’t been embezzling me out of a fortune.’ I tugged on the end of a glove lace with my teeth, thinking I should do this more often.
Boxing worked off frustration of all varieties, including sexual, like nothing else could.
‘Sounds like a plan.’ As Hudson took off his gloves and helped me with mine, I knew he wanted to say more but was holding back.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s this place.’ Hudson gestured around. ‘I don’t get back here as often as I like but whenever I do it’s like the past crashes over me and I wonder why I put myself through it.’
That was another thing that had bonded us, our crappy childhoods. His father had made mine look like a frigging saint.
‘Cut the heartstring crap, bozo, and let’s get back to work.’
Hudson blinked rapidly, as if coming back from a place of bad memories, before his signature grin made me sigh in relief. ‘After you, big guy.’
As we traded banter while changing, swapping the usual crap guys did, I knew I’d done the right thing in taking time away from the patisserie and Abby today.
But I couldn’t play chicken for ever, and come tomorrow I’d be back there, wishing I hadn’t complicated matters and wanting her more than ever.
Abby
AFTER MAKAYLA AND I locked up I’d intended on taking a hot bath and having an early night. But as I entered the small one-room apartment over the patisserie, it didn’t offer the comfort it usually did.
I’d never forget the first time Remy brought me up here and said I could stay as long as I liked. That had been over a year ago, the day I’d walked out on Bardley and into Le Miel. In search of comfort via the delicious pastries Remy made, I’d frequented the patisserie often during my marriage, using it as my go-to place to escape home. I’d spent many afternoons sitting at the small table near the counter, sipping at a latte and trying to stop at only one croissant while studying.
Remy would come out from the kitchen occasionally and he’d always stop to chat. As kind-hearted and generous with his time as he was with his magnificent pastries.
I’d never plucked up the courage to tell him that I also enjoyed baking and that to me he had my dream job. Instead, when he asked, I pretended to wax lyrical about my business degree and how happy I was juggling university with marriage.
If he saw through my brittle smile, he never said; that was the kind of man he was. And that fateful day when I’d found my backbone and had the guts to walk away from Bardley, he still hadn’t prodded for information despite me coming in here like I had a pack of wolves on my tail.
On impulse, I’d asked him for a job and once he’d heard my sob story he’d offered me the apartment too.
I’d taken one look at the cosy, light-filled space and fallen in love. Pockmarked mahogany floorboards covered in rugs in the most vibrant peacock blues and crimsons, a faded chintz sofa and chairs, a bookcase overflowing with classics and a kitchenette stocked with everything I’d need to whip up healthy meals for one.
The small bedroom and bathroom had been basic but I hadn’t cared. I’d never lived on my own, moving straight from my parents’ Double Bay mansion into Bardley’s Vaucluse monstrosity gifted to him by his folks when we married. Having the freedom to do whatever I liked in my own space had been heady stuff for a girl like me.
So I’d moved in with the few suitcases I’d packed when I’d walked away from my marriage, had paid Remy six months’ rent in advance—a pittance, really, considering the rental prices in this upmarket part of town—and settled into a routine.
Living the life I wanted.
But today, restlessness plagued me and after I’d done a quick circuit or ten of the apartment I decided to go for a drive. Another thing I liked doing that I’d never had much of a chance to do in my past: driving for leisure.
Dad had a chauffeur that had dropped me at school and picked me up, and Bardley roared around in his sports car when he wasn’t getting a private car to ferry him around. My narrow-minded husband had never understood my love of driving, had mocked me endlessly for wanting to drive out of the city on a weekend with no destination in my mind.
So I’d rarely done it; hadn’t been worth the angst. Besides, it had been difficult to squirrel away any me-time when Bardley demanded I keep up with his hectic social schedule and attend every boring polo party/sailing regatta/race carnival as his arm candy.
These days, on my limited down time, I drove for the heck of it. For the pleasure of exploring new places. For the simple fact I could, without anyone telling me I was an idiot or worse.
It wasn’t until I was in my hatchback and cruising the streets did I realise where I was heading.
Home.
Not the harbourside mansion I’d lived in for twenty-one years before I got married, but the suburb. Ritzy Double Bay. Everything seemed brighter here, like a fairy had sprinkled glitter over the entire suburb.
I drove aimlessly along the lush tree-lined boulevards, passing row upon row of incredible palatial homes with manicured emerald lawns, tennis courts and pool houses that could house a large family.
Trendy boutiques I’d frequented when I didn’t baulk at the four-figure price tag on a pair of shoes or hold back when signing up for the newest release designer handbag.
Cafés I’d regularly met my friends at, to do nothing but chat about our caviar facials and the latest celebrity break-up. Friends that hadn’t given a crap when I’d left Bardley. Friends that hadn’t even called.
Past Redleaf Beach, a gorgeous slice of Sydney Harbour foreshore, where I’d sat on the sand for hours sometimes, wishing I could swim like the bathers doing laps in the tidal enclosure but too afraid to bring it up in case Bardley ridiculed me for wanting to learn how to swim at my age and conquer my fear of deep water.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter as I glimpsed a sprawling whitewashed building fringed in lush gardens. The day spa Mum and I used to attend.
Emotion clogged my throat as I homed in on the elaborate gold-embossed entrance, wondering what I’d do if I glimpsed Mum. But she was nowhere in sight and I found myself pulling into a parking spot and killing the engine.
Crazy, as even if I saw her I wouldn’t approach her. Not when a hotbed of resentment and hurt festered inside me that not once over the last twelve months had she contacted me. Other than those fraught initial phone calls when she’d begged me to reconsider walking out on my marriage.
Phone calls where she hadn’t asked how I was or where I was living or what I was doing to support myself since I’d been cut off financially from Bardley and my folks. Oh, no. Mum’s phone calls consisted of cajoling alternating with berating.
