Silver Linings

By Priscilla Brown

He almost runs her over, she breaks a shoe in a drain…what can he do but play Prince Charming?  This near accident caused by Alistair is Cassandra's introduction to life in the fun lane. Both fresh out of inappropriate relationships and jobs, each is novelty value for the other. But the exes are pulling tricks to be reinstated, offering lifestyles where income is guaranteed. So can Cassie's passion for crafting silver jewellery and Al's for working with driftwood timber keep them fed?  And is this fizzing too-much-too-soon chemistry between them fit for the long haul?

review snippet "equal parts hilarious and sexy" …"will have you laughing, sighing and falling in love with the characters and settings alike"…a fun read"

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Nov 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228600114

Book preview

Chapter One

Friday, bloody Friday . Why did it always rain on Fridays?

Waiting at a red light, Alistair drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Might as well rain forever. No job, retrenched this sodden morning after four years, downsizing they called it. No girlfriend, ditched last soaking Friday after two years, upsizing Toni called it.

By the time the light condescended to turn green, he could have become fluent in Urdu. He flicked the wipers to fast, the heater to high and the headlights on as he joined the five p.m. traffic crawling towards Hobart’s Tasman Bridge. July in southern Tasmania made a man hallucinate about a tropical Queensland beach—and yet he loved the island. Which was why he’d fallen onto the singles trash heap. And why he’d probably be jobless until the South Pole’s ice cap melted and drowned them all. He didn’t need to open the window to feel the chilly winds of a miserable future.

Jeez! He stamped on the brake. Why the hell didn’t the damn fool woman look? Glancing in the rear view mirror, he sucked in his breath. She was standing in the roadway. Thank God he hadn’t hit her. A bus behind him honked as he skidded to a halt. Just his luck, he’d pulled up at a stop. He inched forward, pushed into park, toggled the engine off and rummaged for his umbrella. He should clean up this post-Toni mess of newspapers, chocolate wrappers, apple cores, and—hey, was this lottery ticket a winner? Nah, nothing in his life was a winner. His fingers located the recalcitrant umbrella. He swung out of the car in time to see the bus driver make a rude sign at him. He returned it and was rewarded with a shower of slimy spray as the bus pulled out.

Cassandra had no desire to do a Cinderella and leave her shoe in the gutter, so she stumbled onto the kerb on one and a half heels. She glared in the direction of a silver bullet of a car. Not satisfied with half-drowning her, that maniac had ruined her shoes. She hobbled to a streetlight to lean against it, took off her left shoe and examined it. She’d felt it catch in a drain as she struggled to save herself from annihilation. Tatters of leather were all that connected the last two inches of heel to the first four.

The sight of her poor battered shoe crushed the last straw holding up her life. Straws had been crumpling for months, and after today’s incendiary stuff in her office, and terminal exasperation with her serial date-cancelling fiancé, she might as well drop out of civilisation. Ex-office, since she'd left her boss in no doubt that she would ever go back. And her fiancé? Ex too? Her engagement ring, tossed among the clutter at the bottom of her bag two hours ago when Jeremy had cancelled tonight, was emitting persuasive return-to-sender signals. Then he’d couriered the theatre tickets for this evening, suggesting she took her brother. Being run over was almost a preferred option to going anywhere with Gordon.

She sighed, regarded her shoe with displeasure, and pushed her foot into it. It would have to get her home, if she could ever manage to cross the road to her bus stop.

Hey there!

Strong fingers grasped her elbow. She jerked her head up, to make out an ordinary male face, with spectacles and a chin in need of a shave, under a king-size scarlet umbrella.

Are you okay? Alistair had intended his tone to come out heavy with reproof for someone who didn’t look both ways, but he heard his voice trail away as he perceived what stood before him.

A rain fairy. Slight body, shortish, the top of her head reaching his shoulder. Long fair hair wind-blown under her yellow umbrella. Wide-apart eyes, tip-tilted nose.

I...um... Cassandra jerked her arm from his grip. He might have a voice that sounded warm and concerned, but she didn’t admit strangers to her personal space. I was nearly an accident statistic and I broke my shoe, but thanks, I’m all right.

Thank God for that. It was me.

You! She stepped back on her left foot and winced as she almost turned her ankle over. Well, next time you sideswipe someone, pick a dry day. And pick a spot where they won’t fall down a drain and ruin their best shoes.

She pointed to her feet. Beyond her dark-stockinged legs and trim ankles, Alistair observed her footwear. No wonder she’d been caught up in a drain. God-awful stupid, especially for this weather—low black tops, suicidally high gold heels. One of which angled drunkenly.

"Sorry. But you had stepped off the kerb. You must have noticed all the traffic in Tasmania crammed into this street, and the tidal wave in the gutter."

I needed to cross. My bus stop’s over there.

You could try traffic lights. He pointed to the intersection a hundred yards away. Practise using them before I drive along this street again.

If I see you here again I’ll... Cassandra bit her lip. Being in this street after work was a circumstance about to be consigned to history.

You’ll what? Have a row of spikes thrown up in front of me?

He looked so contrite, she almost smiled. But negligent driving required a stern treatment. She pointed along the street to the car parked with its rear wheels on the bus zone. Is that piece of space junk yours?

Alistair flinched at her description of his top-of the-range convertible. Yes, and the buses hate sharing their space so it’s going to get towed away any minute.

A silence loaded with hesitation hovered beneath the umbrellas.

My bus is due, Cassandra thought, and he must move his car.

She’ll have trouble walking in that shoe, Alistair reasoned, so I could offer—

My name’s Alistair Roxburgh. Can I take you for a drink to make amends? Your feet are soaked, I’ve got a towel in the car.

I bet you have. Not a good line.

She tossed her head, and her oversize silver earrings swung towards him. Her lips curved, and she offered him a tiny smile. He watched, fascinated, as the smile lit her eyes. Was this his reward for doing the gentlemanly thing and checking on her? Her smile widened and he discovered her dimples. He’d never known a woman with dimples. Hey!

Cassandra eyed him. Not only had he almost run her over, now he was picking her up. How much more trouble could he be? So, her love life, her work life, everything else was trouble, why not take the chance on this Alistair?

I’m Cassandra, I’ve had a horrible day, and a drink would be nice. So he got the message, she added, Without the towel.

He took her arm. Her instinct was to tell him she could manage, but his fingers did seem to have a steadying influence on her unsteady left foot. He opened the passenger door.

How was she supposed to get in? The torrent in the gutter lapped at the car’s low-slung body. She hitched her skirt up, feeling it creep way above decency level, and launched herself. By the time she’d tossed her umbrella behind the seats, wriggled out of her raincoat, yanked her skirt down to a respectable length and belted up, he was inside and throwing a small towel at her.

He punched the blaring music off, and catapulted the car into the stream of traffic. Behind them, brakes squealed. Help! She’d been picked up by Mr Thunderfoot! She squeezed her eyes closed.

Relax. He took one hand off the wheel and pointed to the towel. Dry yourself.

Relax? She’d have more chance of relaxing in a full-on tumble drier.

She’d mopped one foot when he flung the car around a corner in a racing gear change. She stopped mopping and clung to the door grip. Where had this guy learned to drive? On dodgem cars? She should have gone home as she’d planned, wrapped herself in her snuggly cashmere blanket, dialled for a pizza, got outside a bottle of red and applied her mind to her lack of employment. Lights! She almost screamed. The car screeched to a stop.

Do you always treat lights as an optional extra? she muttered, while her fingernails gouged her palms.

Never. He flashed her a mischievous look. I always stop on red.

The engine roared into a frenzy.

And I’ve never been booked for speeding, he added, as they shot from the lights, across traffic and into a car park near the waterfront.

Someone must be looking after you.

You’re thinking that’s more than I deserve.

She turned her head to stare at him. Well, well, here was a man with perception. His fingers on the leather-covered wheel spun the car into a tight spot in a one-manoeuvre reverse park. He was out of the car and opening her door before she had her shoes on. He helped her out. Hmm, nice manners. She straightened her skirt, slung her raincoat around her shoulders and reached for her umbrella. As they crossed the road, he held her elbow again. She hated Jeremy taking her arm to cross the road, as if she were two or ninety-two. But the light touch of this stranger did help her to keep her balance.

Inside the bar, Alistair took her raincoat and their umbrellas and stashed them on the pegs by the door. He was amused to see the rain fairy comb her hair with her fingers. It already looked like it had been brushed with a whisk, though he guessed her curls were natural. Her attempt to tidy it only resulted in spectacular disorder. Yet it suited her, and, after two years of Toni’s perfectly styled short straight black, he found to his surprise messy long curly blonde held a certain charm.

Two stools over there, he said, pointing to the window.

Funky little place, Cassandra observed, putting her bag on the windowsill and settling herself on her stool. I’ve never been here.

"Never?" He put his glasses in his pocket, and blinked in bafflement. Where did she spend her time? Presumably she worked in the city, and At the Edge was one of Hobart’s favourite watering holes.

I...my... Cassandra swallowed her words. He didn’t need to know Jeremy’s scathing opinion of places like this. Well, she said brightly, it’s nice to be out of the rain.

A waiter set down a dish of pretzels. Good evening, Al. A beer for you? And your friend?

Cassandra noticed the waiter raise an enquiring eyebrow. Obviously Alistair was a regular, and she was not his usual companion. His girlfriend must be sick, or away. Alternatively, he almost ran a woman over every Friday as a precursor to bringing her here, though he didn't seem the sort who cruised. Okay, they’d have a drink, discuss the weather, and if he offered to drive her home, she’d refuse. She was only a pick up, a stand-in. Cascade light, thanks Pete, Alistair said, and nachos and dip too. Cassandra?

She scanned the specials board above the bar. Friday special, margarita, $9. Your choice of lime, mango, passionfruit, electric blue. Electric blue?

To hell with humdrum gin and tonic, it wasn’t every day she was almost run over. She waved a hand towards the board. I’d like one of those please. Electric blue.

The waiter nodded and moved away.

You know him, she said. Do you...er... She sifted through her brain to come up with a more original way to ask the question. But those uncooperative cells had much more interest in considering the exact colour of his eyes. Hazel, flecked with gold, she decided, a nice colour to go with his shortish tawny hair. And in better light she could see she’d insulted his chin by thinking it needed a shave. The neatly trimmed narrow line of stubble from ear to ear via his square jaw line was definitely a style statement.

Do I come here often, he helped her out. A muscle crimped in the corner of his mouth, as if he were trying not to smile. So I’m not the only one with a corny line.

Sorry. I think I’ve used up all my brain power for the week.

Alistair took his time about eating a pretzel so he didn’t have to answer her question. He did, had, come here often. Though why had he brought the rain fairy here?  Habit?  He and Toni used to come two or three times a week after work, including Fridays. The last time had been a week ago, when it was raining as solidly as tonight. He’d told her, again, he could not, would not, move to Melbourne with her, and she didn’t need to move her business there. All arranged, she’d said, including a job for him. If he didn’t value what she could do for him, she’d have no trouble finding someone smarter. He’d spent the week wondering how he felt about the split. There were things he’d miss...and, since he’d been retrenched, shouldn’t he regret passing up the job opportunity?

And now the rain fairy perched opposite him. He was stunned she’d agreed to come. She didn’t seem the type to get into cars with strange men. He’d offer to take her and her broken shoe home, and that would be the end of it.

Cassandra watched his face register several expressions, none of which she could read. He didn’t intend to answer her question, and she guessed he had a recent history to do with this bar.

The drinks, nachos and dips arrived.

Here’s to a rainy night, Alistair grinned.

She clinked her margarita against his beer. And to not quite getting run over.

Salt frosted the rim of the cocktail glass. He watched her run her tongue tip around it, and lick her lips. She sipped, and blinked hard.

Something wrong? he asked.

Alcohol fumes surged up Cassandra's nose and hit her behind the forehead. I don’t know what they’ve put in this to make it blue, but it’s wearing football boots. She took another sip. This time it kicked her in the back of the throat, and she coughed.

Sure you’re all right?

Yes, just getting used to it. Electric blue margarita is a new one for me.

Wriggling on the stool, she hitched her good heel and what remained of the other over the footrest, to gain a firmer grounding to earth. This tight skirt was not meant for sitting on high stools in, and it seemed to have retreated up her legs. She gave it a tug.

Glancing at Alistair, she shrugged her jacket off and laid it on the sill. He held her gaze for an extra beat. Hey, was this flirting? The atmosphere of this place must have invaded her brain. A comfortable sensation of being warm and dry indoors, while outside chilly rain sluiced down the windows and other people got soaked. Mellow rhythmic piano jazz, possibly Gershwin, making her want to tap her foot. Smooth dip on crunchy nachos. The chatter of Friday night sleeks setting the room abuzz.

And Alistair’s scent, male, something woody, reaching her across the tiny table. Making her mouth dry out. She abandoned the sips and took a swallow.

Slow it down, Alistair murmured. She didn’t look as if she mainlined alcohol, and he wondered why she was going at this too fast. Probably she regretted coming with him, and just wanted to go home.

Cassandra edged her glass a fraction away from her. Sorry, bad manners. The drink would do precisely nothing to ease this parched feeling that was sneaking from her tongue down her throat. She pushed her hair behind her ears, straightened her back and angled him a glance from beneath her lashes. You won’t have to scoop me up from the floor.

Pity, in a way, Alistair thought. Thank God he hadn’t had to scoop her from the road, but he’d happily scoop her from the floor if necessary. Tell me about your horrible day.

Yes, well, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, you came along.

She smiled at him, dimples flashing in her cheeks. He hoped this meant she’d forgiven him. Then she frowned, as if gearing up to explain her day.

I work—worked—in an architect’s office. I’m an interior designer, supposed to be working alongside him, but in fact he allowed me very few briefs because he needed me as his receptionist.

She picked her glass up and banged it down. Margarita slopped onto the table.

"Wait there, Cassandra. You worked? Did he fire you?"

No. I quit. She sniffed. Quit. Q.U.I.T.

Why? What happened?

I had yet another fight with him about my real job, and the lack of attention he pays to the office. All this morning he was out with his phone off, and I had to deal with irate clients. She clenched her jaw. I was tired of not doing what I’m trained to do, and keeping the place going.

He almost reached for her hand, to offer the sympathy and comfort of close contact. Nah, no touching. She wasn’t a date. Rough.

I think so. I didn’t get a lunch break today, so I had to cancel my dental appointment and now my teeth are probably going to fall out.

She offered him a dentally perfect smile, shaped by shiny pink lips.

I’d say teeth are the least of your problems. Go on.

When the rat came back, I was on the phone paying my car insurance, about to run out at four o’clock today. He accused me of doing personal things in company time. The hide of him! She dabbled her finger in the liquid on the table and jabbed it in his direction. "Then he said I should work back because I—I, mind you—was behind with the filing. Work back? Me? She lifted her glass to him, her eyes sparkling. I had a date with a piece of space junk, didn’t I?"

This time he didn’t mind the space junk epithet. He loved the way she made him laugh. So there was blood on the floor, he said. What will you do now?

She shrugged, an intriguing movement inside her snug-fitting turquoise sweater, the colour of her eyes. He wished she wouldn’t pull at her black skirt. Just leave it where it wanted to be, half her thigh length above her sexy knees.

I’m going to leave Hobart for a week or so, and try to get my head together.

Cassandra finished her drink. She should thank Alistair, and leave. But he’d shown her,