Wish Upon a Wedding. Kate Hardy

developed a plan. Her jobless situation would only provide Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith with more ammunition to continue their silly feud. Battle lines would be drawn and Jo would find herself smack-bang in the middle of them. She was already smack-bang in the middle of them! No more. She was tired of living her life to meet other people’s expectations.

      She pulled in a breath. When she was working in a job she loved and doing things that made her happy, the people who loved her—Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith—would be happy for her too. She squinted out of the window. If only she could figure out what it was that would make her happy.

      She chafed her arms, suddenly cold. All she knew was that another twenty years down the track she didn’t want to look back and feel she’d wasted her life.

      When Russ had found all that out he’d laughed and rubbed his hands together. ‘Jo,’ he’d said, ‘I’ve just the job for you.’

      And here she was.

      She glanced around, her nose wrinkling.

      She loved Russ dearly. She enjoyed his twisted sense of humour, admired the values he upheld, and she respected the man he was. She did not, however, hold out the same hopes for his brother.

      She planted her hands on her hips. A brother did not desert his family when they needed him. Russ had been there for Mac every step of the way, but Mac had been nowhere to be found when Russ had needed him. But here she was, all the same. Mac’s hired help. She didn’t even know what her official job title was—cook, cleaner, housekeeper? Russ had dared her to don a French maid’s outfit. Not in this lifetime!

      Russ needed someone to make sure Mac was getting three square meals a day and not living in squalor—someone who could be trusted not to go racing to the press. At heart, though, Jo knew Russ just wanted to make sure his little brother was okay.

      Cue Jo. Still, this job would provide her with the peace and quiet to work out where she wanted to go from here.

      She pulled Mac’s note from her pocket and stared at it.

      There should be absolutely no reason for you to venture onto the first floor.

      Oh, yes, there was.

      Without giving herself too much time to think, she headed straight for the stairs.

      There were five doors on the first floor, if she didn’t count the door to the linen closet. Four of them stood wide open—a bathroom and three bedrooms. Mind you, all the curtains in each of those rooms were drawn, so it was dark as Hades up here. The fourth door stood resolutely closed. Do Not Disturb vibes radiated from it in powerful waves.

      ‘Guess which one the prize is behind?’ she murmured under her breath, striding up to it.

      She lifted her hand and knocked. Rat-tat-tat! The noise bounced up and down the hallway. No answer. Nothing.

      She knocked again, even louder. ‘Mac, are you in there?’

      To hell with calling him Mr MacCallum. Every Tuesday night for the last five years she’d sat with Russ, watching Mac on the television. For eight years she’d listened to Russ talk about his brother. He would be Mac to her forever.

      She suddenly stiffened. What if he was hurt or sick?

      ‘Go away!’

      She rolled her eyes. ‘“There was movement at the station.”’

      ‘Can’t you follow instructions?’

      Ooh, that was a veritable growl. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m coming in.’

      She pushed the door open.

      ‘What the hell?’ The single light at the desk was immediately clicked off. ‘Get out! I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

      ‘Correction. An anonymous note informed me that someone didn’t want to be disturbed.’ It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She focussed on that rather than the snarl in his voice. ‘Anyone could’ve left that note. For all I knew you could’ve been slain while you slept.’

      He threw his arms out. ‘Not slain. See? Now, get out.’

      ‘I’d like nothing better,’ she said, strolling across the room.

      ‘What the hell do you think you’re—?’

      He broke off when she flung the curtains back. She pulled in a breath, staring at the newly revealed balcony and the magnificent view beyond. ‘Getting a good look at you,’ she said, before turning around.

      The sight that met her shocked her to the core. She had no hope of hiding it. She reached out a hand to steady herself against the glass doors.

      ‘Happy?’

      His lips twisted in a snarl that made her want to flee. She swallowed and shook her head. ‘No.’ How could she be happy? He was going to break his brother’s heart.

      ‘Shocked?’ he mocked with an ugly twist of his lips.

      The left side of his face and neck were red, tight and raw with the post-burn scarring from his accident. His too-long blond hair had clumped in greasy unbrushed strands. Dark circles rimmed red eyes. The grey pallor of his skin made her stomach churn.

      ‘To the marrow,’ she choked out.

      And in her mind the first lines of that Banjo Paterson poem went round and round in her head.

       There was movement at the station,

       for the word had passed around

       That the colt from old Regret had got away

      Regret. Got away. She suddenly wished with everything inside her that she could get away. Leave.

      And go where? What would she tell Russ?

      She swallowed and straightened. ‘It smells dreadful in here.’

      Too close and sour and hot. She slid the door open, letting the sea breeze dance over her. She filled her lungs with it even though his scowl deepened.

      ‘I promised Russ I’d clap eyes on you, as no one else seems to have done so in months.’

      ‘He sent you here as a spy?’

      ‘He sent me here as a favour.’

      ‘I don’t need any favours!’

      Not a favour for you. But she didn’t say that out loud. ‘No. I suspect what you really need is a psychiatrist.’

      His jaw dropped.

      She pulled herself up to her full height of six feet and folded her arms. ‘Is that what you really want me to report back to Russ? That you’re in a deep depression and possibly suicidal?’

      His lips drew together tightly over his teeth. ‘I am neither suicidal nor depressed.’

      ‘Right.’ She drew the word out, injecting as much disbelief into her voice as she could. ‘For the last four months you’ve sat shut up in this dark house, refusing to see a soul. I suspect you barely sleep and barely eat.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And when was the last time you had a shower?’

      His head rocked back.

      ‘These are not the actions of a reasonable or rational adult. What interpretation would you put on them if you were coming in from the outside? What conclusion do you think Russ would come to?’

      For a moment she thought he might have paled at her words—except he was already so pale it was impossible to tell. She rubbed a hand across her chest. She understood that one had to guard against sunburn on burn scars, but avoiding the light completely was ludicrous.

      He said nothing. He just stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Which just went to show how preoccupied he must have been. When most people saw her for the first time they usually performed a comical