The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) Read Free

life back. I want my job back. I
want my apartment and my shoes and my clothes. I want to have cocktails with
my friends and the challenge of juggling too much in too little time. I want
to be me again.
    Gritting her teeth, she held the stretch. Sweat broke out along
her forehead and upper lip. She started to pant, but she held the stretch. Her
hips were burning, her back starting to protest.
    She held the stretch.
    Only when pain started shooting up her spine did she ease off
and collapse onto the mat, sweat running down her temple and into her hair.
    Better than yesterday. Definitely
better.
    The thought was enough to rouse her to another round. Teeth
bared in a grimace, she eased into another pose.
    * * *
    T HE MORNING SUN was rising over the
treetops as Oliver turned onto the unmarked gravel road that he hoped like hell
was Seaswept Avenue. He was tired and sleep deprived after a long drive from
Sydney and more than ready for this journey to be over.
    Craning forward over the steering wheel, he checked house
numbers as he drove slowly up the rutted road. Not that there were many houses
to check. The lots were large, the houses either old and charming or new and
sharp edged, and there was plenty of space in between. Aunt Marion’s was number
thirty-three, and he drove past half-a-dozen vacant lots thick with bush before
spotting a tired-looking clapboard house sitting cheek by jowl with a much
tidier, smarter whitewashed cottage. As far as he could tell, they were the only
two houses at this end of the street.
    He didn’t have enough optimism left to hope the tidy cottage
was number thirty-three, and the rusty numbers on the letterbox of the shabbier
house confirmed his guess.
    It seemed like the perfect ending to a road trip that had
featured not one but two flat tires and a motel with fleas in the carpet.
    Driving from Sydney to Melbourne had seemed like a great idea
four days ago. Four days ago, he’d been so sick of the burning anger that seemed
to have taken up permanent residence in his gut that he’d been willing to do
almost anything to change the record in his mind.
    How could she do this to me? How could I
be so freakin’ stupid? How could she do this to me?
    He pulled into the driveway and let his head drop against the
seat for a few seconds. God, he was tired. Strudel made a forlorn sound from the
backseat and Oliver shook himself awake and exited the car to let her out. She
immediately availed herself of the nearest patch of grass. Would that he could
be so lucky, since he’d cleverly tossed the keys to his aunt’s house into the
bottom of his duffel bag. But he wasn’t about to start his stay in what was
surely a close-knit community by exposing himself to his new neighbor.
    Stretching his arms over his head, Oliver grabbed his duffel
from the rear. Strudel joined him on the weathered porch as he dug in among his
clothes for the key. Miracle of miracles, his hand closed over it on the second
dip. Moments later he was inside, walking around flicking on lights and opening
windows to relieve the stuffy, musty smell. He passed quickly through the living
room filled with heavy, old-fashioned furniture, and the two bedrooms with their
stripped-bare beds, ending his tour in the kitchen.
    Aunt Marion had died over a year ago now, but neither he nor
his brother, Brent, had been in a position to do anything about their joint
inheritance until now. Traveling south to put things in order had seemed like
the perfect excuse to be out of Sydney so he could lick his wounds and get his
head together.
    If that was even possible.
    Of course it’s possible. Edie was your
wife, not your whole life.
    Logically, he knew it was true, but it didn’t feel true at the
moment. Six years of his life had been exposed as a lie. His whole marriage. He
didn’t know how to deal with the anger and grief and humiliation he felt.
    Strudel whined, drawing his attention to where she was sniffing
and scratching around the base of the