Free Tumble Creek by Louise Forster

her yet. ‘You should let Brock feel your bones.’ Sofie opened her mouth to protest. Jennifer put her hands up and, shaking her head, said, ‘Uh-uh. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And the way you look at him would melt the Arctic. You’d have to be melting him too.’
    â€˜I’ll admit, Brock has shown signs, but just when I think things are moving forward, he backs away.’ Sofie let go a frustrated sigh. ‘I don’t quit on something that easily. I’ll find out one way or another.’ Having said that, she realised tenacity had a double-edged sword: her own doggedness made it impossible to get rid of past crap that needed to be excised. But at least she was working on it. That had to count for something.
    ***
    Sofie followed Brock’s Ranger to his place, parking on the street so she could leave early in the morning without disturbing him. But Brock called out and was making hand signals for her to pull into the driveway behind him.
    It was his house, Sofie was his guest, and even though she couldn’t shake the feeling she was intruding on his life, she did as he asked. He strode over, opened her car door and the rear door too, grabbed her bag from the back seat and headed along the path to his porch.
    â€˜Wait a minute, Brock!’
    He swung around. ‘Yep?’
    â€˜I don’t feel comfortable parking here. After the weekend I’ve got four days off starting tomorrow, but three days a week I leave early in the morning and I don’t want to disturb you any more than I have to.’
    â€˜It’s all right, I’m an early riser.’
    â€˜Five-thirty?’
    He was giving her the sexiest over-the-shoulder half-grin that slowly curled up one side of his mouth.
    Her stomach dipped, which made her feel lightheaded. How was she going to survive staying with him, in his house? Which was more like a cottage, and surely not big enough for the two of them, without bumping into each other, half naked, as they went to the bathroom or the kitchen for a drink in the middle of the night.
    Oh crap, she had to stop thinking like that.
    Key in hand, he turned back, shaking his head a little, and mumbling something about ‘gotta make changes’.
    Damn it, she wished he’d stop doing that. ‘Speak up, Brock!’
    He waved, urging her to follow. ‘Five-thirty’s a great time for …’ His voice was drowned out by Sarge voicing his appreciation that Brock was home with a deep woof, putting a stop to their brief chat. Brock called out to quieten his new dog and shoved his key in the lock.
    Brock’s house was a neat, old weatherboard cottage, and strangely ill-fitting for a man his size.
    The entry hall was dim, narrow and long, carpeted in shades of beige and brown flowers dating back to the nineteen-fifties. This retro-fright went further with a hall light that resembled a beige speckled upside-down box jellyfish, minus its tentacles. Family photos hung at intervals along the wall and doors led off on either side to various rooms. Sofie stopped to gaze at a photo of Brock in full SAS camouflage gear and holding a large assault rifle. His low-sitting helmet, his wraparound sunglasses and a scarf to keep out the sand and dust hid nearly all of his face. He had all manner of gizmos hanging off his vest and belt, it was a wonder he could move. Seeing him like this, she’d bet anything he could walk through brick walls and come out the other side unscathed.
    He looked fierce, strong, loyal, and incredibly hot!
    Brock waited a couple of metres down the hallway, his body at an angle, half facing into a doorway, half facing Sofie. ‘Afghanistan,’ he whispered matter-of-factly, but his quiet uneasiness roared a telling tale.
    Sofie caught his expressive dark eyes, time stood still, and something passed between them, understanding, acknowledgement—and dreadful loss? She wasn’t sure, but, it was powerful. So