Claimed by the Hunk

Chapter 13

He glanced at Cassandra’s house as he cleared out the corner nearest her property, wondering if she’d heard the storm warning.

For a few seconds he toyed with the idea of passing on the information, then he remembered the superior way she’d looked down her nose at him while blaming Strudel for her dog’s bad behavior. He was all out of favors where she was concerned.

Once he’d finished the gutters, he checked the downpipes, then cleared the drain that ran across the top of the driveway. Both his and Cassandra’s properties were on a slight slope, the street being higher than the house. If there was water runoff coming his way, he wanted to be sure it had somewhere to go, other than into his house.

He was putting the ladder away when the heavens opened, rain sheeting from the sky so intensely it stung when it hit his arms and face. Strudel at his heels, he bolted for the house. It wasn’t until he was washing off the dirt beneath a hot shower that he registered that he hadn’t thought about Allison or Nick once all day.

A new record.

But then he was thinking about the little girl who had come into the house that morning. It was strange how you could see a child and then think that how you had taken all the decisions of your life wrong. It seemed like that he was the only one who had wanted a family and a child but Allison had never even cared about it. So that meant that his next door neighbor was not only a mom to a dog but also to a little kid. And strangely the girl looked like him and Brent.

Maybe walking away from everything and driving a thousand kilometers south hadn’t been such a crazy idea after all.

Cassandra had planned to take Mr. Smith for a walk along the beach that afternoon, but the weather had different ideas. Instead, she spent some time online checking out the various chat groups and fan sites for Time and Again. She liked to dip her toe in occasionally to take the temperature and see how viewers were responding to the show. The uneasy feeling that had sat in her gut since her conversation with Gordon yesterday intensified as she read excited posts from die-hard fans. According to them, the past few months had been some of the best in the show’s history. Dramatic, exciting, romantic, funny…

It was hyperbole, written by fervent, biased fans. But it still made her feel edgy. She recorded the show religiously every night but hadn’t caught up with her viewing for a few days. Since she was on a roll with the self-torturing thing, she watched three episodes in a row. Every time something caught her attention—a change in the lighting, some alterations to a set, the thrust of a storyline—she stopped and reviewed the footage. Two hours later, she’d bitten her thumbnail down to the quick and the edgy feeling had become full-fledged anxiety.

“Mom?” asked Artemis as she came from inside the room and Cassandra looked up at her baby. Dear Gods!! Artemis was so beautiful, and she was lucky to be even alive,…then what was thinking and why was she worried about the stupid show and the stupid job?

“Yes baby? All finished with school work?” she asked as she pulled Artemis close to herself and smelled the baby shampoo off her hair.

“Yeah…Mom who is that man next door? I saw him when I came in,” said Artemis and Cassandra’s heart started pounding loudly. But she knew that she couldn’t tell her everything now, not when the man that was next door should have been recalling things.

“He just came in yesterday. He also had a dog, you know babe? And Mr. Smith has been very naughty and going there to make friends with his dog,” said Cassandra and immediately Artemis brightened up and wanted to know all about the dog next door.

Cassandra breathed in a sigh of relief and thought that she had been able to avert the crisis for now. But she did not know how long she would be able to live up with the lie.

Gordon was right. Philip was doing a good job. Possibly even a great job. She’d been aware of it before, of course—

God, she’d even been foolish enough to be relieved that the show was in such good hands—but she hadn’t consciously registered how good his work was.

She stared at the darkened TV screen, rain slashing at the windows, Mr. Smith snoring at her feet. If Philip held out for a longer contract, the production company would be crazy not to give it to him. She’d give it to him if she were in Gordon’s position.

Please, please, please don’t let that happen.

She wasn’t even remotely hungry but she forced herself to make and eat dinner. In the good old days, she’d lived on Diet Coke, black coffee and take-out meals. These days, she made sure she gave her body what it needed to recover— organic vegetables, lean protein and all manner of virtuous things. Artemis spoke about all that was happening at the school and how she was loving that she was made the head of the science project and what all ideas she had and her mind worked elsewhere. As a mother, she had to practice the art of learning to multitask long back.

 She sat on the window seat in the living room and watched the trees thrash around in the rising wind while she ate her chicken stir-fry. Artemis loved this and also noodles so she had specially made it for her baby.

 The storm showed no signs of abating.

Hardly unusual stuff for the Mornington Peninsula— she’d already endured several storms like this since she’d taken up residence in the beach house—but pretty spectacular to watch from the comfort of a warm, cozy house.

Her gaze was drawn to the golden light spilling from the house next door. It was strange to see it lit up after all these months of darkness. If her new neighbor hadn’t turned out to be such an uptight ass, she’d have welcomed the signs of life. But after this morning’s dressing-down, the only thing she’d welcome was his departure.

She made a rude sound in the back of her throat as she remembered the way he’d looked down at her from his position on the fence, telling her how to manage her dog and acting as though Mr. Smith was some kind of pirate king who had buccaneered his way into the neighboring yard and raped and pillaged its doggy occupants. Last time she’d looked, dogs were animals, with all the attendant urges and instincts of animals. Clearly Samael was one of those uptight dog owners who policed their pet’s every move. No doubt poor Strudel lived a regimented life full of rules and regulations.

Poor Strudel. Probably those few illicit seconds with Mr. Smith were the most fun she’d had in a long time.

Cassandra scooped the last mouthful of rice from her bowl and swung her feet to the floor. She wasn’t going to waste another second thinking about Mr. Uptight. Life was too short.

She was in bed by nine o’clock, listening to the rain drum against the tin roof. She drifted into sleep and woke to deep darkness and the sound of running water. For a few seconds she thought she’d left the tap on in the en suite bathroom, but it didn’t sound like a tap running. The rain was still thrumming against the roof and pelting the windows and a horrible suspicion crept into her mind. She threw back the covers. The ominous feeling intensified when she discovered Mr. Smith was missing from the hallway outside her bedroom. Not a great sign. She turned on lights as she moved through the house, checking first the open-plan living area at the back before making her way to the front.

She found Mr. Smith at the door, ears up, posture alert in full defcon-five watchdog mode.

“What’s going on, Smitty?”

He turned and gave her a darkly knowing look.

“That bad, huh?”

She opened the door—and froze.

Water rushed down her gravel driveway, a muddy brown torrent filled with leaves and gravel and other debris. Once it hit the paved area in front of her house, it had nowhere to go, and a lake was forming on her doorstep, the water already lapping at the bottom step.

Dear God, she was about to be flooded.

For a moment shock stole her capacity to think. She stared at the swirling, dark water, unable to comprehend what was happening. Then, suddenly, her brain snapped into action. There was a storm drain across the driveway.

In theory, it should be channeling this deluge away from the house. Which meant it must be blocked. Maybe if she could unblock it, she could avert disaster.

And the worst part was that Artemis was sleeping in the bedroom soundly. If it was her alone then she would not have feared however now she was not and the most precious thing of her life was also in danger.

Maybe.

She was barefoot, so she raced up the hallway, snatching her rubber boots from the laundry, along with her garden gloves and the yard broom.

She was soaked to the skin the moment she stepped beyond the shelter of the porch, sheeting rain turning her tank top and pajama bottoms into skintight apparel. Squinting against the downpour, she made her way to the drain. The problem was immediately apparent—gravel had washed down from the road and filled the grate covering the long channel, rendering it all but useless and creating a bridge for the water to reach the house. She pulled on the gloves and squatted, scooping the gravel away from the grate. She swore under her breath when she saw that as fast as she scooped, the rushing water replaced what she’d removed

with yet more gravel.

She increased her pace, scooping the gravel away with cupped hands, pushing it between her legs like a dog digging a hole. After ten minutes it became painfully clear to her that she was rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Not only was the water faster than her, but also she could feel her energy flagging. She glanced over her shoulder and felt a sick jolt of adrenaline at the sight of the water lapping at the second step.

She abandoned the drain and returned to the porch, collecting the broom then wading into the fray. The water was already flowing around the house, rushing down either side, but not nearly fast enough to prevent the rising levels. But perhaps if she encouraged it on its way she could keep the water from invading her home.

Perhaps.

She began pushing the water toward the side of the house with the broom, gloved hands gripping the handle tightly.

She worked doggedly, putting all her weight behind each push. Soon her arms were burning and she was panting.

And still the water kept coming.

She paused to catch her breath, despair filling her heart as the rain intensified.

She was going to be flooded. There was no way she could stop it. The best she could do was retreat inside to roll up rugs and move as many valuables as she could off the floor.

She lifted a hand to swipe the water from her face—an utterly useless, pointless gesture, just as all of her efforts had been useless and pointless tonight—then lost her breath as a figure loomed out of the darkness.