Matilda Next Door - Kelly Hunter Page 0,2

of all the house-sitting chores Henry would probably expect her to do while in the UK. If she was a bundle of nerves and flushed skin, it was only because she was almost on her way. Nothing to do with the tall, imposing form on the other side of the screen door—although since when had his shoulders become so broad and his stance so confident? And where were his glasses, because they weren’t on his face, that was for sure, and the lack of them made him look less known and way more …

Very definitely more.

Probably wouldn’t hurt to let the man in. She summoned a smile and opened the door. ‘Henry!’ A quick lean forward so she could press her lips lightly to his cheek was probably enough.

‘Matilda.’

His voice held a world of reserve, so she stepped back with a roll of her eyes. Henry never had done casual affection, and apparently that hadn’t changed. ‘I’m guessing a hug is out of the question?’

‘We haven’t seen each other in four years.’

‘Yes, but it’s not as if we don’t know each other. We’ve cavorted together naked. I have pictures to prove it.’

‘I was four. I don’t even remember the visit. You were a baby.’

Oh, she’d missed that look. The exasperation. The reluctant fondness. Was it fondness? She liked to think so. ‘Come in, come in. We have so much to talk about.’

He took off his boots before entering, not that they were dirty—she’d never seen shinier footwear. What had he done? Floated from his car to the verandah, thereby avoiding all the red dirt? Or maybe it was some sort of duco polish that dust refused to stick to? At least his jeans looked old and worn—that was a relief. He brushed past her and she let the door swing shut behind him and she turned to watch as he headed for the breakfast bar and the cake and cups already set up. Nice view. Some might even call it spectacular. Since when had Henry’s jeans ever fit like that? ‘Have you been working out?’

‘No.’

Pretty unequivocal no, there. But those shoulders didn’t come out of nowhere. ‘Playing rugby? Boxing?’

‘Seriously? Do you know the brain injury statistics associated with those sports?’

‘Right.’ Must protect his most excellent brain. ‘How about volunteer work on the weekends? Toting boxes. Replanting large trees. Splitting firewood.’ Yes, definitely a possibility. ‘For little old ladies.’

Funny how he could still manage to say ‘are you entirely off your rocker’ with just a glance.

‘Anyway, you’re looking very buff. Must be something in your genes.’ Now was definitely not the time to start looking for something in his jeans, even though he’d turned around. Even though whatever did exist in his jeans appeared to be rather hefty. ‘Cake? Cup of tea? Lemon meringue tart?’ She’d made the tarts fresh this morning, operating on the absolute certainty that they were his favourite. The boy genius had grown into a man genius when she wasn’t looking, but she’d bet the farm that his big brain still ran on ninety per cent sugar.

‘Tart would be appreciated. Coffee too, if you have it. For the jet lag.’

Jet lag. She too would be experiencing jet lag soon. Tilly was looking forward to it. ‘Sit! Sit and un-jet lag and tell me what you want me to do while I’m staying at your London place.’ She took the cover off the tart plate and pushed the lot towards him, and then turned to sort out the coffee. She knew how he liked it. Strong, black, and scalding hot. ‘I made a list. Get the mail, water the plants, keep the place clean—’

‘Nothing. The mail is being held at the post office, I don’t have any plants to water, and the cleaner comes in four hours a day twice a week. You’re all set.’

‘But—’ That wasn’t the deal. ‘I’m house-sitting. That usually involves doing something around the house involved. Doesn’t it?’

Henry sighed, and somehow managed to look even more awkward than he did upon arrival. He always had been unsure of his welcome, even as a kid. Especially as a newly arrived eight-year-old who’d been sent to live with his grandparents after his mother’s death. Awkwardness and a reserve so strong it had taken her three solid years of coaxing to break through it, but by the time she’d reached the elevated age of eleven and he’d been all of fourteen, they’d been friends. As in she’d chat and he’d listen, and then he’d chat and she’d