Chantal shoved the thought aside and sipped her wine. ‘Did you do a lot of cooking at home?’
‘I did, actually. I was probably the only fifteen-year-old kid who cooked dinner for the family most nights of the week.’
‘Really?’
She couldn’t hide her surprise. He hardly seemed like the kind of guy who would be in charge of a household. But the salmon melted on her tongue, and the tangy aromatics of a lemon and ginger marinade danced in sensational delight. He didn’t cook in the way most people did, where the food was functional first and foremost. He had talent—a knack for flavour and texture.
‘Yep. Mum was a nurse and she often worked afternoons and nights. The cooking was left up to me.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘He wasn’t around.’ Brodie frowned. ‘Dad was an artist, and he had a lot more passion for painting than he did for his family.’
‘That’s sad.’
‘Yeah… I was fine, but the girls really needed him—especially Lydia. She remembered him more than the twins and Ellen.’ He reached for his wine, looking as though he were about to continue the thread of conversation but changing his mind at the last minute. ‘What about you? Were you the house chef?’
‘I can do the basics. My mum worked long hours too, so I had to fend for myself a fair bit.’ She swallowed down the guilt that curled in her stomach whenever she thought about her mother. ‘I can do a basic pasta… salads. That kind of thing.’
‘What does your mother do?’
‘She’s a cleaner.’ Chantal bit down on her lip, wishing the memories weren’t still so vivid. ‘I don’t think she’s ever worked less than two jobs her whole life.’
His eyes softened. Damn him. She didn’t want his sympathy.
‘What about your dad?’
‘He left when I was ten.’ She shrugged, stabbing her fork at a lettuce leaf more forcefully than she needed to.
‘Siblings?’
‘None. Probably sounds strange to someone with such a big family.’ Good—turn the conversation back to him.
‘Yep—four sisters and never a moment of peace.’
She envied the contented smile on his lips. It was obvious his family was important to him. She’d bet they would be close, despite his father’s absence. The kind of family who had big, raucous Christmas gatherings and loads of funny traditions. So different from her. They’d been so poor at one point that her mother had wrapped her Christmas present—a Barbie doll from the local second-hand shop—in week-old newspaper. The memory stabbed at her heart, scything through the softest part of her. The part she kept under lock and key.
‘It drove me nuts, growing up,’ he continued. ‘But I became amazingly proficient at hair braids and reading bedtime stories.’
Her stomach churned. ‘You’ll make a great dad one day.’
A dark shadow passed over his face. The wall dropped down in front of him so fast and so resolutely that Chantal wondered what she’d said. A sardonic smile twitched the corner of his lips. Okay, so there were some things that put Brodie in a bad mood.
‘I don’t want the white-picket-fence deal.’ He drained the rest of his wine and reached for the bottle to empty the remaining contents into his glass. ‘Marriage, kids, pets… not for me. I’ve got enough responsibility now.’
‘Cheers to that.’ They clinked glasses again.
He quirked a brow. ‘But you got married.’
‘Just because I did it once it doesn’t mean I’ll do it again.’ Her cheeks burned. ‘That debacle is over for good.’
The wine had loosened her limbs a little, and it seemed her tongue as well. She probably shouldn’t have accepted the shot of whisky one of the other dancers had offered her before she went onstage. But she’d so desperately needed Dutch courage to force her back onstage.
‘Sounds like there’s a story there.’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged.
Could she claw back her words? Brodie didn’t need to see the ugly bits of her life… especially not after she’d gone to such efforts to hide them. Then again, did it really matter?
‘I’ve seen you naked, remember.’ He grinned.
How could she possibly forget?
‘No point keeping secrets from me now.’
She took a deep breath and decided to throw caution to the wind. After all, he knew her most devastating secret: that her career had turned to crap. What harm could another failure do if it was out in the open?
‘The short version is that I was young, naive and I married the wrong guy.’
‘And the full version?’
‘I married my agent,’ she said, rolling her eyes and taking another sip of her wine. ‘What a bloody cliché. He seemed so worldly, and I was a wide-eyed baby. We met a month after I left Weeping Reef, and he promised he’d make me a star. He did—for a while—but then he started treating me like his student rather than his wife. He wanted everything his way, all the time.’
Brodie held his breath… Dammit. If she asked, wild horses wouldn’t keep him from finding the dude and teaching him a very painful, very permanent lesson. Fists clenched, he drew in a slow breath.
‘I couldn’t take it. The constant criticism, the arguing…’ Her olive eyes glittered and she shook her head. ‘Nothing I did met his expectations—he smothered me. Pushed all my friends away until I could only rely on him. I couldn’t forgive that.’
‘Good.’ The word came out through clenched teeth and Brodie realised his jaw had started to ache. ‘A guy like that doesn’t deserve your forgiveness. What an arse.’
‘Yeah, major arse.’ Her lips twisted into a grimace. ‘We ended up separating, and the divorce went through about six months ago. I’ve been trying to find work but I keep bombing out.’
‘Why do you think that is?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head, despair etched into her face. ‘Maybe after being told for so long that I don’t work hard enough, that I’m not disciplined enough, I’ve started to believe it…’
‘That’s complete crap and you know it.’ He gripped the edge of his seat, knuckles white from lack of circulation. How could anyone not see the lengths that she went to in order to achieve her goals? She deserved every success in the world.
She managed a wan smile. ‘So there you have it: the failings of the not-so-great Chantal Turner. I can’t keep a career and I can’t keep a man. I can’t even book a goddamn dancing job without getting myself into trouble.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ he ground out. His stomach pitched, and the need to bundle her up in his arms thrashed like a wild beast inside him.
‘Oh, but it is.’
She drained another glass of wine. Was that two or three? Not that it mattered. He’d keep her safe on the boat tonight. He’d protect her.
‘I’ve done all these things myself. My judgment—my errors.’
‘You can ask for help.’
She shook her head, dark locks flicking around her shoulders. ‘No. I got myself in trouble—I’ll get myself out. Besides, I’d need to trust people. I can’t do that.’
Her vulnerability shattered him. She’d worked for everything she had—chased it and made sacrifices