Apology Accepted ( The Rhythm of Life : Chapter 5 | Margaret Apologizes to John )

Saturday: July 1, 2006

She never would've admitted it, but for the first time in their acquaintance, Margaret was relieved to see John Thornton looking like a thundercloud ready to burst. The last time she'd spoken to him, almost a month ago, they'd had one of their worst quarrels yet. Then she'd found out about his father's suicide and her own poor behavior ate at her conscience until she'd decided she had to apologize.

He deserved it.

She'd arrived at Marlborough Shipping Depot that afternoon. Before she could find John, she'd run into Tom Boucher and a few of the other truck drivers. The interaction had quickly devolved from awkward to inappropriate. Margaret had stood her ground against the four men, a sick feeling tightening around her insides. But none of them were paying attention to her any more.

Margaret took a deliberate step towards John and the trucker called Bean finally dropped her wrist.

"Go."

John's command hit the group of rough men half circling Margaret like a gunshot, and they scattered, throwing leering looks her way. She shuddered and rubbed her wrist, suddenly desperate to wash the feeling of the slimy man off her skin.

"Did he hurt you?"

Margaret jumped when John turned to her and took her hand, "Wh—What?"

"Are you hurt?" He demanded, turning her arm over, checking the bones and skin for any mark Bean might have left behind.

"No," Margaret shivered. John's hands were rough, calloused, and scarred but surprisingly gentle. "I—I'm fine."

"Fine?" he growled. "You're a damned fool," John let go of her arm and disappeared into the machine shop without another word.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" she yelled after him. Her skin was on fire where he'd touched her, and her temper boiling from his sharp words. Margaret stormed forward. "Everything was fine,"

"Only because I was here," John reappeared, stripping his shirt over his head, his face still thunderous. "If I hadn't—"

"Yes, of course. How lucky of me to have you around to save me."

"You're damn lucky I saw you come in."John retorted, turning his hat around backwards and tossing his shirt on top of his truck. "You need to go."

"I'll leave when I'm bloody ready, thanks."

"Then I suggest you march your ass to the office, and stay out of the yard."

"Suggest all you like," Margaret's eyes darted over him, almost involuntarily. She cleared her throat, "I'm actually here to see you, Mr Thornton."

"Me?" He tilted his head to one side, a little taken aback. He frowned. "Why?"

"I have something of yours." Margaret began digging through her book bag, hastily retrieving the battered novel he left on their kitchen counter over a month ago. She held it out. "You left this at my dad's."

"I know."

"You—you know." Margaret said helplessly. It was a lousy attempt to delay her apology and she hated feeling like such a coward. "Brilliant."

"Did you read it?"

"Why would I?" Margaret pressed her lips together as he crossed his arms. The muscles rippled just enough to catch her attention. When Margaret realized she was staring, she yanked her eyes up to his face. "I don't like novels."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Then why'd you keep it?"

"I didn't." She grumbled, tossing the paperback on the truck's hood. "Look, I'm actually trying to be nice and return your bloody book—"

"No, you're not." John interrupted, crouching down. He sprawled out on his back and inched himself under his truck. "You're a terrible liar, and I don't have time to play this game with you." John poked his head out from behind the wheel well as Margaret glared at him. "Go home, Miss Hale."

This man was absolutely impossible. But her conscience refused to budge. Margaret let out a frustrated breath and straightened her shoulders.

"I—" she hesitated and fidgeted with a loose thread on her shirt, forcing every word out one at a time. "I came to say I'm sorry."

He grunted as he inched out and sat up, grabbing a wrench, "For what?"

Margaret suddenly lost every word she'd carefully planned on the bus ride here as her treacherous memory flashed a picture of John from the first time she'd seen him without a shirt—or anything else—on.

"Bloody hell," she muttered under her breath as John waited, face expectant.

Apologizing to him would have been much easier if he'd been wearing his shirt.

"I don't have all day—"

"I'm sorry," she blurted. "I'm sorry for what I said to you. I didn't know about—about—your father. I was nasty, and prejudiced and rotten, and I'm sorry."

John stared at her for a moment. Margaret squirmed, waiting for him to reply but he only grunted, rubbed his cheek with the back of hand, and rolled back under his truck.

Margaret's face grew hot, and she clenched her teeth. She didn't know what she'd expected him to say, but anything would have been better than his stony silence. Margaret turned on her heel and would've shoved her way out of the machine shop when his voice jerked her to a stop.

"You should read it."

"What?" Margaret glanced over her shoulder.

John rolled out from under the truck and stood, "It's a hell of a story."

"What is?"

He picked up his book and held it out. "I left it for you."

"For—for me?" She frowned. "Why?"

"It's all about the North and South of England during the Industrial Revolution. You'll like it."

Margaret sighed, and reluctantly took the book as John watched her. He folded his arms and she flipped it open and pretended to be interested. "I won't read it, you know."

"I know," he turned and popped the hood on his truck. "But it's worth a try."

She blew out a breath, turned a page, and stopped. A handwritten note in the margin caught her eye.

You're the hottest guy in school

Lucy Jo

"Read it, and I'll forgive you."

"That's not how apologies work," she murmured, turning a few more pages until she found another note. The book was littered with them. "What on earth?"

"What?" John stuck his head around the hood.

"I think I will read this," Margaret glanced up, a small grin on her face, "but only if you tell me about Lucy Jo."

"Who?"

"The girl who, and I quote, 'Swims in the depths of your cobalt orbs.'"

"What the hell?" He snatched the novel from her hand and scanned the page. "Shit," he handed the book back and Margaret's stomach did a flurried roll.

"Well?" She tried to sound lighthearted. "Who is she?"

He took off his hat, and scratched the back of his head, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed and a little sheepish. "My girlfriend."

"A—a girlfriend?"

The idea of John Thornton with a girlfriend—well, it was absurd and laughable, and she ought to have laughed and teased him, but—but it made her angry. Did he have a class with this girl? He never even mentioned this—this Lucy Jo person. Not even once. He told her father he was only taking one class—with her.

"You have a girlfriend," Margaret raised her chin, eye flashing, "and you didn't say anything?"

"Why would I?" John slammed the hood of his truck and turned to face her. He was standing close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him. "It's none of your damn business."

"A decent man would make certain to mention his girlfriend," She slapped the book against his chest and his hand closed over hers, catching the paperback before she let it fall. "Especially when he's in the company of single women who might want to know."

"Like you?"

"Yes, like me." Margaret stepped back, bumping into his truck, but John didn't let go. He shifted closer and her heartbeat pounded where their skin touched. "Let go, please."

She hadn't intended to whisper but John's stare pinned her down, his blue eyes burning straight through her.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't give a toss about you or your Lucy Jo."

John's eyes flickered as Margaret's hand trembled. He knew she was lying. Somehow, he always knew. A slow lopsided grin spread across his face.

"Don't smile," Margaret shoved at him, but she may as well have shoved a brick wall. A muscled brick wall that smelled like soap and petrol and—. Margaret shook herself. "You lied—"

"Had." He interrupted. "I had a girlfriend. In high school."

"You—you—"Margaret choked on her words as his smile grew. "I hate you, John Thornton."

His familiar scowled flickered across his face, but then that same knowing fire lit his eyes. She flinched when he set his free hand on her waist.

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you like."

"You want to know what I like?"

"No." Margaret licked her lips. "I want you to put your bloody shirt on."

"Why would I do that?" He tugged the book from Margaret's hand and slipped it into his back pocket. "It's hot."

"You're making me uncomfortable."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

John chuckled. He bent lower until his mouth was almost touching hers, "You're a shitty liar, Maggie."

She opened her mouth to tell him just what she thought of assholes like him. But the words refused to come. Perhaps it was the heat of the shop or the memory of that awkward interrupted shower or the strange relief that he didn't actually have a girlfriend that made her lose all rational restraint.

"Oh, shut up and kiss me," she snapped and grabbed his neck.

Her mouth—and nose— hit his mouth—and nose—rather hard. The impact made her eyes smart with tears. She flinched with the pain as he jerked back and swore.

"Bloody hell." She swiped at her nose and mouth, tasting blood. "That hurt."

She'd bit her lip. Or he had. She couldn't decide which was worse.

John rubbed his mouth, wincing, "You've got a damn hard head."

"At least you aren't bleeding."

"I hope you don't do that every time you apologize to a guy."

Margaret wished the ground would crack open and swallow her alive. "I—that—that wasn't part of my apology."

"You might need to try again."

"I'll do no such thing, John Thornton," Margaret's voice strangled out of her.

"Why not?"

"Because we're a disaster. We can't even kiss each other with out making a bloody mess of it."

"Maybe you can't," John retorted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But I sure as hell can."

Before Margaret could utter a word of protest, John had slipped his arms around her waist and was kissing her. It was warm, and wet, and tasted of coffee and peppermint edged with a tiny tang of blood. She blushed at the thought, but if John noticed he didn't care enough to stop. All too soon, Margaret's neck complained at the impossible angle required to keep kissing John.

"Just a little more," he grumbled against her lips as she lowered herself onto shaking legs.

"You're too tall."

Margaret yelped when John dropped his arms from her waist to her hips and hitched her up higher.

"Put me down."

"I wasn't done."

"You've done the job quite well enough, I should think."

"I'm just getting warmed up."

"Really, John, I—" Her whole body flushed, keenly aware every point of contact between them, "I—I've got to go."

"Come back tomorrow."

"Aren't you busy?"

"I've got time," he insisted. "For you."

"Shall I make an appointment then?" Margaret slid down, her legs trembling as she snatched her book bag. "Tell Mr Williams to pencil me down for a snog with the Master, yeah?"

"If you're going to call me Master, he can pencil you down for anything you want," John said with a wolfish grin. "Just try not to break my nose."

"Shut up," Margaret rolled her eyes, her face flaming scarlet. "I need to go."

"Wait," John pulled the paperback from his pocket and pushed it into her hands. "Apology accepted."

AN: Are you having fun, mates? Thanks for the reviews and to everyone who's reading along. Cheers.