Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance (28 page)

Who would have thought it? The vegetarian and the fisherman. But unlike Winnie’s parents, as opposites attracting, she and Alex somehow worked.

When they finally came up for air, she snuggled into his chest. She was certain she could feel his heart beating against her own. ‘You know, I just had a thought – wouldn’t it be funny to celebrate our plans together – 
this
 – with dinner at the Big Lobster tonight? Surely they have
some
vego options. And a back entrance.’

Alex’s eyes twinkled at her. ‘It’s on me. But,’ he winked, ‘I’ll drive.’

She shook her head solemnly. ‘No, but I insist.’

Then those luscious lips of his were on hers again, preventing any more playful bickering.

From: Mary Delaware

To: Winnie Cherry

Subject: A million thanks!!!

Dear Winnie and Alex,

Hope you’re both well.

I just wanted to email my thanks for putting together such a fantastic wedding spread for my daughter, Eden, and son-in-law, Flynn, in Beach Life magazine.

It was such a gorgeous day – most things went off without a hitch (pun intended). But the surprise helicopter landing and change in weather added to the spectacle. Even if they stressed out Eden a little initially.

And didn’t she look stunning???

I have had lots of messages, texts and emails from people, passing comment on how much they enjoyed perusing the article. I’ve even mailed off copies of Beach Life to family and friends overseas to share the special day with them, making it an international publication now!

The magazine has obviously proven very popular by the amount of people who have read and noticed the article. Hence, I was saddened to hear you’ve both since moved on. But I’ll be reading every forthcoming issue of Beach Life without fail in honour of what you started.

Once again, thank you very much for immortalising Eden and Flynn’s big day in print – and hurry back to Kingston, won’t you now?

Kindest regards,

Mary (aka Mrs D)

P.S. I heard you’re currently sailing around Croatia. Half your luck. It’s a beautiful place. The hubby and I once went on a beautiful cruise there, though I’ll spare you the details . . . wink ☺

P.P.S. Just wondering, Winnie, if you think you might be back in time for netball season next June?

A million thankyous to Destiny Romance editors Carol George and Sarah Fairhall for helping turn my half-baked idea into a fully-fledged story and being there with gallons of patience and support. I couldn’t be more appreciative!

To former
Coastal Leader
journalist Maddison Lawrie for the support, help with any niggly questions, and hooking me up with a ride on a cray-fishing boat – you rock!

To Kingston SE skipper Peter Paige and son Callum for taking me out cray-fishing one morning – I promised there’d be no lovey-dovey stuff on the actual boat and there wasn’t!

To my parents, Rocco and Carmela, and sisters Natalie and Daniella for their constant encouragement.

To my dear friend, Jennifer Kaczmarczyk, for the vegan inspiration, taking over the Adelaide Chick-Lit Book Club when I got preggers, and just being one of those genuinely nice people you rarely meet in the world.

To the Novelist’s Circle, South Australian Romance Authors, and Romance Writers of Australia for the motivation and helping me find my way in the publishing world.

To our animal-shelter tabby, Luca, for his catty-cuteness while I’m typing.

To my husband, James Elsby, for putting up with me when I was a cranky-pants on deadline and in the final weeks of pregnancy, and just my oddball-ness in general. Plus, helping me nut out plot points whenever I was stuck – you truly are a saint.

And finally to my twin boys for waiting “until Mummy had finished working” before making your joyous arrival into the world . . .  my life is now complete!

Carla Caruso was born in Adelaide, grew up amid a boisterous extended Italian family – yet somehow managed to become a bookworm.

Carla always wanted to be a novelist, annoying the kindergarten teachers by dictating long, detailed stories to them. It just took her a while to realise her childhood dream - journalism seemed a more practical course. Her media career has included stints as a newspaper and magazine journalist, government PR and fashion stylist. These days, she works as a freelance journalist and copywriter. She began seriously writing fiction three years ago when she went freelance full-time.

The romance genre appeals as she is a sucker for rom-coms (especially if Channing Tatum is in the mix) and likes to think her Italian ancestry means she lives with passion. Hobbies include watching trashy TV shows, fashion (her mum named her after Carla Zampatti!), astrology and running. She lives in Adelaide.

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (Australia)

707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia

(a division of Penguin Australia Pty Ltd)

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada)

90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Canada ON M4P 2Y3

(a division of Penguin Canada Books Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL England

Penguin Ireland

25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd

11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ)

67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

(a division of Penguin New Zealand Pty Ltd)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd

Rosebank Office Park, Block D, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin (Beijing) Ltd

7F, Tower B, Jiaming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Penguin Books Australia, 2013

Copyright © Carla Caruso 2013

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Cover design by Adam Lazszuk © Penguin Group (Australia)

Cover photographs by: Woman Beltsazar/Shutterstock ; Jetty Microstock Man/Shutterstock

penguin.com.au

ISBN: 978-0-85797-593-5

‘Oh, to be twenty years old again,’ I murmur.

Bettina, my sister, follows my gaze to the Ginger Spice and Vanilla Ice wannabes, lust in their eyes, gyrating on the dance floor. Trust my luck to accidentally pick a teenage haunt having a nineties nostalgia night for my birthday drinks. My
thirty-sixth
birthday drinks. (I like to think I’m a
young
thirty-six. Bettina sometimes call me a kidult.) Wearing fancy dress apparently gets you free entry. Not that I’d gotten the memo.

Bettina – who could double as Jennifer Love Hewitt, even sporting a fuss-free bob and
sans
costume – wrinkles her pert nose. ‘I couldn’t think of anything worse.’ She clasps my free hand, the one that’s not clutching an Illusion – yes, even the drinks tonight are retro. ‘So you don’t mind if I go, Flora? Is Darlene on her way?’

My sibling, four years my junior, has an adorable husband and two daughters to go home to, unlike me. That’s despite the online dates I’ve been coerced into going on. I’ve always found something wrong with the suitors. I’ll probably have to freeze my eggs soon.

I paste on what I hope resembles a cheery smile. ‘Yup, she’ll be here any minute. You go. I’ll be fine.’

It had been Darlene’s idea for me to have Friday night birthday drinks in the first place. I’d have been perfectly happy to stay home watching a
Seinfeld
DVD or flipping through an old chick-lit novel while sipping green tea on the couch. But the brassy blonde six-foot receptionist from work had bullied me into making a night of it. A few guests had dribbled in so far. Mostly, though, I’d watched the Facebook RSVPs on my phone swap from ‘going’ to ‘not going’, like flights changing on a departure board, presumably once something better came along. No-one’s reliable these days.

Bettina leans in, pecking my cheek. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

I smile. The grown-up version of Bettina is much tamer than the teenage equivalent, so my options are limited. Following her out onto the footpath, I wait for her to slip into a waiting taxi, then wave madly at her from the other side of the glass as the vehicle pulls away.

My grin slips and my arm drops to my side once she disappears. How I would have loved to have fallen into the backseat and gotten far away from the bright lights of Adelaide city, try as I might to put on a brave face.

It hasn’t been the best birthday. Along with the uninspiring drinks night, I’d had a note left on my desk last thing to see my boss the following Monday. That’s after some personal stuff of mine wound up on the printer . . .

My studded clutch vibrates.
Darlene!
I fish out my phone, clad in its leopard-print case, my spirits lifting, and click on the message. ‘
Flora, hon. Not goin 2 mk it. So sorry. Blind date turned out 2B majorly hot. Hv a drink 4 me tho. C u Mon, D xxxx
’

I could
kill
her. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted someone who didn’t find
Seinfeld
funny. Right, that’s it then. Time to go home, get comfy and blot out the memory of the disastrous night with some canned laughter and green tea.

I crane my neck this way and that. Of course, there’s no taxi to be seen now. I’ll have to head to the stand around the corner.
Sigh.
Head down, I speed-walk along the footpath, the sound of revving cars and throbbing nightclub music reverberating in my ears—

Oomph!

I’ve just crashed into something hard, unmoving . . . and faintly citrus-scented. Mum’s always telling me to watch where I’m going. Dazed, I step back, looking up into a pair of hazel eyes lined with lashes Beyoncé would be proud of. My heart jolts.

Of all the people to collide with. It’s
Lance Devic
, my first boyfriend’s best mate – the guy who destroyed my life one fateful week in the nineties. And just when I thought the night couldn’t get any worse. His warm fingers grip my elbows, steadying me.

‘Flora Brunelli.’ A smile spreads across his tanned features. His formerly floppy dark blond hair is now short and spiky. ‘It’s been a while.’

Fifteen years, but who’s counting? I wrench my elbows free, my jaw tightening. ‘Lance, hi.’

His gaze burns a trail up and down my frame. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

Irritatingly, he’s gotten slightly
better
with age, a la George Clooney, his well-built frame nicely filling out his black shirt and jeans. Not that he’s a patch on my ex, Ruben Jax.

All of us went to uni together – Ruben, Lance, Clementine (my former best friend – a whole
other
story), and me. Sure, Lance had been okay early on, even helping me get my first job, but then he’d stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong and ruined everything.
Ah.
Best not to think about all that.

Lance cocks his head, squinting at me. ‘You look like you’ve . . .
lost
something.’

‘No, no.’
Unless you count the spark in my eyes.
‘I’ve just got somewhere to be.’ I try to sound important, busy. ‘It’s my birthday.’

‘Oh, right. My invite must have gone missing in the mail.’ He grins, his eyes twinkling and right cheek dimpling. I’m sure the effect would have many women swooning, but it does nothing for me.

I hold my head high. ‘Well, I haven’t seen you in a while, and I organised it on Facebook. You don’t seem the social media type.’

‘You guessed right.’

Typical.
Facebook non-converts like Lance were just plain rude – it meant you actually had to
call
to contact them. But Lance had never been one to embrace the new. A graphic designer like me, the last I’d heard he’d set up a boutique letterpress studio using clunky antique presses for bespoke business cards, wedding invites and the like. Such an oddball.

‘Well, um, good catching up, but I’d better go. My guests are waiting for me,’ I lie and blindly march forward before he can say goodbye, not really knowing where I’m going or what I’m doing, just sure I have to get away from
him
. Alarm bells are ringing in my ears. Lance Devic is bad news.

The tinted glass door of a bar is a few metres in front of me – and there’s no bouncer. It’ll do. In the reflection, I catch a glimpse of my dark hair, pale skin and light brown eyes. Looking more confident than I feel, I pluck at the handle.

‘Sure that’s the right place?’ Lance calls as I sail through, before the door blissfully swings shut. I land in a dark cabaret-style venue, packed with glitzily clad guests hovering around cocktail tables. Soft piano music plays in the background, but otherwise there’s a kind of hushed silence.

Thankfully, no-one seems to notice me, even though my coral jeans are totally out of place. All eyes are trained towards the far end of the room.
Oh.
It must be a private party – and speech time. Guess I can wait it out a few minutes, ensuring Lance is long gone, then quietly slip out again. Curious about what’s got everyone’s attention, I stand on tiptoes, craning my neck over the sea of heads.

I can just make out a svelte, tanned woman front and centre, the lights shining on her caramel-coloured mane. She’s looking down, wearing a kilometre-wide grin on her face.
Oh wow!
I know who she is. It’s Odessa Cece, the model-turned-infomercial-presenter. I often see her on the telly in the lunch room at work. Boy, do I know how to crash a party. I stick my neck out further to see what she’s looking down at—

My legs turn to jelly and I grip so hard on a nearby cocktail table that it wobbles, and a woman’s drink splashes. She shoots me a poisonous look, but I don’t care.

It seems to be the night of coming face-to-face with my past. Ruben, my old flame, looking like a slightly more mature version of Freddie Prinze Jr. in
I Know What You Did Last Summer
, is on bended knee in front of Odessa.

Down on bended knee.

Everything that might have been between him and me – before Lance blew our chances – flashes before my eyes. Ruben’s familiar voice, the voice I haven’t heard in an eternity, echoes from the speakers. ‘Will you marry me?’

Unfortunately, it’s directed at Odessa, not me. The infomercial presenter screeches ‘Yessss!’ with multiple S’s and applause breaks out like a flu epidemic. I spin around, not wanting to see them kiss for fear of revisiting my Illusion on my stilettos—

Oh dear.
Clementine Anders, my former best friend – all honey-coloured waves and grey-blue eyes – blocks my path, staring at me like I’m as unwanted as a computer virus.

We used to be as tight as Olivia Newton-John-style disco pants, but those days are over. The only time I see the interior designer these days is smiling back from the social pages with some B-list celebrity date on her arm. It’s obvious she’s no longer saving herself for Brian Littrell from the Backstreet Boys. Or marriage. Guess she moves in the same rarefied circles as my ‘starchitect’ ex. It
kills
.

‘Who invited you?’ she snarls.

I try to speak, but the words die on my lips. Still, now’s not the time for an unfriendly catch-up. Ducking my head, I sidestep her like she’s a wax figure from Madame Tussauds and pelt for the door.
This
is why I never deviate far from my new beachside postcode – doing so means re-living old memories.

But, like the final obstacle in a computer game, Lance has reappeared, lingering near the doorway. My skin prickles with humiliation. He knew all along I wasn’t a guest here. So much for the so-called birthday party I had to rush to.

His gaze rakes my face and he reaches a hand towards me. I dismiss it. ‘You okay?’ He has the grace to look concerned, but it’s likely to be an act; I bet he’s loving this. ‘I should have stopped you going in. It’s just you moved so fast, then I couldn’t find you—’

‘I don’t need your help,’ I spit out. ‘I needed you to keep your mouth shut fifteen years ago, instead of doing a big kiss-and-tell on me and destroying everything.’

Lance looks momentarily flummoxed. ‘I guess I deserve that. Look, Flora, I want to explain about that nigh—’

But I savagely push past him, my shoulder banging against his chest. ‘Let’s leave the past in the past.’

Without glancing back, I thunder onto the footpath, stick out my hand and do my best Carrie Bradshaw impersonation. ‘
Taxi!
’

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My skin is pink from scrubbing it free of makeup and my eyes bare, my stick-on eyeliner strips now dotting the bathroom sink. I send a silent prayer up above that I won’t have to see Ruben, Clementine and co. for
another
fifteen years.

Tonight’s been just like the worst week of my life, which lead up to my twenty-first birthday, only boiled down to one day. I’ve stuffed up my career, been deserted by friends and lost out on my dream guy – all in the space of twenty-four hours. I might have turned thirty-six, but nothing’s changed.

I don’t even have any processed food to pig out on for comfort, because I keep forgetting to leave the gate open for the online groceries guy. Nor do I have a pet to console me. Who has the time? The closest thing I have is an aquarium screensaver on my laptop.

Sigh.
I wish I could hit ‘delete’ and start the whole day again. Scratch that. I wish I could delete the past fifteen years and start over. My outlook once glittered with promise, but, in one fateful week, it all turned to dust. My life’s been stuck in second gear like in that
Friends
song.

My mobile, poking out of my handbag, taunts me from the vanity. And suddenly, I can’t help it. Despite my mortifying night, I want to know
everything
about Odessa Cece there is to know. Why she wound up with Ruben as the prize – and I didn’t. Reaching for the device, I rest my hip against the sink, click on the Facebook icon and type Odessa’s name in the search bar, like the masochist I am.

Sadly, I already know Ruben’s not on Facebook – I’ve looked a dozen times before. I scroll through the names that come up. There’s an Odessa Cece in India with a Bollywood-style pic, and one in Italy with a snapshot of a female bodybuilder.
No joy.
Maybe she uses a nickname so fans can’t find her.

Hang on a second.
Clementine
. We’re not Facebook friends, but my nosiness means I know she has her six-hundred-plus friend list set to ‘public’. Show-off. I type in my ex-pal’s name and scroll through the alphabetically organised list –
Oh, man.
My hand shakes.

‘Odes & Rubes.’ They’ve got a sickeningly sweet
joint
account. No wonder I couldn’t find Ruben online before. The profile pic is of the pair, looking extra tanned, their arms entwined, on the rear deck of a yacht. I feel faint. Though someone should really tell my ex what ‘Rubes’ rhymes with. Unable to help myself, I click on the photo to enlarge it, my fingers still moist from cleansing my face –
Oh no. OH NO!

I’ve somehow hit ‘add friend’ instead, my request winging its way to the duo’s account as we speak. I’m numb with shock. They’ll think I’m some sort of ex-obsessed stalker – and I guess they wouldn’t be far wrong. Tears jab at my eyes. Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any worse.

I hate technology! I hate the twenty-teens, or whatever name you call this stupid decade!

Things used to be so much simpler. People didn’t say they liked daggy things just to be ironic, you didn’t have to go by a silly Twitter name like@FBrunelliYeah, dance ‘
Gangnam Style
’ or watch ‘dramality’ shows. Every second song didn’t have a dance beat and sound the same. There was no such thing as ‘Bragbook’.

And your dream guy didn’t just propose to a TV star.

‘I miss the nineties,’ I scream at my reflection, flailing my arms about like the half-Italian I am, one hand still clutching the phone. ‘Before I was twenty-one. I want to go back. Start over.’

Eek.
I’ve been a little overenthusiastic with my gesturing. My mobile has slipped from my fingertips, its diamante pendant flashing in the bathroom light. It’s now freefalling towards the adjacent loo bowl. I turn, lunging for the device, stubbing my toe on the ceramic base as I do so, but I’m too late. There’s a resounding splash.