Floored (17 page)

“Where was the fire, Driver?”

“Do you always get in other people’s business?”

“People who interest me.”

“I’m not interesting.”

“You are to me.”

“You’re just bored. You wouldn’t give me the time of day otherwise.”

“I am bored.” He put his own foot down on a virtual accelerator thinking about her hands and how it felt to have them on his face and in his hair. “But you might be surprised what I’d give you.”

She flushed, her neck, her cheeks going pink, catching her out. Showing him what she wouldn’t say. That she’d enjoyed the haircut too.

He settled back in his seat. His body was sore, his knee complaining. He didn’t want things to be awkward between them and he’d just stupidly made it that way.

“I surf, but not well. Not enough time in the water. I play pool. Very well. Poker better. I like music but I’m out of touch. Been listening to nothing but old rock and heavy metal crap for the last few years. I could die happy if I never had to hear another head banging riff. I used to like going to the movies, but it’s been a long time since I sat in a cinema. I don’t like hard pears. I like ice-cream. I love a good thunderstorm. I’m a dog person. Cat’s creep me out. They’re so independent. They say cockroaches will inherit the earth at the point of a nuclear explosion. I reckon it’ll be cats. I like photography, but I’m hopeless at it, other than for surveillance purposes. I’ve never been to an opera and I reckon I should try it out. I’m not keen on going to the dentist. I know that doesn’t make any sense since I’m a tough guy, but it is what it is. In my family we live a long time and keep our own teeth.”

He glanced across at her. She’d relaxed again, curving into her seat, lowering her hands on the wheel.

“I like women, Cait. I’ve missed them. I like you. But I get you don’t want the attention. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

More flat and dry went past out the window, though they were getting close to Mildura.

He felt her glance before she spoke. “Is any of what you’ve said true?”

“All of what I said now is true.” Though why should she believe any of it? What mattered is he believed it. He was shedding Fetch and coming home.

“How dangerous are you?”

He sighed. “Fetch is a dangerous guy. He has dangerous associates and even more dangerous enemies. There’s nothing dangerous about Sean except maybe how much coffee I drink. I’m not dangerous to you, Driver. I won’t hurt you. This whole trip was about keeping you safe, so for all the times I’ve freaked you out, I’m sorry.”

She nodded. She looked unconvinced. So was he. Because the longer she remained ambiguous, confusing, sheltering behind those glasses and her dissolve into the background clothes, the more dangerous he was to her. Everything he’d told her was true, but he’d left out the part about being overly attracted to mystery.

18: Heartburn

Mildura arrived like an oasis. Gloriously green, palm trees and eucalypts—tropical after the dust of the last five hours drive. But then it showed itself for a mirage. Caitlyn drove past motel after motel flashing no vacancy signs. There was something going on in town and it was starting to look like either driving on, or having to compromise on the caravan park.

“Mildura Country Music Festival.” Sean read the banner they passed beneath. “The Great Vanilla Slice Triumph.” He laughed. “We have to get ourselves some vanilla slice. But I’m about as fond of country music as I am of death metal.”

“We have to get ourselves some accommodation. How do you feel about driving on?”

“Ah. I really need out of this car. We’ll find something.”

He found something. A two bedroom apartment. That was a rule breaker. He came back to the car with two keys to one door.

“No, Sean.” How much clearer did she need to be? No sharing a room meant no sharing a room.

“Driver, we just got through establishing I’m no danger to you.”

She shook her head. “No sharing a room.” She couldn’t be in the same room with him, it wasn’t right.
It wasn’t fair
. And what had he meant by saying he liked her. What did
like
mean anyway? Was it purely observational—I like dogs more than cats—or something more? There couldn’t be anything more, so there was no sharing a room. Simple. Clear. Easy.

“We’re sharing a lounge room and a kitchen. Both the bedroom doors lock and one has an ensuite. How is that much different from having rooms next door to each other?”

“It’s a completely different thing.”

“It’s one night and I’ll cook.”

“And that’s supposed to make me jump at the opportunity.”

“Didn’t I mention I’m good in the kitchen?”

“No.”

“Well I am. Rusty, but I reckon I can rustle up something decent. They have a movie channel. Dinner and a movie.”

“No.”

“All right.” He settled back in the passenger seat but one booted foot was on cement driveway. “So your better idea is?”

It was four hundred and seventy kilometres to Port Augusta and she had no idea what was between here and there. Her better idea was to break another rule and drive all night. It was hard to tell which option was more dangerous.

“We can order pizza, instead of cooking,” she said.

Not that she needed to eat with him. Now that they’d arrived, she was officially off duty. She’d go into town, hang around until it was late enough to come back and lock herself in the bedroom. She wouldn’t have to watch him moving around. It was hard enough not to want to watch him when she was supposed to be watching the road.

“We are not ordering fucking pizza.”

He got out of the car and slammed the door, making the car rock.
Wow
. He was perfectly reasonable about her objections to the apartment, but lost it over pizza. She got out too and watched him go to the room and open the door. It was one night. If he wanted to cook, why not let him. She’d go for a run and then go to bed early.

He came back and gave her a wry grin. “Sorry. But no pizza. I’m not friends with pizza right now. Can we go hit up a supermarket, Driver?”

They took their bags inside, got back in the car and found the market. They agreed to meet in an hour. He headed to the produce section and she went for a wander. Mildura was a bigger town than Leeton; snug up against the Murray, it was a hub for agriculture. She traipsed through the shopping centre and found herself outside a boutique. The kind of place she once would’ve loved to browse in, almost certainly buy something in. But that was then. Now there was no reason for smart dresses and work clothes other than her uniform. No money to indulge either. What she’d bought at Target was deliberately ordinary, because that felt safer than calling any attention to herself.

What business of Sean’s was all that? He could keep his tarot card tactic of predicting behaviour to himself. Except now she had a thousand dollars of crooked cash burning a hole in her pocket and his taunt in her head.

It was tempting, so tempting to try on that black and white dress with the fitted bodice and full skirt, or the watermelon coloured one with the matching jacket. What would he do if she showed up for his home-cooked meal in a dress that fitted her form, in shoes with a heel, with her hair out and a touch of lipstick? Thinking about that made her face grow hot. Because she was pretty sure if she did that, if she angled for his attention, it would become much clearer what he meant by saying ‘I like you’.

Her hand left a sticky smudge on the window as she left the shopfront. It would be better to keep walking. When he got back to the car he was laden with bags and humming to himself. His pizza inspired bad mood was obviously over and done with.

“I even got us some famous vanilla slice,” he said, while slinging shopping into the back seat.

Their suite at the Murraylands Holiday Apartments was big. There’d be no need to crash into each other. But she still wasn’t going to be hanging around with him. She changed into her running gear and snuck past him in the kitchen, where he had every cupboard door and drawer open and the benchtop covered with bags. He was still humming as he peeled what looked like potato over the sink.

The run felt good, medicinal. She worked it until her legs burned and her lungs faltered. She tried not to think about the watermelon pink dress and the way the jacket was edged in green and how it would sit just right above her hips. She tried not to think of the man in the kitchen cooking her a meal. The man who’d quizzed her about what she liked and didn’t like to eat and was going about this as though it was a special occasion, not simply a basic need.

She found she was standing in the middle of the street as though her battery had run out when it occurred to her he was treating this like some kind of date. Did he think he could practise on her; get his groove back by trying his hand at seducing her? The idea kick-started her legs. She pounded the pavement till that seemed like a crazy fantasy. It was only a meal, he was just being nice. She ran until the sweat poured off her and she could entirely ignore the fact this was the first time a man had ever cooked for her.

All kinds of good smells were coming from the apartment, and when she opened the door, they got more aromatic and her stomach gurgled. If it tasted as good as it smelled, the man could sure cook.

The man himself was nowhere to be seen. But she could hear shower water running. She’d managed to get out of the apartment without being clocked in her running gear and now a mess of sweat, with her hair plastered to her head, she’d fluked her entrance to avoid getting caught again. She went to her room and hit the shower too, then contemplated her wardrobe. She’d bought trackpants as well. Simple, black, straight leg, comfortable but in no way fashionable. They went on with a clean white t-shirt and her runners. She piled freshly washed hair up in a damp twist. She looked like a sporty version of her chauffeur self, but it couldn’t be helped. And she didn’t like the way she regretted not having anything nicer to wear.

When she opened her door she could hear him clattering plates. He’d set the table. He had bright-coloured gerberas in a glass tumbler and a stubby red candle that looked like a Christmas leftover balanced on a saucer.

“Good evening,” he said, smiling like he was worried she might not show up and was delighted she’d finally arrived. He shouldn’t do that. He was in his trackpants too, barefoot, and his t-shirt fitted way too nicely, not tight, but falling softly against his chest so you knew what was under it was powerful. She knew what was under it was cut and ripped and warm and would smell of soap and clean, sexy man.

“Smells amazing. Who taught you to cook?”

“Mum. I wasn’t allowed not to learn. We all had to do it, but Bridie is a really good cook. I mostly learned from her. My sauces aren’t as good as hers though. I don’t know what I do wrong.”

“You do sauces?”

He leaned on the benchtop and fixed her with a sexy grin. He said, “Cait, I do it all,” then he laughed and turned to lift a pan from the stove.

“Why do you do that? Call me Cait sometime and Driver others?”

He’d started plating food on the bench. He stopped and looked up. “Because I don’t think you want me to get too close. I don’t think you want me to know you.”

He’d dished up the opportunity to get the rules clear again. To tell him that was exactly right. She didn’t want him to cook for her, speculate about her behaviour, or try to make her laugh.

Or flirt with her.

Because that’s what he did. She didn’t want him to distract her with his chatter or flummox her with his insights. The less he knew about her the better, so if he didn’t use her name that kept it impersonal.

When she didn’t respond he said, “Am I right?”

He was right, except for what he made her feel, for how she wanted to hear her name on his tongue, have him touch her like she’d touched him.
And more
. He was spot on except for the bandaid she wore and the need to have it ripped off—and being the perfectly wrong man he was so right, to do it.

“I think it’s okay to use my name.”

“That’s a mighty fine concession, Ms Murphy. I’ll be happy to use your name, Caitlyn, Caity, Cait, Lyn.”

“But you don’t have to wear it out.”

He laughed. “Sauce on the side or on your eye fillet, Cait?”

She grinned at him. It was impossible not to. “On my steak, thank you, Sean. Can I help you, Sean?”

“No, Cait. Go take a seat, Cait.”

She went to the table and chose the chair facing the galley kitchen. She watched him finish plating the food: steak with pepper sauce, steamed vegetables and creamy mash. He took bread rolls from the oven. He’d left an open bottle of wine on the table so she poured two glasses. The food smelled divine and the man fixing it looked better. She didn’t need vanilla slice to sweeten things.

He put a plate in front of her. “Tuck in, Cait.”

“Thank you, Sean.”

He sat and looked at her over the flowers. Neither of them would be able to eat if they didn’t stop grinning at each other like they’d suddenly discovered new super fun facial muscles to try out.

“If I’d known steak and mash would get you smiling like that, I’d have cooked for you days ago.”

She dropped her eyes to her plate and picked up her knife and fork. “Smiling like what?”

He didn’t move, just sat there watching her. “Like you’re not afraid.”

Maybe that was what he did for her. Made her forget to be afraid. She’d gotten used to feeling anxious and guarded, but tonight, eating the meal he’d cooked, she didn’t feel that way.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“I know.”

“So conceited.”

“I know.” He said it singsong, like a little kid. “Something else makes you scared but when you smile like that, when you laugh, it’s a whole lot better than that frown you wear.”

He picked up his knife and fork. She took a sip of the wine. She needed to cement another line of bricks in the retaining wall between them. “You need to restrict your opinions of what I wear.”

He eye-rolled. “Ah, now I’ve done it. Made it too personal.”

“You don’t think expressing your opinion on my clothing isn’t personal?”

“I think a lot of things. I don’t think you really want to know them.”