Sting (10 page)

“Not one thing. We’re friends, right?” I ask.

She swallows hard, and makes this movement with her head, which I’m not absolutely sure if it’s a nod or a shake.

A hiccup bursts from her mouth.

“Do I take that as a yes?” I ask through a chuckle.

Another hiccup. Then she smiles so bright I consider moving in and tasting those lips.

“Yes, I guess we’re friends,” she says. Well, there goes that thought then. Friends it is.
Challenge accepted.

I tap her freckled nose gently with my index finger. “Well,
friend
, I hate to leave, but I’ve gotta go.” I squeeze her hand, and then rise to my feet.

“You’re going?” The disappointment all over her face is as obvious as the late afternoon sun is hot.

“Yeah, sorry. I’ve got a big day tomorrow, and I’m gonna need all the energy I can get. But don’t worry; I’ll be in for my brew in the morning, Blondie. Nice and early,” I promise.

“Tomorrow,” she says softly and looks up. With the sun now in her eyes, she squints, causing a line to form between her groomed brows. “Um, yeah, me too. I’m short-staffed, so I’ll be run off my feet.”

I extend my hand. Willow slips her fingers through mine, and I pull her to her feet. I yank a little harder than necessary and she falls against my body. Her free hand presses to my chest and her bare stomach collides with my hips. There’s a semi-boner there, waiting for her, that I guarantee she felt. Judging by the blush spreading across her cheeks, I’d say yes. I might get in trouble for it, but hell, some things are worth the risk. I’m just testing the waters here. Really, I’ve got a good mind to wrap those legs around my waist and drive into her. The urge to do it is stronger than I’m prepared for.

“Sorry,” I say, and flash her a triumphant grin. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

She snorts air through her nose. “I’m on to you,” she says, ever so quietly. I hear her, which I don’t think she intended for me to. I grin with satisfaction. At least she didn’t slap me for it.

“What’s that, friend?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Nothing.” Willow removes her hat and slips a short white sundress over her head.

Of course, it’s white.

What the fuck is it about a woman wearing white? Is it that whole virginal thing? A vision of a bride? Whatever it is, it’s got my dick hard. Cement ain’t got nothin’ on what I’m packin’.

Gone is the knockout view of Willow in her bikini. Her in this dress? At this point, it’s the next best thing I can hope for. She shakes out her towel, throws it over her shoulder and walks slowly in the direction of the car park, her white thongs dangling from her left hand. As I position my surfboard under my arm, I take a moment to appreciate how the dress barely covers the gentle curve of her arse. The breeze rewards me with the occasional peek-a-boo.
Small victories.

Mamma-fuckin’-mia. This beauty will be the death of me.

I jog to catch up, and slip my hand into hers.

I’m rewarded with a smirk, and a gentle squeeze of my fingers.

Friends
. Let’s see how long this lasts.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WILLOW

“Well, hello,” Gabs says, answering my call on the first ring.

“Hey. Is it alright if I pop in for dinner?”

“Of course, lady. Good timing. I’m just about to order some Chinese to be delivered, so drop in anytime. I’ll order a few extra dishes.”

“No need. I don’t eat much.”

“Ah, shush. You need fattening up.”

“I’ll just swing past the café and I’ll see you soon.”

“No worries. Drive safe.”

When I walk through her front door thirty minutes later, Sienna throws herself at me. “Lolo,” she screams. I pick her up and give her a giant squeeze. The unmistakeable smell of garlic and spices gets stronger as I carry her through to the dining room.

“Aw, are you wearing the PJs I got you, Princess?”

“Yup,” she says and nods her head dramatically, her wet blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. I kiss her forehead and take in a good lungful of her sweet, bubble-gum scent. She smells like a candy store.

“Did you go to the beach?” Gabs asks, sizing me up.

I put Sienna back on her feet and run my fingers through my hair in some attempt to tidy it. I’ve got hat hair for sure, and I desperately need a shower. I knew if I went straight home from the beach, I’d talk myself out of it. For once, I want to speak with Gabs about stuff. Heavier than the usual daily talk at work. I know what she’s going to say to me, but I think that maybe, just maybe this time I’m ready to listen to her.

“Yeah. It was, um, good.”
How very descriptive of me.

We all sit together at one lonely end of her grand timber dining table. Before too long the dishes are empty, and our bellies are full. I pour myself another glass of water and drink it in one hit.

“Oh man, I just ate my weight in dirty Chinese. I think I’m gonna vomit,” Gabs says.

“I told you, you didn’t have to order any extra for me,” I chastise.

“Yeah, but you know I like variety, and I hate to waste food. Crap, it’s probably riddled with MSG and I’m gonna be dreaming funky shit all night.”

“I’m sure even your funky dreams would be a dare sight better than mine,” I add. Whoops.
Perhaps a little too much there.

Gabs tilts her head, and narrows her eyes.

“Never mind,” I say, and shake my head.

Gabs huffs a breath out through her nose. “So, how was the beach?”

Thank you for the change of subject
. I love that she always knows when to do that.

“Yeah, it was
good
. I, ah, had company, too.”

“
Really
?” she says, with interest. “Who?”

I twiddle my hands together in front of me on the table. “Um, Brown-Eyes.”

“Oooh. Why am I sensing this might be a bad thing?”

“No, not bad. We sat and talked for a bit. It was nice. Different.”

“Was he half-naked?”

“Gabs!”

“Well, was he? I need to know. It’s critical to my mental health. I need to be able to picture this shit. Now tell me. Was the hot fisherman barely dressed?”

“We were at the beach, Gabs, so yes. He was.”
And boy, didn’t he look incredible.

“Was his hair all mussed up? You know, water dripping down his rippled stomach—I bet it’s rippled right? Am I right?”

“Gabs,” I growl. “You’re drooling.”

She holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. Well, come on, tell me what else happened with the barely-dressed sex god?”

“He held my hand. Asked if we were friends.”

“What? You mean underneath that big wall of muscle is a softy?” she says, tongue in cheek.
What does she know?
She’s got that mischievous glint in her eye as if she knows something. “And what did you say?”

I shrug. “I said yes. I guess we are.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Why wouldn’t he want to be more than friends? I mean, I know I’m a bit on the plain side, and I keep to myself, but, you know, I feel like by saying we’re friends, we’ve pigeon-holed whatever it is that’s going on between us.”

Gabs scoffs. “Honey, do you need to take a trip to the optometrist? That gorgeous hunk of man does NOT want to be friends with you.”

I shrug. It’s becoming a habit when I talk about him.

“Lady, there’s something about the way he looks at you. I can’t quite figure it out yet, but if I didn’t know better I’d say that man is here to save you. Save you from falling any deeper into this lonely place you’re in.”

“You really need to get a job with Hallmark, Gabs. Seriously.”

“Well, if you’re not gonna appreciate that piece of man candy, then maybe I will,” she says, pushing her boobs out, and squeezing them in her perfectly manicured hands. “It’s been a long drought, and that body, with frickin’ muscles on muscles, long strong legs, and don’t get me started on the eyes.”

“You’re drooling again, Gabs.
So
not attractive.”

She wipes beneath her bottom lip. Her eyes widen as if she’d somehow smudged her perfect lipstick.

“You’re not even wearing lippy,” I tease.

“Eat me, bitch.” She laughs. “Sometimes I forget when I’m not wearing it. Anyhow, just listen to me for a second. You need to let someone in, Willow. Don’t waste anymore of what should be the best years of your life.”

That’s the problem, right there. She’s giving me prime advice. I just don’t know when I’ll be ready. Things are still unresolved in Sydney. How much longer do I put my life on hold for?

“When are you gonna start taking your own advice?” I deflect.

“We’re not talking about me. Right now it’s about you and Brown-Eyes. So what happened after the friends talk?”

“All of a sudden he had to go, so we both packed up. He walked me to my car. Then he was right there beside me, in my space, not really saying much—just watching me. Like he was reading me, or something. He kept looking at my lips, too.”

“Oh, honey. Then what? Please tell me something juicy happened. For the love of sex and chocolate, tell me that man took you and kissed you stupid.”

“No, he didn’t, but I wanted him to. Desperately. Is that wrong? I mean, it’s been a long time. I have real trust issues, Gabs. Like serious issues.”

Gabs eyes light up, and she smiles like she does when she pulls a fresh batch of cupcakes out of the oven. Leaning closer, she covers my knotted fingers with both her hands.

“You know you’ve made my day, lady,” she says.

“How?”

“It’s about freakin’ time you started talking. I worry about you. You know I do. You’ve been lost ever since you came to town, and I hate to say it, but you’re still lost. You’re all about the work, and I get that, but you need to get out there. Socialise. Make
friends
. You’re a bloody beautiful person, Willow. You deserve to be happy, to have someone. Even if it is a sexy as sin fisherman that’s just blown in.”

“You mean the world to me, Gabs,” I say, and squeeze her hand. “The world.”

Gabs stands and tugs me towards her. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, enveloping me into one of her warm boob-filled hugs.

“You too, Willow. You’re family,” she says.

My heart constricts as that word sinks in.
Family.

For the foreseeable future, Gabs and Sienna are my only family. As long as they’re in my life, I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

“Yeah, family,” I whisper, and squeeze her tight.

CHAPTER TWELVE

RYAN

Lately, my first thought of the day is the expression on Willow’s face when she turns from the coffee machine and notices me next in line. Sometimes she doesn’t know where to look. Most times she blushes, but I always get a smile. I’m addicted to them, as much as I am to caffeine. Every now and then, her hand shakes as she pours in the milk—whether its nerves, or she drinks as much coffee as I do, I don’t know. I’ve never drunk so much fucking coffee in my life. I think I’m single-handedly helping her pay her rent.

I throw on a white singlet top, jeans and boots and head to the kitchen. I chop up some vegetables and chuck steak, and add them to the slow-cooker with some stock, herbs and tinned tomatoes.
Mum’s recipe.
I must admit, I was pretty bloody happy to find the cooker in the back of the cupboard last week. I’m hoping that after my efforts today I won’t be eating dinner alone.

I make the short drive over to Willow’s house. Knowing she isn’t around, I boldly park in the driveway.

Her house is a small grey-painted weatherboard, with a waist-height hedge across the front that’s in dire need of a trim. There isn’t much of a yard at the front; just white pebbles with large, square grey pavers, which lead a path to the front door. The rusty white gate screeches on its hinges as I let myself into the backyard.
Need to fix that shit.

One garden bed isn’t looking too bad, with an array of herbs and other plants growing reasonably well at one end, but the other end is overrun with weeds. One long straggly weed is thriving, standing taller than me.

The other long garden bed parallel to it needs some serious attention.
Weed central.
The old timber surrounding it is dilapidated and rotten, so it’ll have to be re-built. In fact, I should probably rebuild both. Dad and I re-did Mum’s prized garden beds a few years back, so it’ll be a piece of piss.

A rusty red wheelbarrow with gardening tools and other junk is tucked at the back of the carport. The tire is flat. What a pain in the arse. After a hunt around, I find a couple of rusty spanners and manage to take it off.

I ring the hardware store and get them to set aside enough timber for the job. Next, I contact the landscaping centre and organise a delivery of mushroom compost for after lunch, which should give me enough time to finish building the beds. Not only do the beds need topping up, they’ll need some good soil to make this whole thing worthwhile.

My day is planned. Time to kick it off with a good dose of caffeine.

At seven a.m. sharp I’m at the café, ready for my fix.

Willow turns the sign on the door to display ‘open’. She pulls open the door and the bell chimes.

“Bright and early, as promised,” I say, and wink.

She laughs. “Yes, you are,” she says, a lot more chipper than usual. I wonder if she’s been thinking about our little chat yesterday.

I take in a good lungful of the strong smell of coffee grounds, mixed with a sugary sweetness that drifts in the air, just like in a good bakery.

“Make it an extra large this morning please, Blondie. A couple of chicken rolls, and”—I take a look around and find what I’m looking for, sitting on a wire rack on the bench behind her—“I’d better get a couple of those lemon cookies too.” If I didn’t know better, I’d reckon I smelt them coming down the street.

“You like the cookies, huh?”

“Best cookies on the planet, if you ask me.”

“You’re too kind,” she says. The blush to her cheeks deepens.