Or I could get a Balkan donkey and invite you over to make cheese?
I nearly fell off my chair as my heart—be still, beating heart, be still—jumped into my throat. Was he flirting with me? This felt like flirting. Yes! This absolutely, one hundred per cent felt like hardcore flirting!
I leaned forward in my chair and stared at my phone. Petal seemed to have sensed something was up, as she looked at me with big, wide, expectant eyes.
“Should I flirt back?” I asked her and she immediately turned her back on me and started walking away.
I nodded to myself. “I know. You’re right.” I put the phone down on the coffee table next to me. The answer was no, I should not be flirting back. Flirting never ended well. Besides,detox!
But this wasn’t just any guy. This was Maximillian Adam. A man who may or may not be an utter sex god. A guy who may or may not own llamas. Who talked cheese to me like no one had ever talked cheese to me before. Funny, intelligent, successful, so nice to talk to . . .
“Oh, fuck it,” I said out loud, and grabbed my phone off the coffee table, typing:
I’m not sure I’d enjoy donkey milking. How about you make the cheese and I’ll eat it?
———
I’m sure that can be arranged.
There was a moment of silence between us. I sensed a mutual holding back. We were poised at a moment where certain things could be said. Certain things that once said could not be unsaid and would cross a line. I held back. He held back. He finally broke the holding pattern.
I should drive home at some stage tonight, so I better get off my email. Really nice chatting to you, though. I always enjoy it. Have a great night, Leigh, and hopefully we’ll speak soon.
His sudden sweetness made my heart actually feel as if it was fluttering.
Yes, I always enjoy our chats too. Drive safely, Max.
———
Night, Leigh.
———
Night, Max.
I put my phone down and couldn’t help but notice how warm and tingly my body felt. God, maybe this Maximillian could be the one to break the curse after all, even if that’s not what the psychic had said . . .
Five years ago, we’d thrown an engagement party for Sarah and Russ, and because they’d said no strippers, we’d thought up some other creative entertainment for the night. This had resulted in us hiring an Elvis impersonator, an “illusionist”—whose only illusion was calling himself an illusionist—and the worst-rated tarot-card reader in Cape Town.
The evening was a total hoot, the illusionist had tried to make the Elvis impersonator disappear, which had not worked, and the Elvis impersonator had been so fun that he managed to turn the party into a massive sing-a-long.
Then there was the Tarot reader who’d told Sarah she would probably only get married much later on in life, if ever. Who’d told Melusi that the rightwomanwould come along for him, and told Russ that the rightmanwould come along for him. And then she’d come to me . . .
She’d shuffled the cards intently, eyes closed, humming to herself. I’ll give her this: the whole thing looked very authentic, right down to the Bohemian-style scarf she’d tied round her head, and the long necklaces with crystals and what looked like sharks’ teeth.
“I’m going to do the Celtic spread with you. It tells us so much more, and you are a more complicated case,” she’d said in this strange, mystical-sounding accent.
“Oh, am I?” I’d winked at my friends, waiting for her to tell me what this “complication” was.
She started putting the cards down dramatically and we all stifled giggles.
“I can see that you have been living under a great curse, and you have not been able to break it,” she’d said.
I’d felt hot and cold all at once.
“What do you mean?” I asked for clarification.
“Mmmm, yes, a very, very strong curse that can’t easily be broken,” she’d said.
