Page 101 of Lying Is My Love Language

‘You looking up if it’s legal to marry a cow?’

I throw a tea towel at him.It smacks him square in the chest before he catches it lazily, grinning.

‘Domestic and violent,’ he says.‘I’m into it.’

I roll my eyes, but it’s half hearted.My chest feels warm in a way that’s starting to concern me.The kitchen smells of garlic and melted cheese.

Luke leans against the counter.‘Smells good.’

‘I hope you love lasagne.’

‘I do.’

There’s a comfortable pause.He finishes his beer and tosses the can into the bin from across the room.

Of course he makes it.

I go back to slicing cucumber for the salad.My fingers move automatically.My mind … doesn’t.

Don’t fall for this.

Not the scenery.Not the shirtless mornings and golden sunsets and the way his voice goes soft when he talks to the horse.

Not the homemade lasagne.Not the smell of eucalyptus.Not the way this – thisdomesticity– feels almost natural.

It’s not real.It’s just a fantasy.But it’s also … kind of perfect.

Luke glances over at me, brows raised.‘You okay?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, too quickly.

It’s not technically a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.

Because as the oven timer dings and the light catches the edges of his jaw, I feel something slow and unfamiliar blooming behind my ribs.

Something dangerously close to contentment.

The next morning I wake up to the sound of boots and the scent of eucalyptus soap and man.Luke is dressed, moving around theroom with the quiet efficiency of someone who knows exactly where everything is and doesn’t need the lights on to find it.

I’m somewhere between dreaming and dying when I feel him lean over, pressing a kiss to my temple.

‘Go back to sleep,’ he murmurs, voice scratchy with early morning disuse.‘Just checking the cattle.I’ll be back for breakfast.’

I make a vague noise of protest that translates to ‘Take me with you’, but my body is a sandbag and the sheets are warm and I’m not that much of a hero.

So, I let him go.

When I wake again, it’s lighter.Still early, the kind of early that smells of fresh dirt and dry grass.I throw on shorts and one of Luke’s t-shirts and wander outside with the vague intent of pretending I belong here.

Cutlet is waiting for me, snorting dramatically as if I’m late for our breakfast date.I grab the bottle, mix the formula and let her latch on, clumsy and eager.She’s got milk foam on her face and zero respect for personal space.

‘You’re disgusting,’ I whisper fondly.‘And maybe my favourite.’

Once she’s fed and licking my arm, I turn to head back inside – only to spot the chicken coop.It stares at me.A dare.

I stare back.

Five minutes later, I’m swearing under my breath, bent over in a sea of straw, trying to collect warm eggs from beneath hens who are considering murder.One pecks me on the hand.Another flaps at my face.