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Which is a problem.

Apart from all the practical problems, we couldn’t be more different. If I had to describe myself, I’d say I’m a stoic. I approach the world from a logical perspective and tend to assume the worst is likely to happen. Louise, on the other hand, would probably be an Epicurean. Someone for whom pleasure and tranquillity are the most important things in life. And yet I’m drawn to her in a way I’ve never experienced before.

At first, I wondered if it was a morbid kind of appeal. Being drawn to the pain of being with someone my mind connects to heartache. I’ve largely buried the pain of our original connection, so all that’s left is the appeal.

The more time I spend with her, the more I realise maybe she represents the missing pieces of me. Whether they’re missing because that’s who I always would have been, or whether they’re missing because of the loss of my mother and what happened afterwards, I have no idea. But there’s a joy in Louise, a contentment with life, that I’ve never experienced.

And now that I’ve seen it, felt it, I wonder how it will feel to go on without it once all this is over.

Chapter Sixteen

Louise

One of my not-so-secret super-powers—apart from being able to put my hands flat on the floor without bending my knees—is my ability to know what the right thing to do is, then ignore it and do the exact opposite. Even when it will clearly end in disaster. Case in point: the time I got a pixie cut right before my twenty-first birthday party. And then there was the time I accidentally slept with an ex, leading to an emotional drama worthy of a soap opera. And this has the potential to be so much worse.

This has heartbreak written all over it. In Sharpie.

Which is why I spent most of the night agonising over the almost-kiss Jasper and I shared on the grass. Under the stars. Yep. Uber romantic. Who wouldn’t be moved to kiss? If only that damn cockatoo hadn’t ruined the moment.

I’d have been happy to resume positions after our moment of fright, but Jasper was up and striding across the grass, throwing an apology over his shoulder, before I could say do that again.

Cards on the table. I want him. And I think he wants me. So far so good.

Except.

He’s kind of my boss. It could kind of ruin my career, or at the very least derail my business proposal, if it gets out that we’ve hooked up. And I suspect it could kind of break my heart when he inevitably moves on to bigger and better things. Because it’s clear he’s ambitious. He’s not going to be content to stay in Australia forever.

Three good reasons to keep my distance.

And only one not to. Because Colin was right. Jasper is exactly my type. Nothing’s changed since I was twelve. Dammit. Only this time, I can sense, deep in my bones, that the crush is requited, if that’s a word. Because surely it must be if a crush can be unrequited. Whatever.

Jasper Spencer-Jones might not know it yet, but my ability to choose unwisely is on a collision course with our mutual attraction. The question is not if, but when and how it will happen.

After a breakfast of double-smoked bacon, fresh farm eggs and mushrooms, we discover Grahame has set up a couple of old-fashioned wine barrels for us and some of the other guests on the property to experience pigeage. Crushing grapes the old-fashioned way. By foot.

We head off to the nearest vines and pick the grapes we’ll be trampling, the fat bunches already warm from the early sun.

Picking grapes by hand is a slow process. It takes most of the morning for us to pick enough grapes to fill the barrels waiting for us.

I watch Jasper as he picks. It’s no surprise that he’s meticulous. Selecting bunches with a serious eye, snipping the stems at just the right point, discarding any grapes damaged by birds, laying the juicy bunches carefully in the baskets Grahame provided.

Once we have enough, we grab a quick bite of lunch while Grahame’s team loads up the barrels and prepares the water baths to ensure our feet are clean before we start.

Jasper has been tense all morning—no prizes for guessing why—and as he did with the fishing, tries to get out of it by claiming to have work to do, but Grahame is having none of it.

Along with an older couple from Canberra, we roll our trousers up and give our feet a thorough wash. Jasper takes my hand and helps me climb up into the barrel, following me with a scowl of reluctance.

Our feet sink unevenly into the grapes as they burst, releasing their sweet, musty scent. They’re warm and soft and juicy underfoot. It’s a strangely sensual experience. Jasper and I grasp each other’s forearms to ensure neither of us falls on the uncertain surface of the rapidly mashing grapes. The fruit is soft between my toes, but Jasper’s skin is firm under my fingers, the muscles shifting and flexing as we stomp.

I’m breathless, and it has nothing to do with how hard it is to maintain my balance.

The couple from Canberra are laughing and falling about, steadied by the waiting hands of the winery staff, but Jasper and I hold each other firm.

Purple juice rises around our feet as we stomp, staining our ankles and splashing up our calves. The early afternoon sun is warm on our heads. Someone is playing Italian folk music through the sound system, providing us a steady rhythm to follow as we recreate a centuries-old tradition.

Jasper’s fingers grip my arms, firm and sure, as with each stomp we watch our feet disappear further and further into the rising liquid.

I can’t help but notice Jasper has beautiful feet. Long and strong, with neat nails and smooth skin. I make the mistake of looking up from our feet and find his serious gaze on me. The laugh that had been about to tumble out of my mouth gets stuck.