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Kiss me, she yearned inside her head.
No, don’t kiss me. Yearning led to pining, which led to languishing. And that was not for her.
He leaned in.
God, yes, please kiss me!
His warm breath slid past her ear as he pressed firm lips against her cheek. With an undisciplined sigh her eyelids fluttered shut, and she let herself open up just a little, just enough so that she could truly feel the moment. His touch, his scent, his strength. The way he made her feel feminine and desirable just as she was.
When he pulled away, her whole body swayed with him. Her eyelids darted open to find his eyes focussed on her lips with such intensity it took her breath away.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and his eyes clouded over, so dark, so hot. She had two choices: throw herself at him, or remove herself from a situation which suddenly felt like it was getting out of her control.
She slid deeper inside the cover of the car and swung the door between them.
Coming to as if from a trance, Cameron growled, ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
‘It is tomorrow.’
The darkness brightened but the heat remained as his eyes shot to hers. ‘So it is.’
‘And time I got home to my nice warm bed.’
His accompanying smile was so broad she had the perfect view of a pair of sharp incisors.
‘And you to yours,’ she added.
This time his growl came without words.
She took that as the opportune moment to give a noncommittal wave before diving into the car and buckling up while he closed the door for her. The fact that she remembered which pedal was the accelerator amazed her as she drove into the night.
Her head throbbed, her knuckles stung, and the voice in the back of her head pointed out she’d lived in one spot for a while now, and Peru was nice this time of year…
An hour later, after Rosie had realised she was too wired to get any sleep, she took a shower and got changed from her pyjamas back into jeans, a warm jumper, and her mangy brown boots in preparation for heading out to the edge of the thicket in which she often spent her early mornings with a tent, a sleeping bag and her favourite old telescope.
She put the TV on while she made herself some jam on toast, not sure how she hadn’t keeled over from a sugar rush from the amount she’d already eaten the night before.
The name Quinn Kelly barked from her TV, and she spun and leaned her backside against her tiny kitchen bench.
She didn’t know the man, but he was about the most famous personality in town. A charismatic man, with a deep Australian drawl overlaid with enough Irish lilt for it to be unforgettable. He was outrageously good-looking even with his seventieth birthday just around the corner. She recognised him the moment he came on screen in what must have been a repeat of that morning’s financial-news report.
She looked through the crooked smile and stunning blue eyes for a sign that all was not well. Or, more truthfully, for signs that Cameron had been wrong and his father was fine. But, as though Cameron was sitting beside her pointing out the subtle nuances of pain etched across his father’s face buried deep beneath the infamous smile, she knew something wasn’t right.
She’d lived through the sudden loss of one parent and the permanent loss of another, and she wouldn’t wish either situation on anyone. Especially not on the man who’d asked the barista at the casino to put extra marshmallows in her hot chocolate just because he thought she might like it.
She picked up the remote and jabbed at the off switch. The small screen went black. ‘They were marshmallows,’ she blurted at her reflection in the small, black screen. ‘Get a grip.’
She grabbed her backpack and headed out into the frosty darkness.
That next evening Rosie arrived at the mid-city address Cameron had invited her to, only to find there was nothing there. Just a cold sidewalk with a handful of newly planted trees looking drab and leafless in the winter darkness, and grey plasterboard two storeys high lining the entire block.
She banged the soles of her knee-high boots on the ground to warm them, and wished she’d brought a cardigan to wear over her floaty paisley-purple dress. But obviously she’d lost her mind the second she’d agreed to come.
She looked up and down the block. A group of bright young things in even less clothing than she wore skipped merrily across the road, arms intertwined. Their voices faded, then it was just her once more.
Her and her chatty subconscious.
What if he was stuck at work? What if he was alone somewhere, trapped under something heavy? Or, better yet, what if he was about to prove how beautifully unavailable he was, how ideal a choice for a first date, by standing her up on the second?
