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“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say innocently.
“You. Me. The pub. Tonight. Seven.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“No?” He’s incredulous.
“My house, six forty-five,” I negotiate. “So you can give me a ride to the pub.”
His gaze is on my mouth, exactly where I want it to be. I offer him a little smirk.
“Six forty-five. Your house.” He nods. “I’ll be there.”
“Don’t be late,” I tease, brushing past him.
“Trust me, I wouldn’t miss it.”
* * *
The rumble of Nick’s truck clattering down the gravel road sends a swooping sensation through my stomach.
The click of my heels resonates around the small house as I strut down the hall. My brother takes one look at my outfit and shakes his head, choosing not to comment. When I fling the door open, Nick is jogging up the porch steps, the floorboards creaking.
He’s dressed in a button-up shirt and jeans, a typical ‘going out’ style for around here. He could pull off anything. It’s hard—if not impossible—to believe he hasn’t settled down with a nice girl or even married yet. Everyone around here settles quickly and starts families young.
His eyes roam over me, taking in my curve-hugging black dress with its plunging neckline. The girls around here donotdress like this. The thought of the dust and dirt in this house ruining my dress almost made me bail on the idea, but I decided the shocked faces and gossip swirling would make it worth it.
“You look …” He swallows. “Fantastic.”
“Thanks.” I smile, the first genuine one in a while. A compliment from Nick was something my world revolved around once.
As we make our way to the ute, a panicked look falls over his face.
“Wait!” he bursts, flinging the door open and frantically swiping at his dust-ridden front seat. He begins wiping a towel over it, which only smears the dirt.
“Man,” he sighs, shoulders sagging in defeat. “Your dress.”
I place a hand on his back. “You’re sweet, Nick. It’s fine.”
He flips the towel, spreading it neatly across the passenger seats and shooting me an apologetic look. I gently lower myself onto the seat, not leaning into anything, and give him another smile. He closes the door after me.
The drive to the pub is short, bumpy, and hot. Nick speaks a lot, bursting to tell me everything that has been going on.
He is co-running his parents’ farm with his dad; his mum having taken a step back to help his older sister with her three children. Elizabeth, his sister, married Doug (that was obvious since about the fifth grade), and they have three girls named May, June, and July. I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t.
There are a few trucks spotted out the front of the pub. Nick pulls up at the entrance. It’s not as busy as I expected, or maybe this is busy for this place, considering the population. It’s easy to forget how small Fern Grove is.
It’s instantaneous; the moment we walk inside, heads turn, eyes widen. Some recognise me, some don’t.
Nick waves, smiles, murmurs ‘g’day’ to people as we make our way to a vacant table. I lean on my forearms once I’ve sat and regret it when my skin sticks to the tabletop. It’s sweltering in here. I glance up at a ceiling fan weakly whirring above us, barely generating enough breeze to reach our table directly underneath it, let alone anyone else’s.
Sweat dots Nick’s forehead when he joins me, and he dabs at it with a napkin that was sitting in a steel bucket with a set of knives and forks.
“Enough about me.” He smiles, continuing our conversation from earlier. “How are you? What have you been up to?”
“The city was busy.” I shrug. “Lots of dinners, cocktails, rooftop parties.”
“Sounds luxurious,” Nick says, those soft eyes giving me his utmost attention. “What did you do for work there?”
