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Harry’s nostrils flared and I continued.
“Rule number two, you and I don’t mention to anyone what happened between us, especially to Pam and our colleagues. With the exception of my best friend. She knew before the rule was set in place and she’s sworn to secrecy. And lastly, rule number three, which is something I promised myself years ago: I will never—ever—date a doctor.”
“Now, if you will excuse me,” I said, flicking my hair over my shoulder. “I’m getting my lunch.”
10
STACEY
Group chat for #STAMwedding:
Amanda, yesterday at 9.27 a.m.:
OMG how lovely are these bridesmaid dresses?? Just found them in a boutique! Checking how we can get shipped to Oz. *four images attached*
I’d avoided Harry yesterday after lunch, not wanting to add to the awkward chat in the carpark about ‘seeing me again’.
Appointment bookings had increased in the afternoon, too. The news of a new, attractive doctor in town had spread quickly.
Being busy had meant I didn’t talk to Harry beyond handing him patient files.
Rules were good. Rules kept things uncomplicated and neat.
When I’d got home, Mum had asked about the new doctor and I’d yelled he was an idiot, and then retreated to the parlour to paint for a couple of hours. All night I tossed and turned with vivid sexy dreams involving Harry and the back seat of a vintage muscle car. My vagina clearly had a different opinion about Harry. My brain tried to counter that having sexy time with him would be unprofessional and wouldn’t end well.
So far, my brain was winning. Just.
My phone pinged. #STAMwedding had seven new notifications.
Amanda had combined her name with Stuart’s to make a hashtag. She reasoned because Lily and the rest of us weren’t in the UK, a hashtag was an efficient way to keep up with wedding inspiration.
We were peppered daily with links to check and images to see.
Amanda: I really need your opinion on the bridesmaid dresses I tagged you in @Stacey @Rosie
Amanda: get back to me today pls
Amanda: also paper samples for invites
I threw my phone aside on the passenger seat of my car, ignoring the rest of the messages, revved the engine and cranked up the heater. Tiny bits of paper came flying out of the vent. I scrunched my nose at a strange smell I couldn’t place.
Mental note: talk to Ryan about the car.
I’d forgotten entirely to talk to Ryan about my car before I’d gone to Brisbane for medical appointments. Ugh, and Brayden at the fire site.
I revved the engine and then accelerated, getting to the highway turn-off in record time to get to work despite my car struggling in the cold. Frost covered everything again this morning, transforming our farm and the Ballydoon countryside into a sparkling winter wonderland.
Less than a minute onto the highway, smoke started to pour out of the bonnet.
I thanked every god I could remember as I spied an emergency parking bay. I pulled over, turning off the engine.
Three words came to mind: catastrophic engine failure.
I swore. I had no money for this kind of thing.
I got out with my handbag and phone, and dialled Ryan’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail.
The rumble of a V8 engine came to a stop behind me. I spun around. An orange and black Mustang, 1971 Mach 1 model, had parked behind my Excel.
