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Rosie sucked in a breath. “I am a little better today. Thank you for asking.”
“Right.” My cheeks burned as I stuttered for words. “Well. Got to deal with the drone and stuff to do I guess.”
I strode away, before I said or asked other stupid things, and questioning my whisky-fuelled logic for being Mr Nice Guy.
6
ROSIE
Ballydoon Community Group:
Rosie Zanetti posted 5.37 p.m.:
Opera in the Vines is a matter of weeks away. Make sure you book your tickets as we are selling fast.
I was no stranger to Sunday dinners with the Turners, but this dinner was awkward on a new scale thinking about how Tom almost touched me outside and now I was sitting opposite him and his new girlfriend in the middle of the extended dining table in the Turner’s homestead.
Weirdly, it was better than being at home, enduring the passive-aggressive comments from my parents as to why I would break up with such a good catch of a man. And being blamed for the strange video presentation played during his marriage proposal.
I picked up my glass of wine and drank. The awards dinner felt surreal, like it hadn’t happened. But I had enough missed calls and text messages, mostly from my colleague and friend, Rachel, to remind me that the train wreck of an evening was very real and very much had happened.
Not tonight. I didn’t want to call Rachel or anyone, and besides, it was the weekend. Returning calls and messages was added to my already huge list of ‘things to do that I was avoiding right now’.
Including how Tom had calmed me down amid my panic over Richard, the awards dinner, and my parents about to arrive and drag me home. How I’d acted like an ass arriving at Turner’s Creek after the fire, assumed he was about to make fun of me or something but was genuinely asking if I was okay.
Rosalba Zanetti owed Tom big time. In the very least, an apology before bedtime.
“Uncle Bruce said the footy awards dinner is on this week.” Ryan glanced up from his meal to Tom. “You going?”
My cheeks slightly pinked, remembering the time I’d gone as Tom’s date, dancing with him and later kissing.
“An awards dinner?” Ainslee piped up, grinning. “Sounds like fun.”
It would be a long time before I didn’t react in some way whenever someone said ‘awards dinner’.
“We could go, babe.” Ainslee grinned. “I could stay longer, and we could go together.”
“No.” Tom’s fork clattered on his plate, and everyone stopped. He muttered something under his breath and picked it up again. “No, Ainslee. No awards dinners.”
Ainslee pouted but said nothing and continued to eat her meal.
“Rosie is staying with us for a few days,” Mrs Turner announced. “Just in case one of you didn’t know yet.”
Tom stared from across the table, then quickly looked away when I met his gaze. He hadn’t said a thing in the ute on the drive back from the fire. Just gripped the door handle for dear life.
Amanda smiled. “Bit of girl time together.”
“Right. Girl time,” I added.
“So you’ve got company in the shearers’ quarters, Tom,” Mrs Turner said pointedly at her son. “Rosie’s in the room next door. Since last night.”
While Tom’s face remained impassive, he had gone paled.
Not that I’d heard him and Ainslee the night before. In fact, I’d only heard one person shuffling in his quarters. A feminine voice I’d assumed was Ainslee had sung Taylor Swift before they’d presumably gone to sleep.
“I didn’t know you were right next door,” he muttered.
Ainslee giggled in a way that made the men at the table stop and look. “Tom ended up passed out in a swag with Pete, didn’t you, babe?”
