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“What got you into working at the Ark?”

“Izzy, Hal, and Stefan had graduated from veterinary college the year before, and were in the process of setting up the Ark with Noah. I’ve known the guys for years—most of us went to the same school, and I kept in touch with them all mainly through Izzy. It was she who mentioned to Noah that I’d left the Army, and he called me up and invited me in for a chat. Said he was looking for someone to run the estate, and he thought I’d be an ideal candidate. I was floored—it wasn’t really in my line of business, but I like to think he saw something in me I couldn’t see in myself.”

He smiles, but there’s a touch of vulnerability there. I’m sure he’s right, and Noah saw in him a wounded soldier who needed rescuing. Rescuing is what Noah does best.

“Do you enjoy your job now?” I ask him.

“Yes, there’s always something to do, we’re helping animals, and it’s busy there without being crazy. Plus, of course, I get to see you.” His eyes twinkle.

“Stop it,” I scold. “You’re not supposed to be flirting with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is strictly a business arrangement,” I remind him.

“I understand, but I’m not an automaton. Girls aren’t the only ones who need warming up.”

“Warming up?” His expression amuses me.

“Don’t smirk,” he says. “I’ve never had a one-night stand. I like to get to know a girl first.”

His words remind me that we’re sleeping together tonight. I keep forgetting then remembering and receiving this little shiver all the way down my back.

“So, anyway,” he says, “enough about me. I want to know more about you.”

I chew my sandwich. “I’m not used to talking about myself.”

“Daniel wasn’t interested?”

I shrug. I don’t want to think about Daniel.

“Well, I am,” Marc tells me. “So you haven’t been to Hawke’s Bay before. Have you traveled much?”

Chapter Eight

Fitz

Poppy eats her sandwich, obviously thinking about how to reply to my question. She usually wears jeans and T-shirts for work because she’s with the animals, but today she’s wearing a pale gray pantsuit with a cream blouse. She’s braided her glorious hair into one long plait that hangs over her right shoulder. She looks amazing. I’d be happy to get started on the baby-making and do her on the table, but I think flight attendant Chris might have something to say about that.

She’s still thinking silently. I understand her reticence. It took a lot of courage for me to admit to what happened with Mel. Not even Noah or Leon knows about her, although it wouldn’t surprise me if Izzy’s told Hal.

I suppose it’s because I’m ashamed of what happened. All relationships take work, and I was so caught up with my own feelings about the accident that Mel must have felt as if she’d taken a back seat. Maybe Poppy’s right, and if Mel had truly loved me, she’d have stayed by my side to help me through it, but I certainly don’t consider myself blameless. I was selfish, and I don’t want my friends to know that.

So why did I tell Poppy? Especially since I’m planning to take her to bed?

It was instinctive; I want to deepen our relationship. What I said was true—guys need warming up, too, and although I find her physically attractive and I’ve fantasized about making love to her ever since I’ve met her, I don’t want this to be all about sex. And the only way to make it more is to talk.

I’m not a natural at it, but at least I’m trying.

I wonder whether she’s asking herself the same questions about admitting things to me. She’s certainly pondering what to say. Maybe she feels that because I’ve opened up, she should, too. I hope so.

“I did my OE when I was twenty,” she replies eventually, referring to the ‘overseas experience’ that many young Kiwis go on either before or after university. “I was… having a bit of trouble.”

I choose another sandwich. “What kind of trouble?”

“Well, you know that Albie and I… we’re both… on the spectrum,” she says. She rubs her nose. She doesn’t like the phrase, and I don’t either. It sets her apart from everyone else, as if she’s different, and she’s not. But I nod, because I don’t want to interrupt her. “Dad is, too,” she says, “and so I suppose he could spot it in the two of us. We’re at the high-functioning end, but all three of us struggle with communication sometimes.”

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