He did like the girl. Liked her enough that he’d risk the barrage of questions that’d arise over the next few weeks, if not months, from his family. “I’ll call you in a couple of days. Merry Christmas.”
His parents’ expressions softened. Yeah, it had been a long time since he had said it and meant it.
“Merry Christmas to you, too.” Charlie pointed a gun-shaped finger at the screen. “Don’t screw this up, mate.”
Art disconnected the call and shut his laptop screen. Don’t screw this up. Famous last words.
Chapter 7
With the wind in her hair, and laughing like a maniac, Karen clung to Art as if her life depended on it. Because it totally did. After that morning’s awkward family reunion, he’d asked her on a bike ride. For some reason, Karen had assumed he was talking about bicycles—possibly mountain bikes, which sounded a little cooler and sportier. But no, Art had a beautifully maintained Triumph motorcycle and an extra safety helmet.
“I’ve never been on a bike before.” She examined the big black death on two wheels machine.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
Her stomach flip-flopped. “I do.”
He gave her a smile that turned her bones into overcooked spaghetti. “Then you’ll love it.”
He’d taken them on an amazing ride along straight ribbons of highway, and wrapped around him, she did feel strangely safe. And alive. Incredibly alive.
They headed inland, past the picturesque Lake Pukaki, another otherworldly blue alpine lake, toward the jagged crests of the Southern Alps and New Zealand’s tallest mountain, Mount Cook, or Aoraki as Māori called it. Lunch was at the impressive Hermitage Hotel followed by a wander around the Aoraki/Mount Cook National Park Visitor Centre, then a short hike up a track to view the Tasman Glacier. Looking across at the majestic sight of a glacier framed by the mountains, it was the perfect time for Karen to bring up the subject of what happened next.
Over breakfast, Jeff and Moira had already talked about a group of them skiing in Queenstown next winter, but that was months away and not exactly what was making her heart skip erratically. Was Art okay with not seeing her again until next July? Was Art okay with not seeing her again, period? Maybe she’d read far too much into a few Christmas kisses.
The questions choked and died in her throat, and instead, she pointed out how tiny a little boat of tourists looked on the lake below the glacier. Fortunately, on the hour-long ride back to Tekapo conversation was almost impossible.
Art idled the bike to halt in the driveway behind Moira’s car—which currently had four doors open and two suitcases stowed in the back. What the…?
Karen clambered awkwardly from the bike, pulling off her helmet at the same time Moira appeared on the deck with a second, smaller suitcase. Art killed the bike’s engine and dismounted with a graceful swing of his leg that reminded Karen just how sexy he’d looked straddling it. She sucked in a ragged breath as Moira and her suitcase rattled down the driveway toward them.
“Oh, there you are. Didn’t you check your voice mail?” Her tone was scolding, but by the smile on her face she was obviously happy about something. And if she was loading up the Slug, Karen had a pretty good idea what she was happy about.
“No. What’s going on?”
“The car’s fixed—we’re ready to rock ’n’ roll.”
Karen’s heart knocked painfully against her ribs and then dropped into her stomach. “But the mechanic said he couldn’t get the cambelt until tomorrow.”
Beside her, Art pulled off his helmet and smoothed down his rumpled hair. He didn’t say a word.
“Christmas miracle,” Moira said. “Turns out a friend of his in Christchurch had a belt to suit the Slug, and since our mechanic was in the city spending Christmas lunch with his mum, he picked it up and brought it home with him. He called not long after you left, told us to bring the car over right away, and voilà! We have wheels again.”
Jeff trotted down the deck stairs carrying more supplies, which he tossed onto the back seat. “I’m calling shotgun.” He grinned at Karen. “Sucker.”
Moira rolled her eyes. “No fighting, kids.” She turned to Karen. “I’ve already called Mum and Dad. They can’t wait to see us all and they’re planning a barbecue for tonight.”
“If we leave in half an hour,” Jeff added, “we’ll be there by seven. So let’s hit the road, Jack.”
If they left in half an hour? Thirty minutes? Of course, she could repack her suitcase in quarter of that time, but…
The but stood next to her, still smart and sexy and silent. How could she say goodbye to him in only thirty minutes? She gripped the helmet tighter in her hands, so tight it was a Christmas miracle in itself that it didn’t shatter like an eggshell.
“I, um—” She risked a glance at Art. He’d set his helmet aside and stood hipshot, arms folded, seemingly disinterested in this newest development.
Moira dug a sharp elbow into her brother’s ribs. “Help me carry some more stuff from the house.”
“What stuff?” Jeff frowned, gesturing toward the car. “We can’t fit much more stuff in there.”
“Just come and help me, brother dearest.” She tilted her head in the direction of the house and widened her eyes. When her brother still remained clueless, she yanked on his arm and dragged him away.
“Oh, right. That stuff we need to get…” Karen heard Jeff say.
“Let me take this off you.” Art’s hand appeared in Karen’s line of sight, hooking the helmet strap around strong, tanned fingers.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” There was a cool politeness in his tone she hadn’t heard since the first day they arrived in Tekapo. As if they were once again returning to the state of strangers.
“It’s all a bit sudden,” she ventured. “The car being roadworthy again, I mean.”
Although that wasn’t the only sudden thing. Falling in love had been even more sudden and unexpected, like snowflakes falling from a summer sky.
“Guess you got your Christmas miracle after all.”
She blinked up at him, squinting a little because of the sunshine causing a halo of golden light to surround him. He was too bright, too beautiful to look at. She needed eclipse glasses.
“Art.” She’d never felt more vulnerable, more terrified of rejection, but time was up. “I could stay here with you. If you wanted me to.” The last part of her sentence came out as a whisper.
For a moment the coolness in his gaze melted, and she melted with it. He stepped forward and cupped her cheek. “You’re a herd creature. You should be with your family.”
So that was a no, then.
Karen stiffened then forced a smile to her lips. “Llama Mama, that’s me.”
She stepped back, and his hand fell away. “I should go inside and pack. Thanks for the ride today. I loved it.” She spun on her heel and walked stiffly back inside the house.
Loved it. Loved him.
She snorted softly in dismissal, but blood pounded against her eardrums in a restless thud. Love was a crazy, dreamy fantasy she’d spun over the holidays. That was why they called it the silly season.
* * *
December 29
Art couldn’t ignore Charlie forever. He’d found out the hard way last time he tried, with his brother taking to hourly phone calls for twenty-four hours until Art had given in. Charlie had been trying to contact him since the day after Boxing Day.
Text messages started:
How’s the love-in with Karen going?
Guess you’re not replying because your hands are busy. LOL
For Pete’s sake, Art. Leave Karen alone for a moment and reply, will you? It’s been three days.
Then the voice mail.
“Seriously. Give me a call, would you? Don’t make me come down there, because I will, you know. And kick your arse good and proper.”
Art sat in the living room, staring at the corner where the Christmas tree had been. He’d strippe
d the tree bare an hour after Karen had left with Jeff and Moira. The physical strength of muscling the tree to the back of the property where it lay accusingly beside the compost heap had momentarily distracted him from the dull ache inside his chest.
She’d gone.
He’d all but told her to, out of some screwed-up selflessness that thought she’d be better off surrounded by her people.
Selflessness was a lie.
He’d been struck terrified when time had suddenly run out for them and he hadn’t been able to express how much he wanted her to stay. Just like he hadn’t been able to express how sorry he was that Charlie had ended up in a wheelchair.
His phone buzzed again. Since it was eleven and he was due up at Mount John in fifteen minutes for his first tour of the night, he could guess who it was. But his gaze still slanted down to his phone. Just in case. Though Karen had his number, they hadn’t communicated since she had replied to his text asking if they got down to Invercargill safely.
Sure enough, Charlie’s text message flashed onto the screen: I know you’re awake. Pick up your damn phone and call me.
Art swore, sighed, and picked up his phone, starting a video chat with Charlie. At least he had a bona fide excuse for not talking long. His brother’s face blinked onto the screen, eyes narrowed with concern then widening when he caught a glimpse of Art’s face.
“Gore blimey, as Dad would say,” Charlie said. “You look like a day-old dog turd that’s been run over.”
Art scrubbed his fingers along his unshaven jaw. “Yeah, well, they don’t pay me to look pretty at work. No one gives a toss, because no one can see me anyway.”
Charlie’s face settled into a contemplative expression. “You screwed up with the girl, didn’t you?”
The reminder punched into Art’s gut. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He tried but probably failed to keep his voice flippant.
“First time that it matters, though, isn’t it?”
Usually he and Charlie would have ragged each other about girls—pre-accident, of course. And even post-accident the teasing had continued on a somewhat lesser scale, since Art was a world away and couldn’t make fun of Charlie’s love life in person.
“Yeah.” And in that silent communication, their shared history, their siblings-turned-to-best-mates relationship, nothing else needed to be said.
Charlie shook his head, mouth set in a thin line. “Self-sabotaging, much?”
Art shifted uncomfortably on his couch. “It probably wouldn’t work between me and Karen anyway.”
“Why’s that, then?”
Art didn’t need to look at his brother’s face to see the cynicism written there.
“We’re too different—and don’t say opposites attract because I know Meg is beautiful, funny, sophisticated, everything you’re not—because it’s comparing apples to oranges.”
Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Because I’m a cripple, and Meg feels sorry for me. Is that it?”
“No.” The word exploded out of Art. “God, Charlie. That’s low.”
“Well, you needed a boot up the arse, and if shock factor is the only way to knock some sense into you, so be it.” Charlie brought the phone closer to his face. “You’re not fruit, idiot. And so what if you’re different? There is no such thing as being too different when it comes to love. What you’re scared of is your feelings.”
“Feelings schmeelings.” Art’s mouth twisted in one direction, his gut another. “Okay, okay. I’m bloody terrified,” he admitted. He dropped his forehead onto his palm and groaned. He had been a world-class idiot. Someone give him a trophy.
He sucked in a breath and met his brother’s amused gaze. “We never really talked much after your accident.” The deep inhale he’d taken whooshed out. “And I never told you how sorry I was for my part in it.”
Charlie’s forehead crumpled. “Your part in it? What’re you banging on about?”
“You know.” Art’s fingers gripped the phone’s edges tight. “Dragging you with me Christmas shopping that day.”
With a huffed snort, Charlie mimicked Art’s forehead-to-palm gesture. “Mate, you’ve got to be kidding me. There was a reason we called you Spock growing up. You’re so damn scientific and logical, to the point of not seeing what’s obvious right under your nose. The accident was an accident, and if anyone was to blame it was me. Move past it and get on with the good stuff. I have. With Meg.” He grinned. “You’ve got to get past the fear with Karen and take a chance that there is good stuff ahead for both of you.”
“I’ve only known her a little over a week.”
“All the more reason to use that logic of yours and see that if you’re this affected after three days without her, what are you going to be like after a month? Or a year? Or a lifetime? Love doesn’t adhere to the same rules as the universe. It doesn’t care about gravity, or black holes, or the number of light years to reach another star system. Love isn’t explainable by science, idiot.”
“How did a guy who still believed in Santa Claus until he was thirteen get so wise?”
Charlie laughed. “I’ll never forgive you for bursting my bubble by waking me up when Mum came into our room with our Christmas stockings.”
“Karen said she believed in Santa…and in Christmas miracles.”
Charlie pulled his mouth down into a fake frown. “Does she, now? I like her more already. So how are you going to fix things with her?”
“I have no idea.” Art’s head thunked back against the couch.
“Mate,” Charlie said. “For a smart guy, you’re awfully thick. You need a GGWG and a NYMM.”
“A what?”
“Grand gesture with groveling.” Charlie’s smile stretch from ear to ear. “And a New Year’s major miracle. Now go get your groveling pants on.” With a gun-shaped finger, his brother disconnected.
Art stood and walked outside to the deck. It was another clear night, perfect conditions for stargazing. Pinpricks of light twinkled above him, and he turned automatically to trace the invisible lines between the stars that made up the Southern Cross. Movement caught his eye in the north-northwest—a shooting star streaked past the Matariki stars. Maybe that was a sign that miracles weren’t always big and flashy. Sometimes they were little streaks of light that suddenly illuminated the right path one should take.
Art smiled and got ready to share the wonder of the Christmas stars with his tour group.
Chapter 8
December 31
Karen wrapped an arm around Taylor’s neck, looking into her sympathetic big brown eyes. “Males are more trouble than they’re worth, aren’t they, girl?”
Taylor Swift, aka Taylor the alpaca, tossed her head, flicking back the long silky locks which characterized the Suri breed.
“You’re right.” She stroked Taylor’s back and the animal leaned into her side. “I should just shake it off, right?”
Normally her own joke would’ve at least raised a small smile.
Not today.
Not yesterday either. And not since she’d spent three days in Invercargill with the Nicholsons before catching a flight home to Christchurch. With them, she’d made an enormous effort to smile, laugh, and join in—all the time keeping her mind from wandering in the direction of a sexy stargazer. It wasn’t until she’d arrived home to an empty house, switched on the radio, and the classic David Bowie song “Starman” came on that she allowed herself to fall to pieces.
Taylor sniffled around her hand, searching for the little snack pellets that Karen would pass out to the tourists to hand-feed the herd when they arrived.
“Not yet, sweetie. Sally’ll be bringing the last tour group out to your paddock at any moment.” She glanced over the long grass to the outbuildings where the tour groups would get changed into a selection of gumboots. Nobody wanted to be walking around in mud and llama poo in their Jimmy Choo’s. Another little joke that should make her smile, but didn’t.
Beyoncé wandered over and butted her head against K
aren’s arm. The herd had picked up on her mood since she’d been back, and kept close to her in solidarity and comfort. The phone in her coverall pocket sat like a deadweight. She’d debated earlier in the day whether she should send Art a Happy New Year’s Eve text, but decided against it. A clean cut was probably best.
A few of the other grazing females stopped cropping grass and stared behind Karen. That was her cue to put her game face on and greet Sally and the last guests for the year. Karen turned, smile fixed in place, and a friendly “Kia ora” on her lips for the tourists who always got a kick out of being greeted in the Māori language.
Only it wasn’t Sally and some tourists tromping through the paddock. It was a solitary man.
He wore a white T-shirt that fit like a second skin, and chunky black gumboots that drew attention to his long, lean legs encased in faded blue denim. Everything in a mile radius that was female studied his progress across the grass with appreciation. Much appreciation.
Karen’s heart hippity-hopped around her chest, slamming over and over against her vocal cords, leaving her speechless.
Wait—what? Where was her tour group?
She released Taylor, who, being a little skittish around men, trotted off toward the creek that ran through the paddock. Art stopped on the opposite side of the creek where a line of stepping stones were in place for tourists to cross. His light blue eyes scanned her from head to toe, and her spine stiffened, knowing what he’d see.
Hair in a simple braid. Gray coveralls with grass stains on the knees and a splatter of mud on her hip. Multicolored polka dot rubber boots on her feet, because she was quirky enough to want to stand out by not wearing the traditional Kiwi black gumboot. Bags under her eyes that not even heavier-than-usual makeup could hide.
She was a hot mess, while he looked like hokey-pokey ice cream on a summer’s day. Not splashing through the creek to wrap her arms around his neck and lick his face was a testament to her self-control.
“Hi,” she said. “How are you?” Listen to her. So cool, casual, seeing you doesn’t affect me in the slightest.
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