by Ally Blake
Cameron. Even cloaked in darkness there was no doubting it was him.
‘I’m late. Again,’ she said, her voice gravelly.
He pushed the hole in the wall open wider. ‘You’re right on time.’
She shook her head and hastened across the path. When she was close enough to see his eyes so blue, like the wild forget-me-nots scattered throughout her wayward back yard, he said, ‘You look beautiful.’
‘So do you,’ she admitted before she even thought to censor herself.
‘Why, thank you.’
She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked anywhere but at him. ‘Where are we?’
‘We’re not there yet.’
Cameron shut the hole in the wall and locked it with a huge padlock, then passed her a great, hulking, orange workman’s helmet.
‘You have to be kidding,’ she said.
‘Put it on or we go no further.’
‘I’ll get hat hair.’
He glanced briefly at the waves that for once had been good to her and curled in all the right directions. ‘While inside these walls, you’re not taking the thing off.’
‘Jeez, you’re demanding. You could try a little charm.’
‘Fine,’ he said, putting his own helmet on and only ending up looking sexier still in a strong, manly, muscly, blue-collar kind of way. ‘Please, Rosalind, wear the helmet lest something drop on your head and kill you and I have no choice but to hide your body.’
She grimaced out a smile. But all she said as she lugged the thing atop her head and strapped herself in was, ‘You’re lucky orange is my colour.’
He stepped in and reached up to twist it into a more comfortable position, then looked back into her eyes. He said, ‘That I am.’
He smiled down at her. She felt herself smiling back, hoping to seem the kind of woman who could get those smiles on demand. It seemed eighteen hours away from him hadn’t made her any more mindful. She wondered if it was too late to feign strep-throat or the plague.
She hoisted her handbag higher on her shoulder and gripped tight on the strap. ‘Is this going to be some kind of extreme-sport type of dinner? Should I have brought knee pads and insurance?’
‘Stick close to me and you’ll be fine.’
Said the scorpion to the turtle.
He tucked her hand into his elbow so that their hips knocked and their thighs brushed, and Rosie felt nothing as straightforward as fine as they tramped over tarpaulins, beneath scaffolding and past piles of bricks and steel girders, until they reached a lift concealed behind heavy, silver plastic sheeting.
Rosie said, ‘I feel like a heroine in a bad movie with people in the audience yelling “don’t go in there!”’
He waved her forward. ‘Go in there. Trust me.’
She glanced at him, at the come-hither smile, the dark-blue eyes, the tempting everything-else. Trust him? Right now she was having a hard time trusting herself.
She hopped in the lift, and for the next one and a half minutes did her best not to breathe too deeply the delicious scent of another freshly laundered shirt. Or maybe it was just him. Just clean, yummy Cameron.
She hoped this date would go quickly. Then at least she could say she’d given it a good old try. And know she could still rely completely on her judgement.
As the lift binged, Rosie flinched so hard she pulled a muscle in her side. Cameron moved to her, resting a hand against her back, and she flinched again. Then closed her eyes in the hope he hadn’t noticed.
She felt the whisper of his breath against her neck a moment before he murmured by her ear. ‘Now we’re here.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘CK Square.’
The lift doors swished open, and what she saw had her feet glued to the lift floor. ‘Holy majoly,’ Rosie breathed out.
They had reached the top floor of the building, or what would be the top floor. The structure was in place, but apart from steel beams crisscrossing the air like a gigantic spider-web there was nothing between them and the heavens but velvet-black sky.
Cameron gave her a small shove to the left, and that was when she saw the charming wrought-iron table set for two around which candles burned on every given surface, their flames protected by shimmering glass jars. A cart held a number of plates covered in silver domes, and a bottle of wine chilled in an ice bucket to one side.
It was all so unexpected she felt as though the lift floor had dropped out from under her.
‘Cameron,’ she said, her voice puny. ‘What have you gone and done?’
‘I needed to make up for the farce at the Red Fox.’
And, it seemed, for every mediocre date she’d ever endured in her lifelong pursuit of cardboard-cutout companions.
Cameron guided her round neat piles of plasterboard and buckets of paint to the table. Only when his hand slid from her back to pull out her chair did she realise how chilly it was.
She let her handbag slump to the floor and sat, knees glued together, heels madly tapping the concrete floor.
The second he’d finished pouring her a glass of wine, she grabbed it and took a swig. For warmth. He caught her eye and smiled. She downed the rest of the glass.
‘So, how was your day?’ he asked, and she laughed so suddenly her hand flew to her mouth lest she spit wine all over the beautiful table. ‘Did I say something funny?’
She put down the glass, and with her finger pushed it well out of reach. ‘Well, yeah. We’re currently sitting atop the world, surrounded by what looks to be every candle in Brisbane. And you’re actually expecting me to remember how my day was?’
She looked down, picked up a silver spoon and polished it with her thumb. ‘Of course, you’ve probably had dinner here a hundred times, so none of this is in the slightest bit unusual for you.’
She put down the spoon and sat on her hands. He poured himself a glass of wine slowly, then refilled hers just as slowly. Maybe he didn’t feel the tension building in the cold air. Maybe she was the only one second guessing why they were here.
As he pushed her glass back towards her, he said, ‘I have eaten Chinese takeaway atop a nearly finished building many, many times when the deadline came down to the wire and every second of construction counted. But my only company has been men in work boots. I’m not sure candles would have been appropriate.’
She slid her eyebrows north in her best impression of nonchalance. ‘Did you just compare me with sweaty men? I may just swoon.’
Cameron’s eyes narrowed, but she caught a glimpse of neat white teeth as a smile slipped through. ‘Eat first, then swoon. I’m afraid this will be a shorter meal than last night. The fact we are here at all at this time of night without supervision means that we are breaking enough laws and union rules to get me shut me down.’
Rosie tried to do a happy dance at the “shorter meal” remark, but alas she found mischief even sexier than smooth talk. She clasped her hands together, leaned forward and whispered, ‘Seriously?’
He put the bottle down and leaned close enough that she could see candlelight dancing in his eyes. ‘Bruce, my project manager, just about quit when I told him what I had in mind.’
‘Just about?’
The eyecrinkles deepened and all breath seeped quietly from her lungs.
‘Though he looks scary, Bruce is really a big softie. He huffed and puffed and made me promise we’d wear helmets, and then promptly forgot I ever let him know what I was planning.’
She realised then that this would have taken a lot of planning. Meaning he’d been thinking about dinner, and more importantly about her, for much of the day.
What had happened to the hard, fast, cool character she was meant to be dating? And why was she so damn stubborn that she wasn’t running scared right now?
He lifted his glass in salute. She took hers in a slightly unsteady hand and touched it to his. The clink of fine craftsmanship echoed in the wide, open space.
She said, ‘Here’s to Bruce.’
Camer
on gave a small nod and took a sip, his eyes never once leaving hers. The urge to laugh had been replaced by the urge to scream. This was all so unreal, the kind of thing that happened to other girls. Nice girls. Not pragmatic girls who’d deliberately ruined every semi-meaningful relationship by walking away before the other shoe had a chance to drop.
She allowed herself the luxury of screaming on the inside of her head, and it helped a little.
‘Hungry?’ Cameron asked.
‘Famished,’ she said on a whoosh of air. Her eyes drifted to the silver-domed platters. ‘So, who else did you bribe tonight?’
‘A friend owns a place at Breakfast Creek Wharf.’ He opened up the first dome to reveal a steaming plate of something delicious-looking. ‘Scored calamari-strips in capsicum salsa, topped with quarters of lime.’
Rosie flapped her hands at him. ‘Gimme, gimme, gimme.’
Cameron did as he was told and she dove in. At the first bite the taste exploded on her tongue, sour and sweet, fresh, salty and juicy. Plenty to keep her mouth full so she didn’t have to talk. And didn’t have to hear him say anything else to make her warm to him even more.
Her eyes shifted sideways to the four other domes, a move he didn’t miss.
‘Lobster-tail salad with truffle oil,’ he said. ‘Followed by apple and rhubarb tart with homemade vanilla and cinnamon ice cream.’
She warmed a good ten degrees.
A while later, after she swallowed her last mouthful of what had been the most heavenly, delicious apple pie ever created, Rosie let out a great sigh, folded her napkin on the table and looked up to find Cameron sitting back in his chair watching her.
She wiped a quick hand over her mouth, in case she had a glob of melted ice cream on the edge of her lip. But that wasn’t it. He was watching her like she’d watched the lobster tail: with relish for what was ahead.
Those blue eyes of his, so like his dad’s.
Her heart squeezed for him so suddenly, she held a hand to her chest. But knowing how it felt to have no father at all was one connection she couldn’t will away. She wondered what might happen if someone stuck his father and him in a room together and locked the door. It couldn’t hurt, but would it help?
Or should she just mind her own business and be glad he was ever so slightly aloof? Aloof was a good thing. Aloof meant there was no chance of any real deep connection being made. Which was fine. Great, even. Perfect.
Cameron’s mobile phone rang, and she jumped.
He glanced at it briefly then ignored it.
It rang and rang, and Rosie ran a finger over the last of the melted, cinnamon-flecked ice cream on her plate, licking it off her finger. ‘I think that might be your phone making all that racket.’
‘It’s my brother Brendan,’ he said, jaw tight. ‘He’s the least likely person in the world to call unless he wants something.’
If she’d thought him aloof before, that was nothing compared with the thick, high wall blocking all access to him now. But it didn’t help her situation one bit. If there was one thing she didn’t like more than feeling emotionally unchecked, it was being made to feel invisible.
‘Unless, of course, it’s an urgent family matter,’ she said, her voice as rigid as his change of behaviour.
His brow furrowed as he glanced at his phone, already a million miles away from her. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not in the least.’ She stood, snaffled a sugar-sprinkled strawberry from a bowl and took the opportunity to give herself some much-needed breathing space.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROSIE had no idea how long she sat on a box crate, nothing between her and the edge of the building but fresh air, watching the world below her winding down.
The Brisbane River curved like a silver snake around the city. White boats bobbing on the river surface looked like little glow-bugs; dark patches dotted within the sparkly array marked out gardens and parks. And ragged mountains in the distance barely altered the gentle curve of the horizon.
The world was whisper-quiet, bar the shoosh of the wind. And above? The moon was hidden behind patchy, leopard-print cloud, and delicate, multi-coloured stars beamed intermittently through the gaps.
A wall of warmth washed against her back. She tensed and turned to find Cameron, his face lit by the quiet moonlight. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Fine,’ Cameron said, in such a way that she knew it was not. She knew it was about his dad. The moment heaved between them. She itched to ask, to know, but the truth was for her the less she knew about him the better. That always made it easier when the time came to kiss cheeks and walk away.
‘So what do you think of the view?’ he asked, sliding a crate next to hers.
She hugged her knees to her chest and wrapped her floaty dress tight about her. ‘Apart from it giving me a case of adult-onset vertigo?’
He laughed. ‘Apart from that.’
‘The view is…lovely.’
‘Just lovely? Not magnificent? Not unmatchable? This floor will be rented out for so much money it makes me almost blush.’
‘It’s pretty. But kind of unreal when surrounded by so much concrete and steel. You really want to see something? Stars so bright, so crisp, so shiny and perfect, that you just want to hug yourself to keep all that beauty locked up tight inside of you.’
As her little flight of fancy came to a close she realised he was watching her with that inscrutable intensity that swept her legs out from under her. Lucky thing she was sitting.
‘Where, pray tell,’ he asked, ‘Can a man see such stars?’
‘You’re mocking me.’
‘I am. Only because it makes you blush, which is a view to match even this one.’
She thanked her lucky stars that he was yet to figure out her blushing had nothing to do with his words, and everything to do with his…everything. As his eyes searched hers, she looked back out into the night.
‘Around three a.m. is best,’ she said. ‘At exactly this time of year. Five-hundred metres down the road from where I live, there’s a dirt track leading to a plateau where the land drops away on three sides into Samford Valley. If you look to the south-east you can see the city in the distance. But you won’t; you’ll be looking up. And you’ll truly understand why it’s called the Milky Way.’
He breathed deep. ‘You’ll be there tonight?’
‘I’m there every night. Though I must admit, I lasted about an hour this morning before I fell asleep.’
His deep, warm voice skittered across her skin as he asked, ‘Tired you out, did I?’
‘Hardly. I’m just not as gung ho as I used to be.’
She glanced back at him, and regretted it instantly. The guy was like a strong drink: just one taste and the effect on her body, and mind, was debilitating.
He asked, ‘And what are you hoping you might find up there in the sky to be out so late at night?’
She nudged her chin against her shoulder. ‘I’m not hoping to see anything. I saw what I needed to see long ago.’
His voice was low as he asked, ‘What did you see?’
‘That my trifling concerns don’t matter all that much to anyone but me.’
‘Hmm.’ Cameron closed one eye and squinted at her with the other. ‘I was brought up believing my family was the actual centre of the universe.’
‘You do know the geocentric model went by the wayside around the sixteenth century, right? You’ve really got to see one of Adele’s shows at the planetarium.’
Cameron laughed, and Rosie did too. The sounds joined for the briefest of moments before being carried away on the air.
‘Until then, take this home with you—the fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.’
Cameron waited a beat before saying, ‘Where have I heard that before?’
‘Eleventh-grade Shakespeare.’
He blinked blankly.
‘Now, come on, you can’t tell me you never compared some poor, lovestruck and less-rigorously-educated
young thing to a summer’s day?’
He leaned forward until his face was a relief map of dark and light. She could see the shape of his hard chest as the breeze flapped his shirt against him, and the worry lines that never truly faded even when he smiled.
Thus she was blithely staring into those dreamy blue eyes when he turned to her and said, ‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’
Several seconds passed in which she said nothing; she just sat there, desperately searching for the humour that ought to have laced his words. Try as she might, she found none. Instead she found herself drowning in his voice, his words, his eyes, in his possibilities.
But that’s not why you’re seeing him, she told herself slowly, as if approaching an unknown and possibly dangerous animal. You might be revelling in the invigorating slaying of invisibility demons of your childhood, but he is still the greatest of all impossibilities.
She uncrossed her arms and grabbed hold of the edge of the crate, let her feet drop back to the concrete floor and dug her toes into her shoes. ‘It’s getting late.’
Cameron nodded. ‘After Brendan rang, my project manager buzzed.’
‘Good old Bruce.’ The pleasure that skipped through her when he smiled made her wish she’d kept her mouth shut.
‘I promised him my whim had been appeased and we were already on terra firma. Unscathed. I got the feeling he was lying in bed awake awaiting that news.’
He held out a hand. She took it. She didn’t realise how cold hers was until it was enveloped in the warmth of his. He lifted her easily to her feet, and time folded in on itself as together they walked through the maze of building materials, blowing out each of the candles.
When they reached the table he scooped up her handbag and lifted it onto her shoulder, and then with her hand still snug in his he led her to the lift.
‘Shouldn’t we take some of that stuff back downstairs?’ she asked, giving one last, longing look at the romantic little alcove before, for the sake of every future date, she did her best to forget it had ever existed.
