Floored

by Paton, Ainslie

  He came back and gave her a wry grin. “Sorry. But no pizza. I’m not friends with pizza right now. Can we go hit up a supermarket, Driver?”

  They took their bags inside, got back in the car and found the market. They agreed to meet in an hour. He headed to the produce section and she went for a wander. Mildura was a bigger town than Leeton; snug up against the Murray, it was a hub for agriculture. She traipsed through the shopping centre and found herself outside a boutique. The kind of place she once would’ve loved to browse in, almost certainly buy something in. But that was then. Now there was no reason for smart dresses and work clothes other than her uniform. No money to indulge either. What she’d bought at Target was deliberately ordinary, because that felt safer than calling any attention to herself.

  What business of Sean’s was all that? He could keep his tarot card tactic of predicting behaviour to himself. Except now she had a thousand dollars of crooked cash burning a hole in her pocket and his taunt in her head.

  It was tempting, so tempting to try on that black and white dress with the fitted bodice and full skirt, or the watermelon coloured one with the matching jacket. What would he do if she showed up for his home-cooked meal in a dress that fitted her form, in shoes with a heel, with her hair out and a touch of lipstick? Thinking about that made her face grow hot. Because she was pretty sure if she did that, if she angled for his attention, it would become much clearer what he meant by saying ‘I like you’.

  Her hand left a sticky smudge on the window as she left the shopfront. It would be better to keep walking. When he got back to the car he was laden with bags and humming to himself. His pizza inspired bad mood was obviously over and done with.

  “I even got us some famous vanilla slice,” he said, while slinging shopping into the back seat.

  Their suite at the Murraylands Holiday Apartments was big. There’d be no need to crash into each other. But she still wasn’t going to be hanging around with him. She changed into her running gear and snuck past him in the kitchen, where he had every cupboard door and drawer open and the benchtop covered with bags. He was still humming as he peeled what looked like potato over the sink.

  The run felt good, medicinal. She worked it until her legs burned and her lungs faltered. She tried not to think about the watermelon pink dress and the way the jacket was edged in green and how it would sit just right above her hips. She tried not to think of the man in the kitchen cooking her a meal. The man who’d quizzed her about what she liked and didn’t like to eat and was going about this as though it was a special occasion, not simply a basic need.

  She found she was standing in the middle of the street as though her battery had run out when it occurred to her he was treating this like some kind of date. Did he think he could practise on her; get his groove back by trying his hand at seducing her? The idea kick-started her legs. She pounded the pavement till that seemed like a crazy fantasy. It was only a meal, he was just being nice. She ran until the sweat poured off her and she could entirely ignore the fact this was the first time a man had ever cooked for her.

  All kinds of good smells were coming from the apartment, and when she opened the door, they got more aromatic and her stomach gurgled. If it tasted as good as it smelled, the man could sure cook.

  The man himself was nowhere to be seen. But she could hear shower water running. She’d managed to get out of the apartment without being clocked in her running gear and now a mess of sweat, with her hair plastered to her head, she’d fluked her entrance to avoid getting caught again. She went to her room and hit the shower too, then contemplated her wardrobe. She’d bought trackpants as well. Simple, black, straight leg, comfortable but in no way fashionable. They went on with a clean white t-shirt and her runners. She piled freshly washed hair up in a damp twist. She looked like a sporty version of her chauffeur self, but it couldn’t be helped. And she didn’t like the way she regretted not having anything nicer to wear.

  When she opened her door she could hear him clattering plates. He’d set the table. He had bright-coloured gerberas in a glass tumbler and a stubby red candle that looked like a Christmas leftover balanced on a saucer.

  “Good evening,” he said, smiling like he was worried she might not show up and was delighted she’d finally arrived. He shouldn’t do that. He was in his trackpants too, barefoot, and his t-shirt fitted way too nicely, not tight, but falling softly against his chest so you knew what was under it was powerful. She knew what was under it was cut and ripped and warm and would smell of soap and clean, sexy man.

  “Smells amazing. Who taught you to cook?”

  “Mum. I wasn’t allowed not to learn. We all had to do it, but Bridie is a really good cook. I mostly learned from her. My sauces aren’t as good as hers though. I don’t know what I do wrong.”

  “You do sauces?”

  He leaned on the benchtop and fixed her with a sexy grin. He said, “Cait, I do it all,” then he laughed and turned to lift a pan from the stove.

  “Why do you do that? Call me Cait sometime and Driver others?”

  He’d started plating food on the bench. He stopped and looked up. “Because I don’t think you want me to get too close. I don’t think you want me to know you.”

  He’d dished up the opportunity to get the rules clear again. To tell him that was exactly right. She didn’t want him to cook for her, speculate about her behaviour, or try to make her laugh.

  Or flirt with her.

  Because that’s what he did. She didn’t want him to distract her with his chatter or flummox her with his insights. The less he knew about her the better, so if he didn’t use her name that kept it impersonal.

  When she didn’t respond he said, “Am I right?”

  He was right, except for what he made her feel, for how she wanted to hear her name on his tongue, have him touch her like she’d touched him. And more. He was spot on except for the bandaid she wore and the need to have it ripped off—and being the perfectly wrong man he was so right, to do it.

  “I think it’s okay to use my name.”

  “That’s a mighty fine concession, Ms Murphy. I’ll be happy to use your name, Caitlyn, Caity, Cait, Lyn.”

  “But you don’t have to wear it out.”

  He laughed. “Sauce on the side or on your eye fillet, Cait?”

  She grinned at him. It was impossible not to. “On my steak, thank you, Sean. Can I help you, Sean?”

  “No, Cait. Go take a seat, Cait.”

  She went to the table and chose the chair facing the galley kitchen. She watched him finish plating the food: steak with pepper sauce, steamed vegetables and creamy mash. He took bread rolls from the oven. He’d left an open bottle of wine on the table so she poured two glasses. The food smelled divine and the man fixing it looked better. She didn’t need vanilla slice to sweeten things.

  He put a plate in front of her. “Tuck in, Cait.”

  “Thank you, Sean.”

  He sat and looked at her over the flowers. Neither of them would be able to eat if they didn’t stop grinning at each other like they’d suddenly discovered new super fun facial muscles to try out.

  “If I’d known steak and mash would get you smiling like that, I’d have cooked for you days ago.”

  She dropped her eyes to her plate and picked up her knife and fork. “Smiling like what?”

  He didn’t move, just sat there watching her. “Like you’re not afraid.”

  Maybe that was what he did for her. Made her forget to be afraid. She’d gotten used to feeling anxious and guarded, but tonight, eating the meal he’d cooked, she didn’t feel that way.

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “I know.”

  “So conceited.”

  “I know.” He said it singsong, like a little kid. “Something else makes you scared but when you smile like that, when you laugh, it’s a whole lot better than that frown you wear.”

  He picked up his knife and fork. She took a sip of the wine. She needed to cement another li
ne of bricks in the retaining wall between them. “You need to restrict your opinions of what I wear.”

  He eye-rolled. “Ah, now I’ve done it. Made it too personal.”

  “You don’t think expressing your opinion on my clothing isn’t personal?”

  “I think a lot of things. I don’t think you really want to know them.”

  She shook her head. “I think you’re right.”

  He laughed around a forkful. “I know I’m right.”

  He was conceited and mouthy and a shit-stirrer, and he bloody well knew he was attractive. But did he know he was making it hard to sit still, hard to eat his tasty meal and not want to make up some excuse to touch him? She hoped not. She could not let him see how he made her feel. She tried to concentrate on the food and not the man fooling with her.

  He moved the flowers to the side of the table. “Having seen you really smile, now I want to see you lose it.”

  His mash was delectable; his conversation unsettling. “What do you mean lose it?”

  “Blow your cool. Lose your temper. Go nuts.”

  She grunted and kept her eyes down. “You’ll be waiting.”

  “Yeah? I can be very patient when I have to.”

  “Why would you want to see me lose my temper?” It was an odd thing for him to say, for anyone to say.

  “Because you’re like a sleeping volcano. All cool and calm on the surface, but underneath there’s this hot, red swirl of emotion you keep tapped down. I want to watch you explode. I reckon it’ll be quite a show.”

  He very nearly watched her garrotte herself with a string bean as it caught across her throat. She gulped the wine to wash it down. “You make this stuff up don’t you? You like to amuse yourself speculating wildly about other people.”

  “Not so wildly.”

  Wild was the way her blood raced around her body. Wild was the way her knee bounced beneath the table and her pulse pounded in her throat. If she gripped her fork any tighter she’d bend the tines against the plate. “There’s a freak show carnival out there missing its fortune teller. Don’t let me stop you catching up with them.”

  He laughed and he poured more wine for them both. “Not a bad idea, given my current lack of occupation. I could rake in some dough on the side.”

  “You could take some poor punters for a ride, that’s for sure.”

  “Now, now. I’m not like that. I’m a nice boy.”

  She snorted and he laughed. “You wound me, Cait.”

  “I couldn’t wound you with a staple gun.”

  He put his knife down and his hand across his chest. “Ah, but you do wound me. I’m a big softy at heart.”

  “Did you go to NIDA as well as the police academy, or are you a natural born actor?”

  He laughed. “It’s all natural, baby.”

  All lethal more like it. From his easy grace to his cheeky grin. He made you think of sin but he cooked like a saint.

  “What happens to you now, Sean?”

  “You don’t mean plating vanilla slice with raspberry sauce and the washing-up, do you?”

  She shook her head. “Are you in trouble with your bosses?”

  “Buried.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “In therapy and paperwork. My most not favourite things. Don’t tell me you’re worried about me?” He sat back and folded his arms. “I think I like that.”

  “Of course I’m not worried about you. You’re big enough and ugly enough to take care of yourself.”

  He pouted. “Ugly.”

  She grunted and stood, reaching across the table for his empty plate. “You love being the centre of attention don’t you?”

  “I like getting your attention.”

  Her hand froze. “You can’t say that.”

  He gave her a ‘wanna bet’ look, and stood too, picking up the empty wine bottle and their bread plates. He took them across to the kitchen.

  She followed, skirting the bench to reach the sink, putting her back to him. “I’ll wash-up.”

  “Leave it a bit.” He was close behind her. “I’ll make coffee and dessert.”

  She dropped a fork on the floor. He went to her feet to pick it up. If she lowered her hand she could touch his cropped hair.

  He stood. Very close. If she shifted her weight she could lean against him. She dropped a knife and groaned.

  “Am I making you nervous, Cait?”

  “Of course not.” Get a grip. She’d ignore him and rinse the plates. She turned on the tap—too hard, the water coming out too fast and spraying up and over her chest and face.

  She felt his laugher, warm against the back of her neck. She felt his hands on her arms, turning her to him. He had a clean tea towel and pressed it to her cheek. She snatched it from his hand and pressed back into the edge of the sink to get away from him.

  “I am making you nervous. Why is that?”

  Because he was a freaking physical god and he was standing too close. Because what she wanted was to have him touch her so he could make her forget everything. What she needed was to keep away from him. “Because you’re a big bastard and you’re crowding me.”

  He stepped back immediately. “Well get out of my kitchen, woman, and I’ll deliver your dessert instead.”

  “‘Woman!’”

  “Sorry, Caitlyn. That was Fetch.” Sean slapped the side of his head. “He’s still in there.” He busied himself with the coffeepot.

  She retreated to the table. It must be difficult for him, this need to shed a personality. It was difficult enough to guard one. She knew all about that. She’d made changes to the way she behaved, but they were superficial compared to what Sean had done. And she slipped all the time, letting old Caitlyn, the one who’d thought she had control, knew where she was going and what she wanted, through in little pieces. To be Fetch, Sean had to bury his own personality and a slip-up would’ve been dangerous to his health.

  She could see there wasn’t anything of the hesitant, bumbling, stuttering Fetch in him now. He was more like the Fetch who was highly organised and effortlessly calm when they were in danger. Unlike that hard-edged character who’d convinced her to run with him, or the one who’d burned his clothes, the real Sean was warm and genuine.

  “It must be tricky?”

  “Raspberry sauce is easy. It’ll take the edge off the sweet of the vanilla.”

  “I mean having to live as someone else.”

  He brought two plates across to the table. “It’s interesting.” Avoidance both with his response and in the way his body stiffened.

  “Did you always want to work undercover?”

  “Caitlyn.”

  She took a mouthful of vanilla; luscious. “Sean.” She took another forkful and swirled it in the sauce. “Why can’t you talk to me about it?”

  He sighed. He planted his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. “What do you want to know?”

  He gave her such an intense look she blushed. “I’m sorry. I’m prying.”

  “No worse than I’ve done to you. It’s difficult. Takes a toll. Some assignments are shorter, less intense. Some people inhabit the character totally and never break. I can’t do it like that. You only saw the real Fetch briefly when I was on the phone. Mostly what you saw was a hybrid of him and Sean. A space where I’m neither of them, and both of them at the same time. Does that make any sense to you?” He sighed. “It’s making me tired thinking about it.”

  It did make sense. She hadn’t changed her name but she’d changed her appearance her habits and her lifestyle and her other self, her real self, the one that wanted the watermelon dress and the attention of the man opposite her was hovering in the wings, waiting for it to be safe to come out. Worried that it might never be.

  She nodded. “So the hard part is feeling comfortable in the one skin again and not second-guessing yourself.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “How would you know that?”

  “Just a guess. I can be good at guessing too.”
<
br />   “What else are you good at?”

  Her own conversational gambit turned back on her. “At saying thank you for a wonderful meal. It truly was wonderful. At offering to change your dressing, doing the washing-up, and going to bed early.”

  “You are no fun, Cait.”

  The sooner he understood that the better.

  “It was my pleasure to cook for you. If we can, I’ll do it again. I’m going to leave the dressing off for tonight. Give the wound some air. I’ll take you up on your offer to dress it in the morning. And the washing-up—come on, we can do that together.” He stood and held a hand out to her. She put her plate in it and he laughed. “A guy can try.”

  “A guy can pick an easier battle—one that needs fighting.”

  “Are you saying you’re not worth fighting for?”

  “I’m saying there’s no way to win with me.”

  He took both their plates and went to the kitchen. No smart reply. She was almost disappointed. She followed with their wine glasses. He had the water on, filling the sink. She found the tea towel and came to stand beside him.

  Hands in the hot water and suds he said, “You’re holding out on me.”

  “Holding out what?”

  He grinned and she knew she’d made a tactical error. “Ah so much, Caitlyn Mary Ann Murphy. Where do I start? With why you’re trying to hide how gorgeous you are, or what you’re running from?

  She went to protest and he put a wet, sudsy finger up to her face, a breath away from her lips. “Maybe I’ll start with why your bloke doesn’t get a second chance, or what makes you want to drive a hire car when you have so many other qualifications and skills? How’s that for a start?”

  “Have you finished?”

  “Barely even warmed up.”

  “You’re such an old gossip.”

  He abandoned the plates in the sink and turned to face her. “That’s your big come-back?”

  “I don’t have to argue with you.”