Page 67 of Tame Me

We’re at the bottom of the gondola before that second call ends, before I can believe it. I can’t believe anything about tonight. As the doors slide open there are five huge guys in firefighting gear waiting for us. I take advantage of the crowd and chaos to escape.

‘Talia!’

I ignore his call. I run into the night—taking control—because I don’t want an awkward, embarrassing goodbye. There’s nothing to say. This was a moment I’ll never regret, a moment I’ll always treasure.

But nothing will ever come of it.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dain

ASMYPILOTbrings the jet in to land I gaze at the mountain to the right. I’m not in the cockpit—my licence is more hobby than necessity—but if I had to take over the controls, I could. The mountains are snowy and majestic, the southern lakes sapphire, yet it’s the gondola complex glinting in the sunlight snagging all my attention.

It’s almost a year to the day since I was trapped in a suspension car with an annoyingly unforgettable woman. Almost a year since I last had sex.

Yeah, I can’t believe that either. Trust me, I’m not happy about it.

My sexual appetite has simply...dried up. When I returned to Australia, I met other women but never took any home. Opportunities they offered, I ignored. I worked harder and longer hours until basically becoming a workaholic hermit.

In the decade before this last year I had many lovers and remained on good enough terms with most. I was upfront with what I offered—never more than a few nights’ ultra-discreet fling—private islands, private hotels, no prying eyes. Definitely no cameras.

But Talia ran straight into that stormy night—leaving me. I had to stop and thank that rescue crew. It couldn’t have been more clear that she wanted to get away. I let her. I don’t chase women down.

I did, however, invest in Simone’s project. And eventually I did go back to that restaurant—two months after that searing night I braved that bloody gondola again. By then the entire hospitality staff had turned over. The chef—Kiri—had been headhunted and moved north. No one on shift the day I returned knew anything about who’d been on front of house that wild night. I figured that was fate telling me to quit. I wasn’t about to walk around town going to every restaurant and café on a quest to track down a barista called Talia.

Okay, I did do that. Briefly. It didn’t work.

Now I’m back in Queenstown. We broke ground on Simone’s apartment building two months ago and I’m here to check progress. And okay, yes, I can’t resist the possibility I might see her.

I now know her name is Talia Parrish. Yeah, as much as I loathe online platforms I fully social-media-stalked my way to that information three months ago in a moment of fury over my tragic existence of the last year. I found her channel. I’m not one for sharing anything online but frankly I found it a disappointment. All her recent videos are just hands and coffee art—very clever art, to be fair, but we don’t get to see her face.

I can’t forget her face. I’ve tried but she haunts me at night. Every night. Worse, memories of that encounter hit at the most inappropriate times. I’ve never been as unable to control my own thinking. Hell, right now my body hardens the way it does at the thought of her. Only her. Frustrating isn’t the word.

I need to see her again. I need to put that haunting nymph to bed for good.

Maybe it’s just that feeling of unfinished business. The way she slipped into that storm to get away from me grates. We’d gone through something in that cable car—something more than just a physical tryst—so her instant vanishing act felt like a betrayal of the connection—the trust. Yeah, I’m a fool. The peopleclosestto me kept the most terrible secrets from me, why am I so bothered by some random woman running off?

Twenty minutes after our mid-morning landing I’m walking along the main street of Queenstown. It’s postcard perfect and there are crowds of ski and snowboarding lovers everywhere. I want to wipe them all out of my way.

‘We’ll be back soon!’

I freeze. I recognise a husky edge in that call. I turn even though my heart has yet to pump another beat. A bell jingles as the door of a warm-looking café closes. A woman is walking away from it—away from me.

I stare after her. She’s wearing a woollen hat but there’s a brunette plait hanging partway down her back. She’s wearing an enormous black puffer jacket. From here I can see one seam patched with a piece of black duct tape. Even so a feather escapes. Because it’s bulky I can’t tell her shape but she’s about the right height. What little I can see of her legs is encased in dark blue denim. Her boots are leather but, like the jacket, patched and old.

There’s no way it’ll be Talia, but I follow anyway. I’m compelled. She walks with a gentle sway that’s almost hypnotic. Swallowing, I mock my foolishness. Her head is down and I haven’t seen her face but I can’t shake the conviction that it’s her so I follow her journey all the way to the public gardens at the edge of the lake. She doesn’t walk with both arms at her sides. She’s holding one in front of her. Has she hurt it in some way?

In the gardens she pauses and I stop, hanging back by a tree so she can’t see me. There’s almost no one around now but the view of the lake and back to the small town is beautiful. It’s not warm enough to be outside for long but she bends—somewhat awkwardly—to brush a dusting of snow from the park bench. Her bulky jacket still shields her body from me but as she sits on the space she cleared I glimpse the side of her face. It’s her. It really is her.

My jaw drops but I say nothing. It’s eerily quiet aside from a bird or something chirping. But it’s not a bird. It takes me a beat to realise it’s the cry of a small child. A baby. Talia fusses with a woollen scarf or something and tucks her head down. After a few moments the crying stops and it slowly dawns on me. She’s not just cradling that baby. She’s breastfeeding it.

Shock paralyses me. I stand there beneath the tree, staring like some deranged stalker while her earlier words to whoever was in that café come back to me.

‘We’ll be back soon.’

We.

I’m good at maths. Always have been. But right now my brain is only focused on the fact that sometimes—just sometimes—one plus one can equal three. I don’t know how old that baby is. I don’t know what a roughly three-month-old baby would look like. But I’m guessing it wouldn’t be big.

---