Page 32 of The Winning Ticket

“I don’t think I’d do well living alone,” she says, and I laugh.

“You are just a tiny bit more outgoing than I am. It actually hasn’t been as lonely as I’d worried it would be. Turns out, I like my own company.”

“That does not surprise me in the slightest. You were always happier with a book and the quiet than I was.” Kylie nods.

Tara snorts. “That is the biggest understatement ever. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you read a book in all the years we’ve lived together, and you are definitely more chaotic than Bri could ever be,” she says affectionately.

Kylie pouts for all of two seconds before grinning. “Yep, you know me well. I am a chaotic mess, which is why you love me.”

Every time I see my two best friends, I feel just that little bit lighter. How had I managed without them for the past five years? These people are the balm for my anxious soul.

“One of the many reasons we love you,” Will says, joining the conversation as he flops down beside his sister before ruffling her hair.

Annelisa follows him, cuddling into his side, and he kisses the top of her head. Besides Chris and Morgan, these two were always the couple everyone envied. They have been inseparable since I was in grade ten and are as sickeningly in love now as they were back then.

“You okay, Lis?” Tara asks her sister, looking at her closely.

Annelisa nods and smiles, although she does look a bit off. “Just really tired at the moment. Work is full on.”

Annelisa has published several romance books and is an incredibly talented and sought-after author. Morgan had mentioned she’d just signed a major deal with her publisher, so maybe that has kept her busy.

Chris and Morgan join us. Chris grabs the remote and finds the ice hockey app on the TV.

Kylie wrinkles her nose. “I don’t understand your obsession with this sport lately.”

“It’s great! It barely stops. It’s way better than football.” Chris points at the screen, where men in a lot of padding zoom around the ice. “As a half-Canadian, you should be excited I’m getting into your country’s national sport.”

“Mate, Dad is the most non-Canadian Canadian you will ever meet. I don’t think he even knows how to ice skate, and he’s never watched hockey that I’m aware of. He embraced all things Australian the second he landed here. He’s a surfer now. Canada would be disappointed in him.” Will shakes his head, and they begin to rib each other playfully.

I look towards the kitchen, where Jake is busy stirring things on the stovetop while checking the lamb in the oven.

I get to my feet and wander over. “Do you need any help?” I ask.

“I think I’ve got it mostly under control, but if you do want to help, you can get the salads ready. It’s just the mixes from Woolies in the bags, so I was going to do that last. Figured people would want the choice between veggies or salads.”

I place a hand on my chest dramatically. “Salad from a bag? What would Nonna say?”

“What Nonna doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” he replies with a wink, and I laugh before going to the fridge to find said bags of salad shoved haphazardly through the fridge.

Instantly, I feel my anxiety spike at the sight of the mess and start tidying the fridge, keeping the door half closed so that Jake can’t see what I’m doing. Once I’m done, I begin preparing the salads – well, dumping all the ingredients into various bowls.

Jake places his hands on my hips, and I jump slightly.

“I’m sorry. I just need to get to the drawers in front of you,” he says, his mouth near my ear.

A shiver runs down my spine, and I take a deep breath to control my body’s reaction. I nod slowly and step aside so that he can get to the plates. Once he has them out, he pulls the lamb out of the oven to rest a little, and the smell makes my mouth instantly start watering.

“Geez, Jake, with cooking skills this good, how the hell are you still single?” I ask, moving closer to examine the lamb that has been cooked to perfection.

I don’t know much about cooking, but I can tell he’s put a fair bit of effort into it. I hadn’t paid any attention earlier when he was putting it all together to put it in the oven.

“Alas, Bri, I have asked myself that same question many, many times,” he says.

He’s smiling, but I can tell it’s a little forced. I remember our conversation by the spa at his party and realise that this may be a bit of a sore spot for him.

“Sorry, that was rude,” I say, feeling shitty.

“Hey, it’s fine,” he says, stepping closer and pushing the strand of hair that had fallen across my cheek back behind my ear. “It’s no different to me wondering how someone could be such an asshole to you.”

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