Page 33 of Seduction Under the Southern Stars

“Okay.” Her eyes meet mine, the way they did when we were in the conservation room at the museum, and I get the same shock I got back then, as if I’ve touched a hot plate, the sensation of heat registering a second too late to stop myself from burning. What is it about this girl that rings my bell, pun intended? Is it just our shared history? The fact that I don’t have to pretend to be someone else with her? I’d say yes, but my body is telling me it’s more than that. I’ve sat next to her all evening, and her subtle scent has been like some kind of witch’s potion, gradually slipping through my senses, inveigling me. I can’t afford to be attracted to her. She’s out of bounds, and neither her brothers nor her father would be impressed if I made a move on her when I’m only in the country for another week or so. If she were anyone else, I might suggest a quick fling until I leave, a way to finally put the attraction to rest that’s been simmering between us since we were young. Or maybe it’s the opposite—so we can exhume it, bring it into the light, and finally set it free.

But she isn’t anyone else. She’s Elora-Rose Bell, still somehow innocent despite the years that have passed, fragile as a butterfly, and far too precious to be used in such a way.

She tears her gaze away, looking at the door as someone takes off the chain and unlocks it, and it breaks the spell between us. I turn and say goodbye to Hallie and Zoe, then follow Joel and Fraser out. We wave goodbye, and Elora closes the door behind us.

I hear the click of the lock and the slide of the chain before we walk down to the elevator. Fraser calls for the carriage, and we get in and head to the ground floor.

“Don’t suppose you guys are up for a drink?” I ask as we descend.

“I might fall asleep,” Fraser says.

“Stop being an old fart,” Joel replies. “We’re up for it,” he tells me, and his brother sighs, then smiles.

“Cool.” When the doors part, I lead the way out of the building. “Can you recommend anywhere?”

“Yeah, this way,” Joel says. “The Coalsack is a decent bar.”

“Strange name for a bar.”

“It’s a nebula near to the Crux,” he says.

“Ah, makes sense. It’s weird seeing the constellation again. And not being able to see the Plough.” The Plough, or the Great Bear, and the Polar Star, are only visible in the northern hemisphere, and the Crux, or Southern Cross, can only be seen south of the equator. It brings back memories of the three of us lying around the campfire with Atticus, looking up at the night sky and identifying the constellations. It makes me feel a little sad, and I try to shake the feeling off.

We head for Courtenay Place, which is where most of the restaurants and bars are. The sun has set, and the streets of Wellington are busy, full of people dressed up for the evening. Music spills out of clubs and bars, and the tables and chairs on the pavements are full, with everyone enjoying the warmer weather. Joel turns off into a side road, though, where it’s a little quieter, away from the noisier bars.

“Is it true that the moon is upside down in the northern hemisphere?” Fraser asks.

“Well, they say it’s upside down here, but yeah. And of course you can see the Pole Star. There isn’t really an equivalent for the southern hemisphere.”

“Do you miss here when you’re in the UK?” Joel asks, heading for the sign that reads ‘The Coalsack’.

“I did.” I follow him in through the open doors. “Not so much now. I stay busy, and that drives a lot of the demons away.”

Fraser glances at me, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Whoa,” I say as I look up at the bottles behind the bar. “Joel, my man.”

“You mentioned you like whisky on the phone,” he says with a smile.

There must be over fifty bottles of various types of whisky on the shelf, from bourbon to rye, to blends, to my favorite, the peaty Islay malts. “I’ll have a double of the Ardbeg over ice with a splash of water,” I tell the bartender.

“Jameson for me, please,” Joel says, “no ice.”

“I’ll have the Glenfiddich, please,” Fraser says.

We wait for the bartender to slide our glasses over to us, Joel pays despite my insistence that I treat them, and then we take them over to a table at the back. The window there is open, looking out onto a small yard where customers—mostly couples—are sitting at intimate tables, lit by candles.

The three of us sit and sip our whiskies, and as one we all let out a long sigh.

“Do you remember that night Henry smuggled in a bottle of some cheap blend?” Joel asks me. “You’d gone to uni by then,” he says to Fraser.

I nod. “We got totally wasted, and I think we only drank, like, an eighth of the bottle between all of us.”

“Henry threw up in my baseball cap,” Joel says. “He had to tell Mum he had a stomach bug.”

We all chuckle.

I swirl the whisky over the ice in my glass.

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