Page 7 of Prognosis Bad Timing

‘How are you doing?’ Charlie asked.

‘I’m fine,’ she assured him, despite the persisting tremble of her hands.

‘I’m sorry, I was probably a bit forceful back there.’

‘You were just trying to help him,’ she said dismissively.

‘You did well.’ Charlie leant his hip against her vehicle.

Carrie laughed. ‘Sure.’

‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea.’ He shrugged.

Carrie decided it was best he didn’t know about her qualifications. The chances that they’d ever meet in a professional capacity were fairly negligible. He was obviously an emergency medicine specialist and she was firmly ensconced in management.

‘Are you going to be right to travel home?’ he asked. ‘Your car still goes?’

Carrie looked at the dented rear side panel. It did, but she doubted whether she could drive again tonight, she was too shaken up. ‘I’ll get one of the tow-truck drivers to take it away and arrange to have it fixed first thing tomorrow. It’s a bit of a pain but, considering I thought we were going to die tonight, it’s an inconvenience I can live with.’

Charlie chuckled. ‘You heading back to Brisbane? Can I give you a lift home?’

Carrie watched the traffic accident investigation squad put yellow markings on the road. They’d promised her a lift back into the city but they didn’t look like they’d be finished any time soon.

She regarded him steadily, taking notice of his looks for the first time. He was tall, a good head taller than her. He had nice eyes, grey eyes. A nice face, actually.

Calm. Serene. Confident. Even when he’d been snapping orders he’d been completely self-assured.

There was something innately tranquil about his features. His hair was a shaggy brown shot with blond, as if naturally streaked by the sun. It hung down, brushing his collar, and seemed to part naturally in the middle, falling in haphazard layers over his ears and stopping just short of impeding his vision.

Combined with his three-day growth, he looked a little surfer dude and as far from Rupert’s cleanly shaven short back and sides as was physically possible. She’d always preferred that look but this guy was making her rethink.

His arms were tanned a deep brown, as if he’d spent a lot of time in the sun. His clothes were casual — threadbare jeans and one of those trendy T-shirts that looked like it had been painted by a pre-schooler. His chest was broad, his biceps firm in her peripheral vision.

‘I can get an Uber.’

‘Out here? You might be waiting a while. Where do you live?’

‘Windsor.’

‘Perfect. I live in the Valley. You’re on my way.’

He pushed away from the car the matter apparently settled and Carrie watched as he cleared their departure with the scene controller. Five minutes later, after she’d spoken with the tow company, Charlie was opening the passenger door to his sedan.

Carrie eyed it disparagingly, her mood considerably lightened compared to earlier. ‘You sure this thing goes?’ she asked, her old self returning.

Feigning insult, he said, ‘I’ll have you know this is a classic car.’

‘It’s ancient.’

Charlie chuckled. It was. It had been second hand when he’d inherited it as his uni run-around. ‘It’s...retro.’

And he was fond of the old banger, preferring it to the ostentatious BMW his parents had bought him for his thirtieth birthday. It had lot of happy memories.

He’d kissed his first girl in this car. Had driven to Uluru in it. Slept in it the night of his bucks’ party when he’d been too drunk to drive home.

The Beamer just didn’t have the same amount of soul.

“Does it even have anchor points?”

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