Page 72 of A Wolf in the Garden

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We eat dinner in our robes by candlelight, feasting on slow-cooked lamb and potato au gratin, with brandy-laced orange chocolate mousse, bite-sized pieces of mille feuille, and a baked cheesecake for dessert. It was all left in the fridge for us, and the only thing we had to do was turn on the oven to reheat it. “What are your thoughts about this place?” I ask her, sipping on my glass of pinot noir. She grins, eyes turning towards the glass ceiling, where the moon now shines above.

“I think it’s amazing. Thank you for bringing me here.”

“I thought it was more you rather than some fancy Michelin star restaurant.”

She nods. “You know me.”

“I do. My down to earth Kiwi girl. I’ll have to take you to Paris someday, though.”

She grins. “I’ve already been.”

“A group tour staying at backpacker lodges and visiting the knockoff version of Moulin Rouge does not count.”

She laughs. “It was a good way to tour Europe on the cheap! It’s practically a rite of passage for young Kiwis to do one of those trips. Soexcuse me. Your snobby rich boy persona is coming out again.”

I grin back at her. “My apologies.” I look around at the glasshouse, thinking about possibilities. “But seriously, you like this setup here?”

She scrapes her spoon over the plate in front of her, gathering up the last of her dessert. “I do.Why?” She sounds so suspicious that I laugh.

“I’m thinking of replicating something like this, but in the South Island. Somewhere we can go for vacation, for skiing trips in winter, that sort of thing.”

There’s a flash of emotion that flitters across her face, and I can’t quite place it until she says, “I’ve never even seen the snow, Van. Poor girls don’t learn how to ski; that’s a rich person’s sport, at least in this country.”

“You’re not a poor girl anymore.” I say it without thinking, and I wait with bated breath to see whether I’ve fucked up. Money and wealth is a sensitive topic for most people, but even more so for Ellie. We’ve been skirting around any talk of this for weeks, but it’s bound to come up at some point, especially if we do think about moving in together.

“Are you saying that about my own money, or because I’m now with you?”

“I feel like this is a trap question, and I’m scared to answer.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a trap. It’s just a question.”

“Both is the answer, then. Because that’s the reality. You’re never going to want for anything again in your life. It doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly going to be some trophy wife — that is not you, and I don’t want that for you. I’m not your sugar daddy, and you’re not a sugar baby — that dynamic isn’t for us, MissI can pay for it myselfmartyr that you are,” I add, thinking about the things she’s insisted on paying for when we’ve been out together. “But you can do the work that you do because youenjoyit, not because you need to pay the bills. And maybe… you might be interested in helping me run Lost Moon? I don’t know, it’s up to you.”

There’s a crease between her brows that I would love to smooth out. We’re supposed to be enjoying the night, and I’m kicking myself for leading us down this track of conversation. “I definitely want to talk about Lost Moon, as in, what our life will look like when we move in together, because I have ideas…”

“I already knew you would. You’re a smart businesswoman, and I would love to hear your thoughts.”

“But, I don’t want to get distracted from the conversation when you just called me amartyr.Evander,” she frowns at me, and I guess this is the day I get told off by two Harding women, “I don’t think I’m a martyr. I just like to feel like I still have power, and letting you coverallmy expenses feels like I’m giving that away. Especially when you decide that you’re going to do so without asking me first, like that time when you started waving your credit card around in the supermarket.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think about that when I offer to pay. All I think about is the fact that my bank account probably has a few extra zeros at the end of it, and so it doesn’t hurt for me to buy your groceries.”

“Yeah.” The despondent tone in her voice tells me she’s not convinced.

“What is the solution, here? Because we’ve already established we love each other. We’re mates. You want me to bite you and claim you and bind you to me forever. I assume you’re moving in with me.” I see her nose scrunch at that. “No? You’re not going to? What was all that in the bath, then?”

“No, Iam. I’m moving in, obviously. It makes sense practically; I’m not going to make you come live in my tiny house with your feet hanging off the end of the loft bed and you whacking your head on the bathroom ceiling ten times a day for the rest of our lives.”

“Good, because you had me worried there for a second.”

“It’s the assumption that bugs me. YouassumeI’m moving in with you. YouassumeI want you to pay for my things.”

“It’s an assumption based on fact and reality. As you just said, it’s being practical.”

“You know what they say about people that assume? You make an ass out of you and me.”

“I know.”

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