Page 23 of Love Is…?

“If you want. I imagine it’ll be full of how to deliver a sexy line, through a sexy smirk, while lifting a sexy eyebrow.”

Which Jayde promptly strung together like a strand of neon lights designed to hypnotise lesbians.

Tessa laughed in resignation, and circled her finger at Jayde’s face. “And I’m going to master that, right?”

“Absolutely. I have great faith.” Jayde frowned elaborately and nodded. “In fact, after we’ve exchanged phone numbers”—she held up a finger—“which is essential tomycurriculum, I’ll tell you how we’re going to be practicingthat.” She threw out another smirk and again it landed. “If we’re speaking of practicing things.”

A twist of anxiety set up camp in Tessa’s stomach. “What are we?—?”

Jayde beamed. “Speed dating.”

Chapter

Seven

Horror,disbelief, and a delightful spark of interest had chased each other across Tessa’s face at the suggestion of speed dating, and Jayde chuckled at the memory. It was a memory that created all sorts of delightful tingles on her skin as she strolled towards the townhouse on Friday morning.

What didn’t create tingles was how her mouth had opened, overridden her brain and her hard fought walls, and disclosed her family history. What the hell?

Jayde hadn’t lied on Thursday evening when she’d said that Tessa would break any foreign spy, terrorist or banking CEO who happened to be sitting in an interrogation room. But it wasn’t that which had caused the oversharing. Tessa felt safe, as if her belief in the world, in people, in love was an unpoppable balloon which floated happily on a thread strong enough to carry not only herself but also her person if they chose to hang on. Jayde visualised herself hanging onto Tessa’s balloon.

Shit.

“Hold up your driver’s license to the camera and identify yourself, please.” Kyle, the New Zealand ex-rugby player—a fact that formed the foundation of their friendly banter—wasthorough, but pedantic, requesting Jayde repeat the same check-in process each time she turned up at the house.

“This is Narelle Harrington,” Jayde said, ensuring her voice wavered with anxiety. “I’ve kidnapped the journalist, and I demand access to verify your credentials as a retired prop forward for the 2017 All Blacks.”

Kyle’s laughter echoed through the intercom. “That’s a good one, Jayde. Better than yesterday’s. Come on in.”

The gate buzzed, and she pushed it open, checking that it closed properly behind her. Then made her way down the small set of stairs outside the garage. She strolled up to the cosy booth tucked unobtrusively to the side of the aluminium composite overhead door, which, when raised, revealed the enormous underground garage housing a number of cars on a mostly temporary basis, like the incredible BMW i8 that belonged to Cath, Samantha’s friend, Tessa’s blue Nissan, and the black, heavily-tinted SUV that shuttled Grace, Samantha, and Abby about Melbourne. The driver of that SUV, Marina, seemed to appear like a genie whenever her services were required. Jayde assumed she lived nearby.

Kyle’s small space was fitted out with an ergonomic chair, desk, bookshelf, heater, mini air conditioner, plush carpet, three monitors that connected to the security cameras located at the front and rear of the property and at other vantage points on the periphery. He didn’t have a lot to do because, as Abby had mentioned in her latest interview, Australian paparazzi tended to leave most people alone. Jayde wasn’t sure how the paparazzi made their money if they weren’t camped outside a celebrity’s house with their cameras and associated gear, screaming that person’s name as if they were worried the resident had forgotten their own identity. Most celebrities in Melbourne were willing to give a good chunk of time to the media, then request privacy for the remainder. And they got it.

It was quite symbiotic, and presumably the paparazzi were able to earn a living while ensuring they reached old age with their vocal cords intact.

Jayde knocked on the window, then poked her head through the doorway.

“You really shouldn’t open the gate to kidnappers. That sort of thing will get you fired.”

Kyle grinned, closed his textbook, and leaned back in his seat, the back of it creaking with the movement.

“What’s up? Did you forget Abby’s at the MTC today?”

Jayde raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t forg?—”

“And Grace is at school, so Tessa’s gone home to…” He faded off, and lifted his eyebrows to match hers.

Good grief, was she that transparent?

“Well, I’m actually here to see you,” she huffed. “So be grateful.” They shared a grin, Kyle’s stretching across his entire face which was no mean feat considering his head was proportional to his body, which was the size of a small shipping container. “I’d like to interview you for my book for which I don’t have a publisher but I’m hopeful.”

“Is this the one about loving in Melbourne?”

“Yeah.Lovers of Melbourne.”

“And you want me to share my opinion despite being a ring-in from that dreadful country over the ditch.” He folded his arms across his chest, biceps bulging against the fabric of his sleeves.

Jayde dragged around the small gas-lift stool that Kyle kept in the corner of his booth, and sat heavily, so she could activate the lever and raise the height. She placed her phone on the desk.

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