Page 17 of Love Grows

“You speak Greek?” I cocked my head.

Another lovely flush pinked her cheeks. “Yes. I assume you know that information because Jules was in Mrs G’s shop at the same time I was attempting to explain council by-laws.”

I grinned. “Nothing gets by Jules.” That was true statement. Jules’ commentary to me about my supposed attraction proved that point.

“Where did you learn it? Duolingo?”

Steph cracked up, and held my forearm. “No. At school.”

“What school teaches Greek?”

Suddenly Steph’s face froze. Not for long, but just long enough for a person—me—to wonder why. “At Killington. Killington Girls Grammar.”

That probably explained the stilled expression for a moment. Generally there are three types of people who come from the private school system: the Look-at-me-I-am-an-enormously-rich twat, the I’m-sorry-I-had-no-choice souls, and the Mumble-mumble-extensive-apology-for-being-wealthy-I’ll-give-money-to-charity-forever folk.

Steph looked like she sat in number two quite comfortably. Killington cost thirty-thousand a year, her parents must have had some serious money.

“Nice school.”

“I enjoyed learning there. The subject list was extensive and I figured that if I was going to interact with people in Melbourne, which has the third highest Greek-speaking population in the world, then Greek it should be.”

Sounded sensible.

“Yeah, it goes Athens, then Thessaloniki, then Melbourne, then back to places in Greece. Melbourne multiculturalism right there.”

Steph grinned. “That was my thinking.”

I studied her: her slight frame, her hair that fanned away from her face, her brown eyes. It was a particularly lovely package to look at. “You’re a bit of an enigma, Steph Thatcher.”

She laughed again, then, almost as if she weren’t thinking about it, shuffled a little bit closer. “I’m really not. Ask me anything.”

I blinked as common sense left my body. “Okay. Do you want to go to the movies on the weekend?” I blinked again. Wow. That was unexpected. Who knew that question was lurking?

Steph’s eyebrows rose. “The movies?”

“Yeah. Like at the actual movies in a cinema where you can’t pause and duck off to the loo then cook a three-course meal then binge watch the next in the series. That sort of movies.”

She rolled her lips in thought or maybe to suppress laughter. Her expression was cheeky.

“Like the movies where people don’t talk all the way through?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, thrilled that Steph was a convert. “You get it.”

“And have mastered the art of opening a packet of chips in silence?” Steph was on a roll and I was there for it.

“Oh my god. I love you,” I blurted out, then turned bright red, the skin on my face aflame. “Not, you know…It was more a turn of?—”

“We connected over our loathing of noisy packets of chips. It’s okay, Angel.” She did the forearm-grab, coupled with a smooth-slide-down to my wrist.

“That’s…that’s exactly what we did,” I stuttered. “So…?”

“I’d love to.” Then…thenher gaze travelled up and down my body and I felt it in every stitch of my cargo pants and polo shirt. And undies, if I were telling the truth.

I wondered what Pip would make of this latest development. She was probably hunched over her Tarot cards gleefully predicting Steph and I were riding off into the sunset.

“Another question. How are you on a motorbike?”

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