Page 19 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

I rest my head on a hand and massage my aching temple. Seagulls are wheeling in the bright blue sky, but they fade away as I picture the first time I met Hallie, when Simon brought her into my office to introduce her. She was wearing a white shirt and dark-gray trousers, so she looked smart and professional. She’d clipped up her brown hair in a twist, leaving two thick curling strands to frame her face. Her makeup was simple and subtle. She immediately rang my bell. I loved her huge dark eyes that were so expressive. The way her mouth naturally curved upward with a shy smile.

My heart leapt as I rose to shake hands with her, but even as the thought entered my head that she was an employee, she mentioned how she’d visited the museum with her boyfriend a few weeks ago and was super excited to work here, and I knew then that she was out of bounds for many reasons. And that was okay. I was able to breathe easily, knowing nothing would ever happen. I’ve managed to work a whole year with her without getting into trouble, and I’ve enjoyed meeting her socially and being friends because I know it can’t lead to anything more.

And then, on Friday night, when I discovered she was single and we flirted for the first time, something happened. My subconscious could feel how one of the barriers had disintegrated, and it’s as if it’s allowing me glimpses into an alternate reality, one in which dating her is a possibility.

Of course we still work together, so the major barrier is still present, looming like the icy wall in Game of Thrones. But the problem is that my willpower isn’t great. I don’t buy chocolate or cookies or chips because I can’t have one—I’ll eat the wholepacket. I have to force myself to go to the gym three times a week, because I’d much rather lie on the sofa and watch reruns ofMad MenorHouse.

I knew that having a fling with Ginger was wrong. She was married, and she had children, and I’m not proud of the fact that I caved because I was flattered by her advances. Even though I was relieved that she left, I hate that she ended up divorced and in a battle for custody of her kids. It’s not my fault—she knew perfectly well what she was getting into. She was the one who pushed for an affair, and who practically threw herself at me. But I’m kidding myself if I say it was impossible to say no. Of course it was. I could have told her firmly that although I liked her, it would be unprofessional for us to have a relationship, and walked away. But I’ve spent a good part of the past five years talking people into giving the museum money, and it was nice for once to have someone else being the one to talk me into something.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda. I’m such an idiot, because now I’ve ruined any chance I had of being with Hallie.

I think about the time I spent with her yesterday, having breakfast. The look in her eyes when I finally admitted that my stutter was due to the fact that I like her. Her expression had been one of utter incomprehension. I still don’t think she believes me. Her ex really did a number on her. Again, I feel a bubbling anger at what he said to her. In my somewhat limited experience, although some women are more enthusiastic than others, it’s rare for a woman to be bad in bed. I believe it is, however, very common for a man. I’m old fashioned enough to think it’s the guy’s responsibility to arouse a woman to the point that she’s ready for penetration, to make her come at least once, and to generally guide the action. If he’s been her only partner, I can only think that it’s his fault if her technique is lacking.

For a moment, I fantasize about being the one to introduce her to the delights of lovemaking. I’d undress her slowly, kissing each part of her as it was revealed. Maybe take a bath or shower with her, wash her hair, and let my soapy hands trail across her slippery skin. Take her into the bedroom still slightly damp, and arouse her with my mouth and hands until her breaths were coming in ragged gasps and she was begging me to take her. Then slide inside her and tease her to a climax, until she clamped around me and cried out my name.

And… now I have a hard on, and no way to get rid of it.

Huffing a grumpy sigh, I ignore it, open my laptop, and look at my emails. There’s one from Louise explaining that she’s reserved a charter flight for me and Hallie for Tuesday at two p.m. to Tauranga airport, and rooms in a five-star hotel on the waterfront for two nights, with a flight back on Thursday. It’s all on my private credit card and she’s sworn to secrecy. I don’t want anyone else to know I’m spoiling Hallie.

I need to tell her what time to get to the airport. I debate whether to just forward the email to her. I have to avoid her as much as I can.

And now I’m being ridiculous. She’s my friend. And my colleague. I can’t spend the rest of my working life hiding in my office.

Ignoring the angel on my shoulder who’s scolding me for being weak, I get up, walk out of the office, and tell Louise I’m going downstairs.

“You need anything?” I ask.

“Can you take the post to reception?” she asks, holding out a handful of letters.

“Will do.” After taking the letters, I head to the stairs and jog down them to the bottom floor.

It’s the end of the school holidays, so there are still quite a few families around, the kids trying on some of the uniforms andarmor in the dressing up area, or playing with the interactive displays. Pleased to see them enjoying themselves, I smile as I cross to reception and wait for Cait to finish serving a customer who wants to buy a guidebook.

“Hey you,” she says, accepting the post from me. “Thanks. Are you heading over to the conservation room?”

“Uh… yeah.” I push away a flicker of unease that she’s giving me a suspicious look. I’m being paranoid. I visit the conservation room frequently.

“There’s another letter for Hallie,” she says, passing it to me. “It came this morning.”

I look at it. It has the same handwriting as before, elegant and distinctive. This time, her name is spelled right, without being crossed out.

“I’ll pass it on, thanks.” I leave her to serve the next customer and head across the tiled floor to the conservation room.

I open the door and go inside. Hallie is sitting at the central square table, dressed in her white lab coat. As I cross over to her, I can see she’s sketching a carved woodenwaka huia, which is a Maori ornamental box used to store precious items. She’ll already have taken photographs of it, but archaeologists also sketch items because it helps them to focus on fine details that might be overlooked in photos, and she’s annotating and labelling them as she goes.

She looks up and sees me, sits back, and stretches.

“Feeling stiff?” I ask.

“I’ve been working on this for an hour,” she says. “I forget the time, and I’m getting old. I’m not as flexible as I used to be.”

“Old,” I scoff, pulling up the stool next to her. “What are you, twenty-six?”

“No, I’m twenty-eight in February. Old lady.”

I snort. “Wait till you hit thirty. Everything goes to pot then.”

She giggles, and I smile. Her little laugh is light and sexy, and I adore it.

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