Page 54 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

Thoughtfully, I ask another question, “Can you give me a short definition of being in love with someone?”

“Of course,” it replies. “Being in love with someone can be described as a deep, passionate connection that combinesemotional intimacy, romantic desire, and a longing to share your life with that person. It often involves intense feelings of affection, admiration, and attachment, alongside a sense of excitement and joy in their presence.”

I read it twice, then lie back again and think about it. A deep, passionate connection. Do we have that? I don’t know. We don’t really have emotional intimacy, because despite me blabbing to him today, we haven’t really opened up to one another about our hopes and dreams or emotions. I’m not even sure we have ‘romantic desire’. I think I do. Does he? My heart races a little when I think about him. I definitely feel affection for him, and admiration. I feel excited when I see him, and I’m happy when he’s around. Does that mean I’m in love with him?

How about ‘a longing to share your life with that person’? This thing between us is so new, I haven’t thought about what it could mean for the future. Would I be interested in a relationship with him? In dating him, getting to know him better, having emotional as well as physical intimacy? Being his girlfriend, telling everyone we were dating? Holding his hand while we were out and about, and sharing a bed with him when we returned home? Being his confidante, sharing his dreams?

Maybe marrying him… and having his children…

I pull the cushion down and hug it. OMG. Yes, I’d be interested. BIG time. Oh my. I think I’m in love with him.

I inhale as my heart swells… and then exhale as the cold, harsh light of reality banishes the misty dream. It doesn’t matter. He’s made it clear that despite our lapse last night, it’s never going to happen.

Tears sting my eyes. God, I’ve been so foolish. I’ve fallen for and now slept with the one guy who’s out of my reach. My chest heaves as I fight against crying again. I only have myself to blame. It’s not as if he seduced me with the promise of a relationship. Last night, I knew nothing would come of it, and Idid it anyway. It doesn’t matter that I’d had a few drinks, or that he kissed me first. It was my own fault.

I sit up again, wipe my eyes, and lift my chin. My father… Ian… and now Fraser… I’m not going to wallow in self-pity over a man anymore. These men only have control over me if I give it to them. And I’m not going to.

I have a few hours now before it’ll be time to leave for the ball. I’m in a beautiful room and it’s a gorgeous day, so I’m going to make the most of it.

I lie on the bed for a while and read, and then at one o’clock, still relatively full from breakfast, I order a grilled lemon-herb chicken salad, which turns out to be tender grilled chicken breast served on a bed of mixed greens, with cherry tomatoes, cucumber ribbons, and avocado slices, and drizzled with a light lemon vinaigrette. I’m tempted to have a glass of wine with it, then think about what happened last night and decide it might be better to keep my wits about me, so instead I order a citrus breeze mocktail with orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juice topped with honey syrup and soda water, which is delicious. I take it all out onto the balcony and eat it looking over the Pacific, while I continue to read my book.

Afterward, I leave the empty plate on the tray outside my room, then fill the spa bath and turn on the jets. I add a spoonful of the supplied bath crystals, which fills the air with the scent of jasmine, then sink into the bubbles and soak for thirty minutes while I listen to an audiobook about Australian archaeology. It’s a little dry, so I have to concentrate extra hard, which is a good thing, as it stops me fantasizing about Fraser, and how amazing last night was. How it felt when he kissed down my body, then slid his tongue inside me… how he brought me to a climax so skillfully, again and again…

Ooh no! I slip beneath the bubbles guiltily. I mustn’t dwell on it. But it’s impossible not to.

In an attempt to force my mind to move on, I think about the letter I left at home, and the upcoming conversation I must have with my mother. Part of me wishes I could confide in Fraser and talk it over with him, but that’s never going to happen. Despite his assurance that he’s no longer religious, his father is a deacon, and he’s been programmed since he was a child with a strict moral code. Once he knows the truth about me, he’s never going to be able to get the toothpaste back in the tube. It doesn’t matter that none of the fault is mine. At the moment, Fraser sees me as if I’m made from bright, shining copper, but my father’s acts are like seawater that’s coated me in the bluish-green crust of verdigris, tarnishing me until it’s impossible to see the original color beneath.

Somewhat gloomily, I get out of the bath, dry myself, and blow dry my hair. Then I go into the other room, take out the item hanging in the wardrobe, and hook it on the front of the door. I unzip the plastic cover and remove it, then step back and study it.

I nibble my thumbnail. I have no idea whether the dress is suitable for the occasion. The woman in the shop assured me it was perfect for a formal black-tie event in the summer. It’s floor length, chiffon, and champagne colored. It has a sweetheart neckline with two straps that cross over the open back that glimmer with beads and sequins. The skirt falls in soft folds from the waist down. It’s absolutely beautiful, and thank God it was on sale so it was within the modest budget that Whina gave me. I then treated myself to a pair of strappy silver sandals and a small clutch to match.

Oh well. Not long now to see whether I’ll be vastly over- or underdressed.

I feel a swell of rebellion. I love the dress, and it makes me feel like a million dollars. I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks of it.

It’d be nice if Fraser liked it, though.

Sighing, I go back into the bathroom and start playing with my hair.

*

By 2:45, I’m ready and waiting when Fraser knocks on the door.

Nervously, I collect my clutch and cross the room, hoping he doesn’t either laugh or wince when he sees me. I open the door, and the two of us stare at each other across the threshold.

I’d completely forgotten that he’d be wearing a tux.

He looks like James Bond. His black jacket has black satin notch lapels, and it fits him like a dream. His shirt is white and pleated, and he’s wearing a black bow tie. He’s also wearing a waistcoat. My gaze slides down his black trousers to black patent leather shoes polished to within an inch of their life.

“Oh my God,” he says. “Hallie. Look at you.” He holds out a hand, his jacket sleeve drawing back to reveal a cufflink on his shirt in the shape of a trowel.

I lift a hand self-consciously to touch my hair as I see him staring at it. I spent a long time on it, pinning it in a chic updo, then tonging tendrils so they hang in cute curls around my head. I also took my time over my makeup. I’ve used black kohl to draw winged eyeliner, and applied a sparkly champagne-colored eyeshadow with a darker copper at the outer edges. I’ve used false eyelashes on the top lid that are interspersed with tiny rhinestones that give my eyes added sparkle. A shimmer lipstick that’s apparently ‘beige with a champagne frost’ completes the look.

Not too shabby, I thought when I had a final look in the mirror.

I slide my hand into his. “Do I look okay?”

“Okay? You look like a Greek goddess.” His voice is filled with awe.

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