Page 9 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

“We’d had a couple of glasses of wine,” I remind her gently, “and you’d just broken up with your boyfriend. You were sad, and I was trying to cheer you up. I think you can be excused the mild flirtation that arose as a result.”

“You really weren’t angry?” She looks very unsure, as if she couldn’t possibly comprehend why a guy might have been interested in her.

I give her a puzzled smile. “Of course not. I’d have stopped you at the time if I didn’t like the direction of the conversation.” I realize it makes it sound as if I enjoyed flirting with her. I have to remember that she works for me, and I must keep my distance. I shouldn’t be taking her out.

But it’s just breakfast, and I am hungry, and she needs cheering up. “Come on,” I say, “let’s go and have an Eggs Bene or something. I’m hungry enough to eat a dolphin on toast.”

Chapter Three

Hallie

We walk out of the museum, into the bright January sunlight. The warm breeze whips my hair around my cheeks as we walk along the Commonwealth Walkway, the choppy waters of the harbor on our left.

Fraser’s quiet, and so I don’t say anything for a while. We walk in companionable silence, not touching, although close enough that occasionally his arm brushes against mine.

Although we’ve mixed a lot socially, we haven’t spent much time alone, just the two of us. I know he’s a Capricorn, and that he fits the profile of being determined, ambitious, and hardworking, as well as loyal, honest, and responsible. Whatever else I know about him I’ve mainly gleaned from Elora and Joel as they’ve talked about their childhood together. He took his responsibilities as the eldest sibling seriously, and could sometimes be over-zealous about it, which they still mock him for. I’ve watched him with Elora, though, who was assaulted when she was eighteen, and I love the way he’s so protective and caring of her.

On the surface, he seems strait-laced and reserved. Joel once teased him about being on the spectrum, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true. But Elora has told me stories about how she walked into the living room and found him making out with his first girlfriend, and he was in a slight panic because he’d undone her bra and got the hook caught on his sweater; how he’d gotten drunk on his eighteenth birthday, fallen into a rose bush, and emerged covered in scratches all over his face; and about the time he’d taken off his glasses in a nightclub to impress a girl and then asked out her friend by mistake because they were both blonde.

I also know he’s a scratch golfer, a superb fast bowler in cricket, and that he won trophies at school for the fifteen hundred meters. He graduated top of his cohort at Otago University, and he’s close to getting his doctorate. Dr. Bell, I’ll be able to call him. I like that.

So it seems as if I know lots about him… but right now, I can’t think what to talk to him about. I don’t know his musical or movie tastes, where he’s traveled, or his political or religious views. I’ve not seen him date anyone, and I don’t know how he feels about kids, family, or his plans for the future. And I’m his employee, so I’m not sure it’s right to ask.

“Are we going to Redwoods?” I ask, naming a café that most of us frequent close by.

“Nah,” he says. “Silver Gulls is nicer.”

My eyebrows rise. It is nicer—and much more expensive. “Um… I’m not really dressed for that,” I say.

“It’s my treat,” he replies, telling me in a nice way that he’s realized I’m nervous about the cost. “And anyway, you look gorgeous.”

My heart skips a beat. Gorgeous?

Abruptly, he stops walking. I take a couple more steps, realize he’s stopped, and turn to look at him.

“I d-didn’t mean to imp-p-ply…” His voice trails off, and he closes his eyes.

His hair is a little longer on top and contains a few curls that the breeze tugs at playfully. He’s clean shaven; I’ve never seen him with a beard. His dark-rimmed, rectangular glasses suit him and add to his professorial image, although I like it when he takes them off and I can see his bright-blue eyes properly.

I’ve never heard him stutter before. So why has he started now? Is it something to do with me? Surely not.

He opens his eyes and surveys me.

“You want to sit down?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “No. Come on.” He continues walking, and I run to catch up.

I can smell his cologne, and I realize it must be on my top, from where he held me in the conservation room. Surreptitiously, I pull the front up and sniff it. That moment was a highlight of my day that I’ll replay in my head over and over again—the feel of his arms around me, the way he rubbed my back, and how he rested his lips on the top of my head, almost as if he kissed my hair.

But it also makes me think about the letter, and that sours my mood. I tear my thoughts away from it. I’m not going to think about it now.

Fraser turns to cross the road, and I follow him across Jervois Quay toward Silver Gulls. It is just a café, but it’s a really nice one, busy on a Sunday morning, with Wellingtonians out for summer breakfast.

A couple vacates a table near the window as we enter, and so the waiter takes us straight over to it. We wait for him to clear the plates and cups and wipe the surface down, and then we sit opposite each other, glad of the blinds that cut out some of the sun’s glare.

“We were lucky to get a table,” I comment to Fraser as the waiter brings us both a menu.

“Popular place.” Fraser scans the menu, not making eye contact with me.

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