Page 37 of Daddy Down Under

I’d been worriedI’d ruined the mood with our serious conversation, but Ocean seemed to be able to shake it off as we left the café and continued exploring. He impressed me with his maturity.

“What’s our next stop?” I asked as we walked up Queen Street. Ocean had reached for my hand again, and I didn’t mind at all.

“Queen Victoria Market. It’s become a little too touristy, but it’s still one of my favorite spots.”

The energy shifted as we approached the market, the laneways giving way to a bustling cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells.

Ocean grinned. “Welcome to foodie heaven.”

He wasn’t kidding. Long rows held small shops and booths where everything from artisan cheeses to fresh fish, meat, and spices were sold.

We stopped at a shop that specialized in tea. “Oliver is a tea snob,” I told Ocean. “I need to get him some, or he’ll never forgive me.”

My amazement grew as I checked out all the unfamiliar flavors. What on earth was myrtle? I had no clue, but the woman from the shop was waxing poetic about it, so I bought a small tin of a blend called Waltzing Myrtle for Oliver, which has three kinds of myrtle plus other flavors, as well as jilungin tea, which was a native plant that was experimental enough that Oliver would love it.

We bought some hot jam donuts, which were advertised as American, though I’d certainly never had hot ones before. Ocean assured me it would be a crime not to eat those, and he wasn’t wrong. They tasted delicious. Once we’d cleaned our faces, we admired all the different fish and shellfish species and tried some dried sausage. Not my thing, but not bad.

I once again followed Ocean’s lead, hyperaware of how easily he took charge. It was exhilarating. My usual need for control was quiet. Instead, a heady mix of relief and joy washed over me. I was used to being the one calling the shots, but here, with Ocean, I found an unexpected pleasure in letting go.

“Look at these beauties,” he said, stopping at a produce stall. His tanned hand caressed a pile of deep purple figs, the gesture almost sensual. “Wanna try?”

Before I could answer, he’d already purchased two, handing one to me. Our fingers brushed, sending a jolt through my system.

“Go on,” he encouraged, bringing his fig to his lips.

I bit into the fruit, its sweetness exploding on my tongue. A trickle of juice escaped the corner of my mouth, and before I could react, Ocean’s thumb was there, wiping it away. The casual intimacy of the gesture left me breathless.

“Good, right?” he asked, his voice low.

“Delicious.” I wasn’t talking about the fig.

We moved from stall to stall, Ocean confidently selecting an array of local delicacies. I watched, fascinated, as he bantered with vendors and navigated the market’s maze-like layout with practiced ease.

We ended up grabbing some late lunch from a place that made the most delicious sandwiches I’d ever eaten. I devoured my fresh mozzarella with arugula, cherry tomatoes, and a balsamic syrup to the last crumb. Despite the fact that I’d told Ocean I wasn’t very hungry after sampling the varied foods. Guess I was wrong.

“How about we walk off all this food?” Ocean suggested after we were done with lunch. “We can head to the National Gallery and check out the exhibits.”

“Works for me.”

We meandered back down Queen Street and across the river toward the National Gallery, the bustling market fading behind us. The afternoon sun was hot on my skin as we walked, and I kept stealing glances at Ocean. His profile was sharp against the azure sky, and god, he was so pretty. How could someone so young exude such confidence? Then again, his father had been the same—though in a different way.

Oh, Preston had been charming, but it had always been a cold charm, a calculated one. Ocean radiated nothing but warmth. It made me happy to be in his presence.

We spent some lovely hours walking around the National Gallery. I was especially fascinated by their Bark Salon, where they displayed bark paintings. I’d never seen anything like it.

The Yarra River was close by, and we strolled along the riverbank, first on one side of the river and, after crossing it, back up the other side through a gorgeous park. Our conversation flowed as naturally as the river beside us. Ocean shared stories of epic waves and quiet sunrises, of the peace he found in the vastness of the ocean. I was captivated by the world he painted with his words. It made me want to try surfing, which came as a shock.

In return, I told him about my parents and how close we were, about my father sitting guard in his garden with a gun to shoot the dang rabbits—his words—and my mom embracing the country life and taking up canning, baking, and even quilting. He asked me about my work and what I loved about it, and I opened up more than I ever had to anyone.

We paused at a scenic spot along the riverbank. The city’s reflection shimmered on the surface, a mirror image of steel and glass dancing with each gentle ripple. It was breathtaking, like a painting come to life.

“This view never gets old,” Ocean said, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of my hand.

I swallowed hard, struggling to focus on the scenery and not the warmth of his skin against mine. “It’s beautiful.”

Ocean turned to face me, his eyes intense. “So are you, Cash.”

My heart hammered. I was used to compliments, to people trying to flatter me for my wealth or influence. But the raw honesty in Ocean’s voice struck a chord deep within me. “I… Thank you,” I stammered, feeling a blush creep up my neck.

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