Page 51 of Under Southern Stars
Madison’s eyes widen. “That’s hardcore.”
“Soccer’s great,” I say, “but women’s rugby players? There’s tough and then there’s TOUGH. My dad always used to tell me, ‘Son, men get into fights to impress women, but women get into fights to WIN.’ Watch a women’s rugby match and you’ll know it’s true.”
Madison laughs. “Your sister sounds badass.”
“All my sisters are. You’d fit right in.”
Madison blushes, for a moment, and then reaches out to add the final touch of pepper. “Is this done? It smells amazing.”
“Let’s see.” I taste it, nod. “Perfect. You’re a natural.”
“Jack!” She bounces slightly. “Can you teach me to make that pavlova thing Mom talked about?”
“‘Course. But that’s a whole project. Meringue takes patience.”
“Unlike pasta, which takes temperature control.” She grins, clearly proud of remembering. “I’ll set the table.”
As she bustles off with plates, Sophia appears in the doorway. She’s changed from her scrubs into jeans and a soft sweater, hair down, looking absolutely beautiful.
“You’re good with her,” she says softly.
“She’s a great kid.” I pull her closer. “Smart like her mum.”
“She really likes you.” There’s something vulnerable in her voice. “She doesn’t warm up to people quickly.”
“Well, I did bribe her with pasta.”
“Jack.” She’s serious now. “This is…this is a big deal. Having you here. Cooking for us. Being…”
“Part of your life?”
She nods, not trusting her voice.
“Soph.” I cup her face gently. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
She kisses me, soft and sweet, until—
“Gross! I’m trying to eat here!” Madison calls from the dining room.
Sophia pulls back, laughing. “The joys of parenting.”
“Ready!” Madison announces.
The table looks perfect—she’s even lit candles. We settle in, passing dishes, and for a moment it feels so normal, so right, that my chest tightens.
“So,” Madison says, twirling her fork expertly, “when do we leave for New Zealand?”
“Two and a half weeks,” Sophia answers. “The Saturday you get off school.”
“And we’re really flying all the way there? Like, over the ocean?”
“All the way,” I confirm. “Sixteen hours to Auckland, then another couple to Queenstown.”
“I’ve never been on a plane that long.” Her excitement is infectious. “Do they really have beds in first class?”
“Some planes do indeed,” I say carefully. “Still an adventure no matter what, though—movies, meals, maybe spot some islands out the window.”
“Cool! Will we all sit together?”
