Page 2 of Secrets in Love
“Right…okay. See, the thing is, Evie. I was wondering if you would like to go on a date…with me. Just a date, not sexual harassment, o-or any sex of any kind at all, really…unless you…you know.” Sweat began to drip from his forehead as his eyes drifted to my boobs, lingered, then rose back to my eyes in time with a cute flush to his cheeks. “Sorry. Oh…I mean, no pressure. There could be sex if you wanted, but I just mean dinner and…fuck. I’m so sorry.” He wiped his brow, then slid his hands down, concealing his eyes and flushed cheeks. “If you can’t tell, I’m…kind of goofy for you, Evie.”
Wait…what?
“You…” I waved my hands around his impressive frame, Vanna White style. “Okay, is this a joke? Are you filming this for TikTok? God, you didn’t fall and hit your head doing a jetée, did you?”
Christian chuckled and peeked through his spread fingers. Seeming to relax, he then dropped his hands altogether and sighed.
“No, I didn’t hit my head. We’re not being filmed—at least I hope not—and yes, I am sure.” Perhaps conscious of our locale, he stooped and leaned into my ear, whispering, “I find you incredibly attractive, Evie. I have since the first time you brought Iris in. I wanted to ask you out then, but I felt like it was inappropriate. Seeing you dance, though… Watching your body move and come alive…” Dangerous eyes raked over my body. “Inappropriate or not, I just had to ask. You and your petit ballonné are totally worth the risk.”
“Wha…”
That was it. That was my response.
I fancied myself a writer. Had penned umpteen unpublished novels, and the best I could summon was, “Wha…” Luckily, Iris’s timely arrival prevented mydeathbyhumiliatingblankstaring. “Um, I have to go, Christian. My brother is waiting in the car.” I grabbed the poor kid by the shoulders and pushed her out the door. “I will get back to you about that…thing. It sounds like it could be fun—if you don’t change your mind first, that is.”
Christian flashed his polished stage smile and winked. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Evie. I won’t be changing my mind. Thatthingis yours. Whenever you’re ready, just say, ”Oui.”
Back on the road, Iris faithfully detailed every child’s step in her class, and I allowed my mind to wander.
Could it be true? Could I, Evie Austen, have a hot man—no, not man, men, as in plural….as in more than one….as in two—interested in me?
For someone like my style icon and favorite New Yorker, Carrie Bradshaw, this would be just another sexy day in the city. But for me, a stumpy farm girl from Australia, it seemed a greater work of fiction than Miss Bradshaw herself.
Via the passenger side mirror, I watched the dance studio, and my chance to delve into Christian’s motives, fade into the distance. But I still had my brother. And when it came to Nate, Finn was a veritable treasure trove of info.
Dare I dig a little deeper?
“He emails me a few times a week, you know.” It was more often than that, but I was dipping my toe into the murky waters to test the temperature. “Texts me sometimes too. He always says it’s to check in on his number-one girl, Iris, but do you think he…? No. No, that’s silly.”
“Evie,” sighed Finn, “I’ve told you before. I don’t know what you are talking about when you start mid-sentence. Who emails you?”
“Nate,” I whispered.
“What? Nate? Nate emails you a few times a week? I’m lucky if I’ve gotten one message this month, and you’ve been getting weekly emailsandtexts for how long?”
“Since we left Byron. And hehasmessaged you. You just bloody ghost everyone all the time.”
Sounding remarkably like a dog with a bone stuck in its throat, Finn scoffed and whined, “Jesus, Evie. He’s still into you. Fuck. That’s rich. That bastard gave me so much shit for chasing Shelby, and he’s been doing the same thing behind my back this whole time.”
As usual, we fell headfirst into an argument, which came to a screeching halt when Finn proclaimed he was putting his foot down. Nate and I had to stop talking. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. I then made my own proclamation: Finn was an asshole who had no right to do anything of the sort. And Iris laughed at us both and learned several choice new words.
Happy days.
It was the perfect evening for a barbeque and a beer. The clouds had cleared. A pink and tangerine sunset illuminated the sky, and a light, cooling breeze carrying that ever-present hint of NYC garbage swept through my room, taking the edge off the sticky heat. But I was locked away. Trapped in my thoughts. A pathetic, sweaty mess.
Over the last nine-ish years, I’d lived a concurrently dramatic, sheltered, yet extraordinary life. My parents lost their lives in a tragic car accident. Shelby, Nate’s twin sister, Finn’s girlfriend, and Iris’s mom, passed away in childbirth, and I became a stay-at-home aunt-mom type to my adorable niece. Somehow, I pushed past the grief and found enough space and balance in my new life to complete my arts degree, qualify as a ballet teacher, and do the whole wannabe-writer thing. To complicate things further, my family—my Aunt Jocelyn, Finn, Iris, and I—left Byron Bay, our beautiful hometown on Australia’s east coast, and moved here to the bright lights and filthy air of New York City.
It was a lot. A whole lot. But none of it could’ve prepared me for haplessly wandering into a metaphorical late-summer sausage-fest. One where I was the guest of honor, and the sausages in question belonged to two opposite yet equally delicious men.
Christian, HotBoss, was quite possibly one of the most perfect-looking men in the history of men. Think of a ripped Jared Leto before he looked like Jesus. Crystal-blue eyes. The lean but muscular body of a dancer. Thighs that could crush a watermelon—or preferably, me. Cultured and sophisticated, he was a former lead with the New York City Ballet who was forced into early retirement when he ruptured his medial ligament for the third time. Instead of laying low, as many would, Christian opened Village All-Abilities Dance, VAAD. A studio welcoming adults and children of able or not-so-able bodies. Neurotypical or neurodivergent. It was a brave move, and he was kind of my hero. My hot, physically agile hero.
Then there was Nate. My brother’s best friend. Mykindoffriend. Nate was part of my life like my appendix was. Without knowing why, he was always there, just hovering quietly in the background, doing whatever it was he did, until he got a bit carried away and turned into a massive, completely disruptive pain in your side, talking incessantly and asking you to pull his finger until he was removed.
The problem was that he was also gorgeous. Sandy, sun-bleached hair. A thick, bulking body crafted by years of surfing and farm work. Deep brown eyes that could inspire a million love songs. And most importantly, a complete slut.
Young Nathaniel could sweet-talk his way into anything and proved that by the number of pants he’d gotten into and by being the only male granted membership to the Byron Bay branch of the CWA—the Country Women’s Association. Think old ladies, perms, scones with jam and cream, and knitting. Those old birds took sixteen-year-old Nate under their wings and gave him three and a half thousand years of wise, womanly experience, hints, and tips. Hence his successful sluttery. It was all thanks to those old-time skanks…and his undeniable hotness.
As I conjured images of his long, toned body, it dawned on me just how often my gaze roamed freely over his shirtless form when drifting side by side on our surfboards or studied how the veins in his forearms tensed and flexed when effortlessly carting hay. Ohh, and the power grip his thighs had on his horse when riding bareback.
