Page 46 of Kiwi Gold
He said, “I’m abandoning the rule of a lifetime and asking. Would your husband—Kegan. Would he have laughed at you? Or been narky about it, maybe? Is that why you’re being so odd about this? Never tell me your dad wouldn’t have carried you. I saw him back there. For that matter, I’ve known him for years. He’s a ruthless bastard, but he’d have carried you.”
Did I want to discuss this? I did not. Either thing. “Of course Kegan would’ve been narky. He didn’t believe in women dressing impractically. ‘Like Chinese foot-binding,’ he said about heels. ‘Why would anybody do it? Why would a man think a woman tottering along is sexy?’ He also didn’t think much of makeup or nail varnish, though he tolerated me wearing it, or in a woman not carrying her weight, like she’s some sort of delicate flower.”
He snorted. “From what I’ve seen, he believed in women carryingmorethan their weight.”
I wasn’t going to answer that. That conversation would come out with the kind of bitterness that every women’s mag will tell you is fatal. How much worse if the man was dead? Also, he was my daughters’ father, and they didn’t need to hear anything else bad about him. Yeh, I wasn’t going there.
I said, “Do other women let you do things like that, then? Odd. Unless they knew they were going to sleep with you, of course. Could be a signal, maybe.”
I was standing on one foot by now, still holding onto his arm, trying not to notice how much my foot was throbbing, and he was laughing. “No,” he said. “What, she’s falling off her shoes and I’m picking her up as foreplay? Could be efficient, I guess, on your part. Weed out the ones who can’t carry you, if you want to tick the ‘strength’ box on your list. Of course, you’re not very heavy, so …”
I tried taking another step. No. Walking on the heels probably wasn’t happening. He sighed again and said, “It’s two hundred meters. Barely. And you already know I can carry you. Whilerunning.I didn’t grab you last time, did I?”
“Well, yeh,” I said. “You did. Up against the wall?”
“Oh.” He was grinning again. “I was hoping that maidenly modesty would gloss over that inconvenient detail. I put you down again, though.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Theyaregoing to give away our booking if we don’t get there, and then youwillhave to eat a kebab for dinner. Fine, then. Carry me.”
* * *
Lachlan
I did. I enjoyed it, too.
That wasn’t any kind of surprise. Shewaspretty light, and her hand was around my neck, her breast against my chest, her hip under my hand, and her scent in my head. Other pedestrians may have looked at us a bit oddly, and I didn’t care. I’d have carried her heaps farther. As foreplay, it worked for me.
Sitting at a little table in the red-brick, low-light, and copper-bar coziness that was Moiety, eventually, was almost anticlimactic, and then it wasn’t. Watching her touch her hand to her hair, checking that it was still under control. Seeing the color in her cheeks from the physical contact, and finally, having her look me in the eye again with what I could tell was an effort and say, “Thank you for that. You’re very strong, aren’t you?”
“Strong enough for this.” I didn’t trust myself to say more than that.
She took a breath, and I looked at her winged collarbones, her pointed chin, her transparent dress, and waited for what would come next. Which was, “I know about my dad and Peter Hughes. At least I know my dad’s side of it. I’d like to hear the side you know about.”
I said, “Another dating rule. Order the drinks before you start talking about the hard stuff.”Or don’t talk about it,I thought.Let’s forget our families and talk about how pretty you are instead, and in exactly what other ways Kegan Ashford didn’t believe in taking care of a woman.I was getting a feeling about that, too. Call it a strong suspicion.
“Oh.” She looked at the menu, and I could feel her hesitation.
“You don’t drink,” I said. “No worries. We’ll get you something fizzy instead. About those dating rules—here’s one. Do what you like. Sends the right message, eh. Seems you didn’t get that rule first time around, so I’m telling you now.”
“I’m trying to decide,” she said, “if there’s something Iwouldlike. Something alcoholic. It’s hard to know, but I’m trying to be more …” She looked up at me and seemed to find her resolve. “More adventurous.”
“Right,” I managed to say.
“You’re meant to be honest here,” she said. “Lessons.” She was trying to be cool, I could tell. “What was wrong with saying that?”
Oh, bloodyhell.The waiter looked like he was headed our way soon, too. I decided on honesty. Risky, but I wasn’t much chop as a liar. “Sadly, when you say ‘adventurous,’ a man’s mind goes straight to sex.”
“Oh,” she said, then went on, as if determined not to be embarrassed, “Well, you can ease your mind there, because I’m not. I’m sure I mentioned the whole …” She waved a hand again. “Premarital thing. Duly noted for the next fella, though, when I do this for real. Cheers.”
I wanted to say something about taking care with that “next fella,” but decided it was better to say, “Also, you don’t have to have a drink to be adventurous. If you want one, though …” I looked at the list. “You could do a white wine. Light, eh. Easier to love. Or did you like the bubbles, with the champagne?”
She made a face. “The bubbles, yeh. But it tasted so … it didn’t taste like anything, honestly.”
“Ah,” I said. “Because it was Brut. Dry.”
“Yes!” she said. “Exactly. It was sodry.I thought—how can something wet taste so dry?”
“Maybe the Black Chook sparkling shiraz, then. If you want to try again with the bubbles. It’ll have some flavor, and some sweetness.”
