Page 28 of The Question of Us
Nick scowled at the camera, which only added to that whole bad boy thing he had going on and made me want to climb him like a tree.
Nick reluctantly agreed and the call ended.
I was first to break the silence. “So, that went well.”
“Overbearing sonofabitch,” Nick grumbled.
Gazza and I shared a look and broke into laughter.
“What?” Nick looked genuinely confused.
“Pot, kettle.” I called him on his bullshit and the scowl returned. “Come on.” I took his hand and pulled him up off the bed. “I’ll buy you a beer. We should check out the local watering hole before we scout the stud farm tomorrow. Ask a fewdiscreetquestions and see what we can find out. There’s a well-reviewed craft brewery with an outside deck down by the river, and I’m parched. It has to be thirty-five degrees out there.”
“Excellent idea.” Gazza stood and reached for his wallet.
“Nope.You’renot going anywhere.” Nick handed Gazza the television remote. “Can’t have people seeing you with us, just in case. Make yourself comfortable and we’ll bring back some food.”
“That better include beer,” Gazza griped as he stretched out on the bed. “And don’t take too long.”
Kettleworth was smackbang in the middle of the Victorian high country. From there, it was a short drive to the ski fields in winter, plenty of cycling trails and hiking opportunities in summer, a burgeoning wine and food industry, and some spectacular scenery, all within a few hours’ drive north of Melbourne.
The region had been part of the 1850s Victorian gold rush and showcased some stunning architecture of the era. A few of the original wooden structures remained, but after the gold rush, many of the administrative buildings had been rebuilt using local honey-coloured granite. There were charming old courthouses, hotels with coach houses and stables, prisons,banks, and some well-preserved main streets reminiscent of western movie sets.
Nick and I strolled to the brewery via the main street, sticking as much as possible to the blessed shade provided by the towering beech trees, their leaves just beginning to yellow and crisp at the edges from lack of water. The small town catered to every taste. Cutesy bed and breakfasts sat alongside campgrounds, upmarket restaurants next to classic Aussie pubs. It was easy to imagine the place bursting at the seams during various holiday seasons. The entire region was a visitor magnet, but in late summer/early autumn it was just plain hot, leaving the countryside parched and gasping for rain, the green of the irrigated town plantings the only relief in a palette of brown and grey.
One plus—it wasn’t humid.
Another—Nick’s hand wrapped around mine as we walked.
Nick had, unbeknownst to me, booked our room as a married couple. Imagine my surprise when the woman behind the front desk referred to me as Nick’s husband. I was about to correct her when a rosy-cheeked Nick elbowed me in the ribs to shut me up.
It made perfect sense, of course, and allowed us a variety of ways to act in each other’s company, but it did feel slightly uncomfortable, mostly because of how fucking much I actually liked the idea. Nick hadn’t raised the subject once we left the office, and neither had I. But him holding my hand as natural as pie as we walked down the street put a smile on my face that I couldn’t hide.
Unable to resist, I squeezed his hand and said, “Don’t you think this will attract unnecessary attention?”
He grinned without looking at me. “Probably, but I like it. You?”
A warm flush rolled through me. “Yeah. Me too.”
The brewery was a much larger affair than I’d expected for a small town. It boasted a spacious indoor bar, a vine-covered conservatory facing the main street, an outside lawn area with picnic tables and a small stage, and a huge deck out back overlooking the river. At six on a Tuesday evening, it was also surprisingly busy with tourists escaping the oppressive heat. The fact Nick didn’t whine even once about the perils of air conditioning when we walked inside said a lot.
We grabbed a couple of stools at the bar and studied the blackboard on the wall behind. Then we placed an order for a couple of tap beers and began chatting with the twenty-something barman whose eyes lit up appreciatively at the sight of Nick in all his edgy silver-fox glory. The look ignited an unfamiliar possessiveness in my belly that I was totally unprepared for.
There was no denying the barman was cute, with his shaggy blond surfer dude vibe that included a cresting wave tattooed on his bicep. He wore a shell necklace and multicoloured board shorts—the outfit decidedly out of place in a mountain town—but he was friendly enough. He might even have been local, judging by the number and variety of people he greeted by first name as they walked through the door.
“Pretty busy for late afternoon on a Tuesday,” I started things off.
“Yep, sure is.” Surfer boy’s blond waves bobbed on his shoulders as his attention flicked between the rapidly filling glass and Nick, even though I’d been the one to make the comment. “Yep. Crazy-hot weather always brings in the tourists.” He slid the icy schooner of pale ale toward me before sending Nick a beaming smile that made my blood fizz. “You wanted a hazy, right?”
Nick nodded and surfer boy began to pull another beer. I landed a kick on Nick’s ankle, and he shot me a smug grin inreturn while pointing to his new haircut. I rolled my eyes and flipped him off.
Meanwhile, surfer dude was still prattling about the weather. “We haven’t had a break from the thirties since Christmas,” he said. “I mean, it’s always hot here over summer, but we usually get a dip now and then to catch our breath.”
I was about to reply when the brewery doors opened again and a hot and bothered couple in their forties walked in, accompanied by a kid about ten years of age.
Surfer dude raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, Rosa. Tim. Grab a seat in the garden and I’ll send your order out. IPA, Pinot Gris, one meat lovers’ pizza, and a cheeseburger and onion rings, right?”
The couple nodded. “You’re a miracle, Todd, but make those beers pints not schooners today.”
