Page 72 of A Country Practice Christmas
‘Amelie …’ He pushes back my hair. ‘Sweetheart.’
I like how he makes Christmas ornaments and gives them away. I like how his expression softens when he talks about his farm and his stock. He’ll wash our blue shirts together. He must have the same soap in the mudroom as he has in the bathroom in the shed because we both smell of lemons and—
‘Cam! Where are you? Amelie?’
Cameron buries his face in my neck. ‘Fuck.’
I stroke his hair for the count of one, two, three. And then he straightens. His mouth is damp. I touch it.
‘Cam!’ Anna’s voice.
A string of curses as Cameron stands back, puts a hand either side of my waist and lifts me off the bench and onto the ground. ‘Sorry.’ He takes my hand, lifts it and kisses a knuckle.
He’s sorry we were interrupted. What am I sorry for? Not the kiss, I couldn’t be sorry about that, but now I’m not crazy with craving there are other things to think about. Saying goodbye. Leaving him behind. My heart hurts with thinking about it and so does my head.
‘I have to go.’
His eyes narrow a little. Concern. Suspicion. He relinquishes my hand for only a moment before taking it again and threading our fingers. ‘Anna is here to look at paint colours. She won’t stay long.’
Paint colours for his beautiful house. His beautiful house in Summerfield on the land where he works with his cattle. There was a reason I’d never ventured down the driveway. I don’t belong here. I never could.
I pull my hand free. ‘I can hose off my clothes before taking them to the laundromat.’
He thinks long and hard about what I’ve said. Then, ‘Amelie—’
‘I’d prefer it that way.’
‘I said I’d wash them.’ His mouth firms. ‘I will.’
‘Okay, then. Thanks. No hurry.’ The words tumble out. ‘Whenever.’
He lifts his hand before dropping it to his side. ‘When do I see you again?’
‘What just happened wasn’t, didn’t …’ I shake my head. ‘Let’s just forget it.’
‘How the fuck …’ He lowers his voice. ‘How does that add up?’
‘I don’t want complications.’
‘You said you’d had an on-and-off relationship and it wasn’t serious.’ His jaw is tight. ‘I want on, Amelie. I want serious.’
Anna calls out again, closer now. As Cameron fumbles over doing up the buttons of his shirt, I skirt around him.
‘Amelie! Don’t you dare.’
Cameron catches up by the time I reach the door but Keith Urban, tail wagging wildly, has found me too. Leaving Anna and Tara behind, he scoots across the gravel and I crouch down.
‘Hello, boy.’ My eyes sting, my throat aches.
‘What have you two been up to?’ Anna releases Tara’s hand and the toddler runs to Cameron and clings to his leg.
When Cameron says nothing, I’m forced to speak. ‘We’ve been vaccinating, castrating, things like that.’ I stand and shove my hand in my back pockets. One is empty. The other …
A dove, a dairy cow, a rosella.
Chapter 13
I wake at six on Friday morning to a text:CJ and I are going to the cricket in Sydney—won’t be back till late. Your clothes are on the line. Collect them today, or I’ll get them to you tomorrow and we’ll talk. Up to you. C
