“You sure it’s not too far out of your way?”
“They’ve put you up in Kirribilli, right? I’m in Neutral Bay, one suburb over. I can always get you home and then get on a bus.”
Slowly, they walked along the water toward the bridge, past a finger wharf that housed a luxury hotel, and another that looked like fancy condos. The harbor glittered, and Heather stopped to watch two large boats, dark-green on the bottom and pale-yellow on top, pass each other beneath the bridge.
“Commuter ferries,” Marcus said as one boat slid out of view behind the other, then reappeared. “You can drive across the harbor or take a bus or a train, but nothing beats taking a boat to work.”
They made their way around the headland, pausing under the bridge and leaning on the high iron fence at the edge of the sidewalk. In the wide band of the bridge’s shadow, it was chilly, and Heather shivered slightly as she examined the underside of the massive structure. She could hear the rattle and thunk of cars passing overhead.
“That’s Kirribilli,” Marcus said, pointing straight across the water. “And that,” he said turning to the right and pointing unnecessarilyat the iconic white structure hanging off the edge of the next peninsula, “is the Opera House.”
Heather heard a note of unhappiness in his voice, a flatness that wasn’t there before. She glanced at him curiously and saw him gazing over at the building, looking anxious. She wondered.
They resumed their progress around the headland and walked in silence for a few minutes.
“What happened to your ankle?” she asked.
“Total Achilles rupture. I landed a tour wrong.” He paused. “On stage.”
Ah, Heather thought.That explains that. It was a common injury for men. Women tended to get sidelined by repetitive stress injuries in their toes and feet, because they spent so much time on pointe. But men were far more likely to blow out their ankles or knees from jumping, and their shoulders from lifting their partners.
She’d never been injured on stage before, but she’d seen it happen, and it had been simply awful. It was one thing to get hurt in rehearsal, surrounded by friends and colleagues. It was another to do it in front of an audience. Enough to traumatize you, even if the injury itself healed.
Plus, she thought, studying his profile as they walked, he wasn’t young. Early thirties, maybe? An injury like that could have ended his career, and even if it didn’t, he probably didn’t have that many dancing years left. It was harsh, but it was also the reality of their profession.
“That’s awful, I’m sorry. What kind of timeline did they give you?”
“Sharon says once I get basic motion back, it could be pretty quick. But it’s been slow going so far,” he said. Then he sighed and added, with grim determination in his voice, “but I’ve got other reasons for wanting to get back on stage.”
Heather opened her mouth to ask but stopped herself. She didn’t know this man, and years of dating Jack had taught her that asking questions someone didn’t want to answer was a recipe for a fight. She decided to change the subject.
“How do we get up to the bridge?”
“We’ll head up the hill through The Rocks,” he replied. She must have looked perplexed, because he explained, “It’s the name of the old neighborhood on this side of the bay. It’s mostly for tourists now, but it’s where the British started building when they arrived to set up their colony. Well, they tried to build farther south, near the airport, but the land was bad, so they came here instead.”
Marcus led them around the headland and along shaded, sloping streets lined with squat sandstone buildings that looked old, but very well maintained. There were shops selling opal jewelry and sheepskin rugs and galleries with indigenous art in the windows. Tourists wandered, some toting selfie sticks and others lapping at large cones of what looked like gelato. They crossed a crowded commercial street and continued up the hill, tracing a path Heather knew she would never remember but one Marcus seemed to know well.
Soon, they found themselves on a steep street, at the bottom of an equally steep set of sandstone stairs. Tourists milled around in small groups, and Heather stepped aside quickly as a man in sweatpants and a tank top reading SYDNEYSWANScame jogging toward the stairs. She watched as he took them two at a time, gained the top, then disappeared.
“Sydneysiders are big on lunchtime workouts,” Marcus explained. “That guy will be back at his desk wearing a suit in an hour, I bet.” He was sweating slightly from the climb, and she noticed he’d unzipped his sweatshirt a few inches. His well-defined traps reached down his neck and across his shoulders as he leaned against the crutches, and she spotted a few determined chest hairs peeking out from under the fabric of the hoodie. Once again, she batted away a sudden and totally unprofessional urge to trace the lines of muscle with her fingertips.
“This is the last big climb,” he said, and she realized she’d been gazing at his chest for slightly longer than was appropriate. She snapped her eyes up to his face.
“You don’t have to reassure me,” she said with a smile. “You’re the one doing this on one leg.”
“Yeah, but I do it every day.” He smiled back. Then he paused for a moment, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wanna race?”
“Are you kidding me? I’m not racing a man on crutches, that’s not fair.”
“Well, that’s very noble of you. How about we make it a fair fight, then? You ...” He paused to think. “You have to run backwards.”
“Up the stairs?”
“Yeah,” he said, a grin creeping over his face. “Unless ...” He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes. “You don’t want toloseto a man on crutches.”
“Fine,” she said, unable to keep a flirtatious lilt out of her voice. She waited for a group of tourists to clear the last few steps, then arranged herself with one foot on the landing and the other on the bottom stair. “Ready when you are, Sir Limpsalot.”
Marcus let out a bark of a laugh, and the surprising sound of it sent a thrill of delight spiraling through her. She stood up a little straighter, wondering if he made that sound often, or if it was a rare, special occurrence. He joined her at the base of the steps, playfully jostling his shoulder against her bag.
