“I always like to be prepared,” I answer, folding my hands primly in my lap. “And I prefer to think of it as Mary Poppins’ carpet bag.”
Laughing, Josh settles himself more comfortably on the rug and closes his eyes. “Okay, Flo. What are we going to do while we wait?”
“I guess arm wrestling is out of the question.” I kick my shoes off and lie down, pressing up next to Josh and flick the corner of the rug over our legs. There’s not much we can do about our wet clothes, but a bit of shared body heat will at least help combat the cold from settling in our limbs.
“You should get yourself a spot at the Comedy Club. You’re hilarious,” Josh replies dryly, cracking one eye open. Despite the pain he must be in, there’s a smirk lurking on those plush lips. “You know, I’ve never had stitches before.”
“Really? I have.” Lifting my hair, I point to a faint scar on the top right-hand corner of my forehead, almost in the hairline. “Water skiing. The ski didn’t come off when I fell. And I’ve broken my arm. Snow skiing.”
“Are you accident-prone or reckless?”
“Both, I think,” I answer with a grin.
As the storm finally passes and the rain slows to a heavy drizzle, we talk about childhood accidents and illnesses until we’re interrupted by a knock at the door.
Josh struggles to sit up. I beat him to it and answer the door for the pizza guy, giving him a hefty tip for coming out in this weather.
It’s pretty dark, so I use our phones as torches, put the pizza box between us, and take a long appreciative sniff before selecting a piece. We eat for a while in silence. We’re both enjoying the food and the comfortable atmosphere that seems to have sprung up. Not to mention Josh is struggling to stay awake.
“Is it just me, or was that pizza exceptional?” I sigh as I lick the last of the pizza sauce from my finger.
“No, it was definitely exceptional. And so is the coffee. Thanks for thinking of it, by the way. It’s good to know the local pizza place is a winner. I expect they’ll be getting a lot of business from me once I move in.”
Conversation slides seamlessly into food, and we’re both surprised when we hear the doorknocker again and realise it’s fully dark outside.
Josh staggers a little as he gets up from the floor to let the SES workers in, and I take hold of his elbow to steady him. For a moment, we both stand silent, gazes clinging in the dim hallway before he turns to open the door. He doesn’t say it, but I can feel how grateful Josh is not to be alone right now.
“Well, this is one hell of a mess,” the guy supervising the team says. “By the look of this place, maybe the storm did you a favour. You could knock it down and build a nice townhouse or two on this block.”
Josh and I exchange eye rolls.
It takes quite a few hours for the guys to remove the tree and secure the roof with a tarp. I can tell by the strained look around his eyes by the time the SES leave that the whine of chain-saws and the throaty rattle of the generator they used for their lights have given Josh a pounding headache. I know my head is throbbing and I don’t have a concussion. As he closes the door behind them, I hand him a couple of the painkillers the doctor gave him and my water bottle.
“How did you know?” He seems surprised I’ve noticed his discomfort.
“Psychic.” I smile as I fold up our picnic blanket. “Come on, let’s get you home. It’s nearly midnight.”
The rain stopped long ago, leaving behind ample evidence of the storm. The drive back to Kirribilli is littered with downed trees, flooded roads and several roofless houses.
“I guess we got off lucky,” murmurs Josh, his voice weary.
Without further discussion, I head straight for my flat.
“You’re staying with me tonight, Josh. I don’t want any argument.” I expect him to object, and when he doesn’t answer, I glance over to see him sound asleep, his head resting on the window.
Josh makes a token protest about staying at my place when we arrive, which I ignore as I help him up the stairs to my flat. Steering him down the hall and into the spare room, I lay him on the bed as gently as I can and take off his shoes. His eyelids drop shut, and his even breathing tells me he’s almost asleep. Trying not to disturb him, I slide off his still-damp sweatpants and, without a hint of guilt, take a moment to admire him in his boxer briefs. After a short debate with myself, I take scissors to his t-shirt, which is torn, covered in blood and still damp. Tucking a couple of soft blankets over him, I leave him to sleep. Utterly exhausted, I strip and fall into my bed without even bothering to shower.
Chapter Nine
Josh
I’mnotsurewhetherit’s the pounding in my head or the ache in my arm that wakes me up. Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths, drinking in the lavender scent of the crisp cool sheets, trying to piece together what happened yesterday.
Why, after all the events of yesterday, is my clearest memory the feel of Greer’s skin under my fingertips? The moment when our lips had been a whisper apart? Okay, maybe it isn’t the throbbing of my injuries, but it’s definitely the throbbing of something that woke me.
Easing out of bed I can’t hold back a groan when I check the time and realise the morning is half over. My t-shirt is nowhere to be seen, and reaching for the tattered trackpants I’d been wearing yesterday makes my head spin. I sit for a minute to settle before stepping into the hall and following the quiet hum of indie rock music into a large airy living room flooded with light. The room is very Greer. Warm and welcoming, and yet elegant and stylish and a little bit quirky. The walls are covered in an eclectic arrangement of photos and artwork, all of which clearly mean something to her. The sofa is big and squashy, with a tumble of richly coloured cushions in velvets and linens and embroidered silks.
Greer sits at the dining table in front of a laptop, surrounded by notes and sketches, a pencil tapping against those full, luscious lips.
