“I can see why you’re frustrated.”
“He did it in front of the others because he knew I’d find it more difficult to say no.”
“You’re his friend. He wants you to stay. Yes, that was a little unfair, but he’s probably desperate. He’s about to take on this huge project, and he thought he’d found someone he could share the responsibility with, someone he works well with. I think you blindsided him a bit, too, by saying you’re planning to leave so soon. Did you tell him personally?”
He looks away, thinking about it. Then he gives another sigh. “No. I told Noah, and he told Beth. She brought it up in front of Archer. I forgot that I hadn’t told him.”
“Was he angry?”
“No, not at all, although, thinking about it, he should have been.”
“He’s a good friend. That’s why he’s not angry. He’s probably just a little hurt and frustrated. He wants you to stay, that’s all.”
We push off the fence and start walking down the hill again. He changes the subject and asks me how my afternoon went, but I don’t take it as him not wanting to continue the conversation. He needs time to think about what we said. This man is a thinker, and I like that about him.
When we reach the bottom of the hill, we continue walking along the path that follows Beach Road and hugs the crescent-shaped bay. I haven’t had the chance to explore this end of the town much, and I’m pleasantly surprised to discoverCasa di Maretucked between a shop selling souvenirs and an art gallery with paintings of Sunrise Bay and Waitangi in the window.
Inside there are only a handful of tables and a small area for people to wait for takeaways. A couple of other tables sit on the pavement. The place is rustic, very Kiwi, with plain wooden tables, chairs with checked cushions, tealights in small glass holders, and typed menus. But the smell of cooked food coming from inside is amazing and makes my stomach rumble.
One of the tables out the front bears our reserved sign, so we duck under the umbrella and sit, while Ghost lies beneath the table in the cool shade. A young guy, relaxed in shorts and a dark tee with a navy apron around his waist, comes out with a bottle of water and some tumblers, and we order a glass of wine each and a Sprite Zero for Max. He also brings Ghost a bowl of water before saying he’ll be back to take our food order in a minute.
We look through the menu, and Max chooses a small pepperoni pizza, while I go for the lasagna, and Cullen opts for the carbonara. We tell the waiter our choices and then sit back to wait, stretching out our legs. Max and Ghost use the second zebra crossing just along the road a little to cross to the beach, and soon they’re running off some steam with Max throwing sticks and Ghost chasing them.
The waiter comes out and places our cutlery, then goes inside again. I take off my sunhat and slide off my sunglasses, and Cullen does the same. It’s impossible not to admire the way the sleeves of his tee stretch across his biceps as he runs a hand through his hair. He glances at me, catching me looking at him, but I don’t look away, and instead we exchange a small smile. I’m not embarrassed to admit I like him and find him attractive.
“How are you doing?” he asks softly. “Are you glad you came here?”
I exhale, feeling as if I’m breathing out a year’s worth of tension. “I’m soooo glad. I couldn’t have stayed. I don’t know what I would have done.” I play with my fork, turning it over in my fingers. “I’m trying not to think about it too much right now, but I know I still have to work out what happens after Christmas.”
“How long are you staying here?”
“I have the bach until the second of January.”
He nods slowly.
“Have you decided when you’re leaving?” I ask.
He purses his lips. “Brock asked me to consider staying for Christmas.”
His eyes meet mine, and we study each other quietly.
“Are you thinking about it?” I ask.
He tips his head to the side, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Ohhh… he’s thinking about kissing me. His gaze comes back to mine, and there’s a touch of heat in it.
“Maybe,” he says.
My pulse picks up, but there’s no chance to reply as the waiter comes out with a plate of freshly baked chunks of focaccia bread topped with rosemary, a small bowl of olive oil, and a dish of salt. “Compliments of the chef,” he says with a smile.
“Ooh, thank you.” I pick up one of the chunks, dip it in the olive oil, then in the salt, and take a bite. The bread is warm and soft, and smells amazing.
Cullen also helps himself to a piece, and we eat, still watching one another. Gradually, our lips curve up.
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I like that you say what’s on your mind.”
“I believe it’s best to be open and honest.”
“Me too.” He looks into my eyes. “I like you,” he says.
