Jackson smirks. ‘You’re funny.’ He inhales deeply on the shisha pipe before sliding it over to me.
‘Is it full of surfer dudes?’ I say, skirting over my ignorance while admiring the way he tucks his unruly locks behind his manly ears.
‘Yeah. We all pretty much look the same over there.’ He chuckles, flicking his hair from his eyes. ‘Jesus waves, wetsuits and a surfboard under one arm. You can barely tell us apart.’
I wonder how quickly I could move there… permanently.I waft a hand over my face as a hot flush creeps up my neck. I can only imagine what effect hundreds of spectacular Jacksons charging around on the beach, six-packs, lean muscles and flowing locks must do to the female population. There must be testosterone exploding all over the place.
‘And we all learn to barbecue from an early age. We sure know our way around a set of meat tongs. In fact, how to throw a couple of snags on the barbie is on the school curriculum.’
He’s being facetious and I am loving it.
‘How did you get to be so Australian?’ I ask, suddenly ravenous as I lunge at the sticky dates. I pop two into my mouth at once and prop my chin up on both fists, leaning forward as I begin to chew.
His eyes twinkle mischievously. ‘Seriously?’
Chew. Chew. Chew.
‘But like… how?’I’m suddenly craving information on how this magnificent man came into being before the universe thrust him into my path.
He takes a sip of his wine. ‘I was born there.’
Whoa. He’s blowing my mind.
‘And how come you don’t have another girlfriend yet? Did Australia… run out of women?’ I ask, causing him to spit out his wine.
‘Oh man. Who even are you?’ He wipes tears from his eyes. ‘You’re so funny.’
Take that, Dillon.
‘Jackson. Tell me everything I need to know about you. Skip the birth. I can do without stories of torn fanny flaps and triggered husbands. And don’t spare the horses.’
‘Crikey. Torn what now?’
Oh. My. God. These lips of mine need to have a word with themselves. ‘Never mind that. Have you ever heard of the optimal stopping theorem?’ I trot out some fascinating facts from my dissertation onThe Maths of Love. After all, I am the brainiest person to have ever lived.
Jackson shakes his head. He leans over to slide the shisha away from me and pushes a glass of water my way.
‘Well, it’s a theory concerned with the problem of choosing a time to take a given action based on sequentially observed random variables, yeah?’ I lean in to deliver the punchline. ‘Get this. In order to maximise an expected payoff. Maximise. Yeah? You think it’s going to be minimise but then…’Ho-ho-ho.This is almost professional-level flirting. Best I’ve ever done. I wait for his reaction. This is Nobel prize-winning type stuff. He must be incredibly turned on. I know I certainly am.
He searches my face in awe. ‘You are the cleverest person I have ever met.’
My stomach does a complete flip. We have become incredibly close, incredibly quickly. We are in complete agreement as to the karmic manner of our meeting.
‘I love your eyes. Are they blue or green?’ he says, draining his wine glass.
‘Yes, they are,’ I say. ‘I turned my back on a six-figure, globe-trotting modelling career to become an account manager.’
Jackson smiles. ‘Models are overrated.’
‘I don’t get the whole Kate Moss “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” thing. And that reminds me.’ I bring his focus to my legs by fiddling with the suspender. ‘Feel these.’ I swing my leg onto the table with a thud. It lands beside our ornate cocktails that we must have ordered and then drunk.
He strokes the length of my appendage tantalisingly slowly. It’s borderline transcendent. ‘You have very pretty knees.’
‘So have I.’
Suddenly the song ‘I Touch Myself’ comes on and it feels as though everyone in the whole place leaps up and stampedes to the dancefloor. Women touching themselves inappropriately. I can do nothing else but join in because I’mfree.
I’m afreewoman.
